April 2007 Feature Story:
Learning to Fly All Over Again
By Ryan Ferguson

Fixed wing? I rode in a Cessna twice,” says Andrew, helicopter CFI, as we accelerate to 55 knots IAS and climb out at 500 fpm. The grass under my feet rolls forward toward us on an invisible conveyor belt; the bubble canopy makes the experience much like an IMAX movie. “Maybe three times,” Andrew muses. “I wonder what it’s like to land at 60 miles per hour or whatever speed you guys land at.”

We are flying in a Schweizer 300CB, a piston-powered training helicopter. I’m in Titusville, Florida, at Helicopter Adventures, Inc. HAI is a well-known and respected flight school. They train helicopter pilots, and that's all they do.

Among most rotor-only pilots, there’s a prevailing attitude of ambivalence when airplanes are mentioned. The parlance for all airplanes is simply ‘fixed-wing’—usually at the end of a question, such as “You’re already a pilot? Fixed wing?” A short pause, then cue the mildly bored look. Sorry, but They’re Just Not Really Interested. You won’t get kicked out of their saloon for wearing a fixed-wing badge, but you won’t have a seat saved at the bar, either.

From my skewed perspective, the idea of being able to fly these ungainly machines without the benefit of understanding “basic aerodynamics” seems, well, weird. This is not how airplanes fly. But I forget that this is a different world from the one I inhabit, and that the Newton and Bernoulli have exactly the same influence on helicopters as they do on airplanes.

Here in this movie-theatre bubble, we are simply manipulating the 3-D world around us with our flight controls. I feel disconnected. By moving the cyclic an inch to the left, the entire panorama tilts precariously until the helicopter starts turning. Pulling to a hover and pressing the anti-torque pedal allows the entire world as we know it to stream horizontally in front of our eyes. The overwhelming reality pouring in through our limitless-visibility cockpit clashes with the surrealism of our control over it. (Okay — I now realize airplane windows are small!)

We climb to our maximum maneuvering altitude of 500 AGL and head southwest to the practice area. Here on the space coast, everything is a hop, skip and jump away from the Kennedy Space Center. The ocean view is dominated by the huge vehicle assembly building. You need to stand right in front of this massive structure to fully comprehend its size; it covers more than 8 acres of floor space alone. It’s been a Florida landmark since the sixties; up to four Saturn V rockets could be kept within its voluminous confines. As we make gentle turns, climbs, and ascents, it drifts by like a giant floating downstream.
One by one, Andrew gives me the flight controls. It’s like learning to fly all over again. The cyclic, which changes the angle of the blades individually to control pitch and roll, is controlled by the “stick” in my right hand. The collective is a lever located to my left; it looks like, and operates similarly to, a parking brake. It controls the pitch of all the blades simultaneously, resulting in a climb. Anti-torque pedals on the floor control the amount of thrust generated by the tail rotor. After demonstrating the ability to handle the individual controls, I end up getting the full shebang. “Your controls,” Andrew tells me. “You have the cyclic, collective, and the pedals.” Andrew is smart; he may have given the controls to me, but his hands and feet don’t leave their engaged positions.

So sensitive! Tiny movements cause shifts in momentum which accelerate rapidly. We try maintaining level flight, followed by turns, climbs and descents. The picture begins to form: in the same way a constant speed propeller adjusts to overspeed and underspeed conditions to maintain RPM, the pilot must become a human governor of his helicopter’s engine via the collective and throttle controls. Engine and rotor RPM must coexist in a small green arc located on the RPM gauge; if the RPM runs a little high, pull back on the collective or “roll off” a little throttle. If the pilot increases the collective, the ship will want to climb. To prevent that and maintain altitude, forward cyclic pressure will have to be applied to drop the nose and convert more of the energy to forward motion. This, of course, results in an increase of speed. Back to step one.

All interconnected. One configuration change requires 10 other small, almost imperceptible changes to counteract any unwanted effects. Some say the helicopter is thousands of parts flying in close formation; if so, the pilot plays the role of the conductor, making those parts fly together in harmony to produce controlled flight.

It’s a Different World (than where you come from)
The world I come from is different. A fixed-wing pilot learns to guide his airplane. The astute master treats his winged steed as a partner, and nudges the airplane along its most natural path to produce a smooth result. Not so with the helicopter; every slight change in pitch, bank, power, or yaw is a new mini-adventure requiring constant inputs to maintain stable flight. There is no such thing as guiding a helicopter; the only proper relationship is one of command and control.

After some basic airwork, we set up to fly some approaches to land. Andrew is relaxed, maybe even a little bored, but is doing a good job of letting me flail around without hurting people or damaging property. We end up on the west side of the airport, facing toward the tower; at the center of the field are some small pink paint splotches. As we approach, Andrew finesses the power and collective, while pulling back on the cyclic to arrest our forward speed. The spot remains in a fixed position on the windscreen as descend and decelerate. I squint as I notice what appear to be long grooves in the pavement, slashing through each spot. We’re aiming for
spot #2; Andrew expertly ends the approach with a hover three feet above the target.

Again, the controls are mine. After a couple of minutes of learning just how precise, metered, and miniscule my control inputs must be to stay in place, I manage to hover the helicopter over the spot. It takes just a nudge of forward cyclic pressure to counter the northerly wind.

We fly another 500-foot pattern and approach to land again. This time, Andrew announces his intention to demonstrate an autorotation on the count of one, two, thr…the engine “fails” by virtue of the throttle being closed, and Andrew dumps the collective. We are descending very quickly and on a steep glide path, although our pitch attitude remains fairly level.

Air rushing up through the rotor blades keeps them turning; even though the engine has failed we still have stored energy in the form of rotor RPM. At the last minute, Andrew hauls back the collective control, converting the energy to lift, and “flares” the helicopter with aft cyclic pressure. The helicopter’s descent is arrested and we slide smoothly onto the pavement with about 10 knots forward speed. That explains the grooves.

A helicopter pilot is born
After a few more trips around the pattern we taxi back to the ramp. The taxi and takeoff experiences thrill me more than any other; I love the sensation of effortless and unlimited freedom of movement this close to the ground. Andrew places the skids of the helicopter directly on the helipad’s “H” symbol. We shut down and talk about helicopters.

“This is a good airport to fly out of,” says Andrew as we wait for the engine to cool off before shutting down. He’s referring to the many acres of undeveloped land to the southwest of the airport. “Our school came here after noise complaints finally drove us out of California.” Of course, that airport had been operating peacefully for many years before housing built up around it, a classic aviation tale. “We’re careful always to fly just in the practice area, and never over houses.” The school takes noise abatement seriously.

We walk inside the school building to debrief. From the main operations room, one has a good view of the ramp. Twenty-three shiny, new, white helicopters sit in perfect formation with their rotor blades tied down, trunions and masts covered with fabric. This is a serious operation—pilots are here to train for careers. There are not many pleasure flyers. The expense of flying helicopters is no doubt the reason why.

I feel the spark of interest fanning into flame. “So, think you'd like to take it up?” I’m asked. This has been my first flight in a helicopter. I look down at the 1.0 hours of rotary wing time logged in my logbook. “The decision’s already been made,” I reply. I’m a helicopter pilot in training.

A different world…