July 4, 2019
I was not able to fly for almost the entire month of June because I was very busy selling a house. I was unhappy about not flying, but sometimes life happens and you have to take care of those things. After I did free up some time then the weather decided not to cooperate, so it was July 4th before all the elements for a nice flight came together.
Even better, my brother, Jim, said he was available to go fly with me. If you’ve read any of my Texas-Flyer stories from 2000 until 2005, then it’s likely you’ve already “met” him. He and I did our ultralight training together, then shared ownership in a Quicksilver for a while. He then bought his own Challenger and I had my RANS S12-XL, and we had a lot of adventures flying together. He sold his Challenger in 2005, and since then has only occasionally been able fly with me. So it’s always nice to have him aboard the Cavalon.
This year the July 4th holiday fell on a Thursday and I expected to see a lot of pilots out at the hangar. Boy was I wrong! I’m sure part of it was that we got there quite early. After arriving and seeing that no one was there, I figure most people were spending the holiday with their families, doing non-flying things… you know, whatever those are.
A few touch-n-go’s
Actually, while this was my first relatively long flight in a while, I had managed to fit in two prior flights. On June 27th I did a number of touch-n-go’s and stop-n-go’s, because it had been over a month since I flew. It’s not only a regulatory requirement* (if you’re going to carry a passenger), but it makes good sense, too.
The day after that — June 28th — I went back out to the airport and did some ascent testing. On the way back from Critters Lodge Fly-In, I wanted to get up to around 6,000 feet. But for some reason, the Cavalon seemed to be struggling even though I was ascending at the best-rate-of-climb speed, according to the manual. After that flight, I talked with other Cavalon owners, and the general consensus was to ignore what the manual said, and discover my own Vy speed (maximum rate of climb). So that was the purpose of my flight on the 28th, to try to determine that speed.
* The actual requirement is three stop-n-go’s (for gyros) within the last 90 days. If one is doing a standard gyro landing, then that is a stop-n-go… but if you do “flat” landings, or “landing like a plane,” then that is a touch-n-go.
VSI
My Cavalon does not have a VSI (vertical speed indicator), so I was ready to write down some timings as I did my tests, to later figure out my rate-of-climb. But the night before, I happened to find an app that works on my smartphone, and it has a surprisingly good VSI simulated gauge. Most of the reviewers praised it, and quite a few were pilots that had compared it quite favorably with the VSIs in their planes. So I was pumped and ready to try it. Bottom line, it was terrific! As you can see, the bottom gauge is for VSI, the top shows the current altitude. Once adjusted for ambient barometric pressure, the altimeter is quite accurate, and the response time for the VSI is more than fast enough for my purposes. It is so good, I was completely surprised and very happy especially when you consider that it’s free. If you have an Android Smartphone with a pressure sensor, you can probably use it, and can get it here. And although the programmer isn’t supporting it any longer, it still works well just as it is (and he’s made the source code public, so someone might pick it up).
VSI test results
I was totally spoiled by the Kolb MkIIIC I used to have… it would climb at a stunning 1400 fpm on hot days! Most gyro’s don’t quite have that climb rate. Even half that would be considered pretty fair by gyro standards. So, my test was 
with half a tank of fuel, and just myself and I could consistently get about 800-900 fpm at 70 knots…. I was surprised and very pleased. If I used the recommended Vy speed, it would drop to 600-700 fpm. With more fuel and two-up, I guessed I could expect perhaps about half the climb rate at 70 knots (i.e., about 450 fpm).
Early departure
Upon arriving at Anahuac we were surprised that no one else was there. I knew that I already had plenty of fuel for our planned route, so after a quick pre-flight we were ready for take-off. The night before I sketched out the plan: heading SE toward High Island, then turn and follow the coastline until we get to Sabine Pass, then up the waterway for just a bit and then turn back west toward the home airport. I predicted we would need about 9 gallons of fuel. I sent all this on to my brother and he concurred with the plan. Our wheels-up was 9 am exactly. This was a bit earlier than I normally start out, but I liked it so much that I’m going to try for earlier departures from now on (particularly in the summer!).
Clouds
For take-off, there was a quartering headwind from the right. It wasn’t too much, but enough to move the windsock and yaw string, so I made a minor adjustment to the stick and started my pre-rotation. I usually let the rotor wind up a bit more when I’m two-up, but only a little more. The take-off run was of course longer but it all went pretty smooth and soon enough we’re at 500 feet and I’m throttling back. I admit to being a little impressed because the density altitude was around 2,000 feet!
Clouds were just as predicted with bases right around 1500 feet. Now that I was two-up, I wanted to try at least one ascent test (feeling that my new VSI app would give me good accuracy). After we were well clear of the airport grounds, I picked an “alley” between some clouds and push the throttle to the max, adjusted the controls for 70 knots and then watched the VSI. Again, I was surprised: the climb rate was around 600-700 fpm. I was only at half-a-tank but I was still quite happy with my newly-determined Vy speed and resulting climb rate. Yea!
After the test, we were now at 2,000 feet and very much enjoying the clear air, cool temps and lower humidity, not to mention the beautiful fluffy clouds surrounding us.
We continued on for several minutes but eventually I had to make a decision about flying above the clouds or below them. Since we were going to soon be at the coast and wanting to be at 500 feet for our beach-flying, down it was. In front of me was a big cloud so I did a quick descending 360-degree turn and we ended up at about 1,000 feet, back in the warm, muggy and hazy air column, still heading toward High Island.
Crossing the Intracoastal Waterway is always a good landmark… we were descending at this point and Jim wanted me to get lower so he could get a shot of a tugboat pushing a long barge. There was one to the right, too, so I grabbed a wide-angle shot of that one:
You can also see the Gulf of Mexico in the above picture. As soon as we passed the community of High Island, we were over the Gulf so we turned NE and settled down to about 500 feet msl and about 500 feet off-shore. There seemed to be a high tide so the water came up very near the dunes and sea grass. Despite that, there were, from time to time, a car or truck (once, a large RV) parked on the beach, and Jim took pictures and waved while I kept a look out for any oncoming traffic. Occasionally I looked out at the water on the off chance of spotting a shark or dolphin, but no such luck. Besides water, the only thing I spotted was a sad-looking platform.
I couldn’t really see much at all directly to our left, but this is what the view looked like out the front for the 30 minutes or so that we were flying along the coast:
(That regular pattern of long, narrow, rectangular pools about 100 yards inland, paralleling the coast… I have no clue what those are. If you know, please fill me in!)
Flying along the beach brought back all kinds of memories. Jim in his Challenger and me in my RANS or Aventura, we did a lot of beach flying back in the day. It was fun to be back above the waters of the Gulf, especially together. After 30 minutes or so, we could see in the distance some jack-up rigs sitting in the waterway of Sabine Lake.
Rather than cut across the marsh we kept our heading and soon were approaching Texas Point (on our side of the waterway) and Louisiana Point (on the other side):
At the middle of the waterway, just before I banked left, I looked to my right to see the channel extending out into the Gulf:
Out the front windshield (with a lot of reflections), this is what we saw… if there is a proper name for this waterway I’m not sure what it is. The references I found just say it is the outflow from Sabine Lake. As we flew to the right of the waterway, we were in Louisiana; to the left and we’d be in Texas.
To the left of us are a couple of rusty jack-up rigs… the ones we had seen earlier from a distance.
To the right is the Sabine LNG terminal with the Gaslog Greece LNG tanker alongside.
The industrial pipework at the LNG plant is impressive!
Up ahead I easily identified the type of ship — it’s a RORO, or, Roll-On, Roll-Off vehicle transport. It’s the same type of ship that my younger son, Cameron, works on as a Chief Mate. This particular ship is an Ace ship, the Alliance St. Louis. These ROROs are massive inside and can carry thousands of cars.
Squeezing by Jim on the left, I managed this quick shot of a portion of the seafood fishing fleet of Port Arthur:
Back on my right, just as we overfly Mesquite Point, I see this interesting stand of palm trees and a muddy pool.
Just as we start our left bank toward the west, I grab this shot, looking up the waterway to Port Arthur.
I take the time to zoom in to the industrial area:
Now that we’ve turned away from our track up the waterway, we fly over a large amount of marshland, blazing with hundreds of shades of green. I find it quite beautiful!
Although the original plan was to keep heading straight toward Winnie-Stowell, we can see Interstate-10 just to the north of us so we jump up there to see what’s going on.
I take several shots as we approach, fly over and pass the town of Winnie.
On our last leg, I spot a field with a few tractors… and had to smile. Tractors played a role in a lot of my early Texas-Flyer stories.
Just before we get back to the airport area, I spot these interesting shapes, patterns and collage of greens.
We dodge a few small towers then enter the downwind on the 45, turn quickly on base then final, and land on 1-2.
As we taxi back to the hangar, I suddenly realize that this being the month of July, it’s been right about 10 years since I started flying gyroplanes… training in a Parsons and Sparrowhawk, then first my gyro, a Gyrobee, then a gap of a few years, more training in a Magni M16, and now my Cavalon. While I did (and still do) enjoy flying fixed wing aircraft, the gyroplane is so much easier on long cross-country trips. Even flying in the middle of our hot days is so much more comfortable, the rotors cutting through the turbulence. Rather than returning from a flight being beat up and exhausted having fought the winds, battered by turbulence and trying to keep wings level, I come back from a much more gentle flight, with even the strongest wind buffet resulting in a moderate sway. It’s almost like being in a hammock! Each time I fly, I’m so, so glad that I made the switch.
I look over and see one LSRC member preparing his gyro for flight. After we park, we go over and meet Gregory who has a Tango 2. (The Tango’s are multiplying! Last week, I met Aziz who has a gyro next to mine, and his is also a Tango 2!) After a brief but pleasant chat, he returns to refueling his Tango while we button up the Cavalon then head home.
It was a great flight, with some very pleasant beach flying, covering about 118 miles in 1 hour and 41 minutes. Two-up, we managed 4.7 gallons-per-hour, which is pretty efficient even for a Rotax!
Here is what the final overall track looks like:
Post script: Within the 100+ hours I’ve had flying gyros, there have been flights that were “easy” and some that weren’t. When I say easy, I’m not talking about the obvious: not the weather, not the condition of the gyro, not my condition, not the terrain, and so forth. Those are all objective aspects that I can usually attribute to the conditions of a flight. When I talk about the times that weren’t easy, it’s subjective… whatever “it” is… I can’t put my finger on it. Yet still there are easy flights, when everything seems to be going smoothly and I have no issues… and then there are those flights when it feels like something is wrong, the aircraft won’t fly the way it usually does, and I can’t seem to make any changes that affect the issue (whatever “it” is).
I’m still at a loss to understand it. Of all the other aircraft I flew, the only one that gave me the same feeling, sometimes, was my Aventura amphibious aircraft. I never figured it out with that aircraft either. I don’t think it’s one thing, or maybe not even 10 things… it’s a complex stew of elements.
Needless to say, on those days when things didn’t feel right, I wasn’t happy. Worse than that, I didn’t know what it was that I wasn’t happy about except that, at that moment (or for that flight), things just weren’t “easy.” The flight back from Critters Lodge Fly-In was one of those days. The 4th of July flight was definitely one of the easy ones, and I was ecstatic about the entire experience.
In general, it bugs me that this is a real thing, or at least seems to be. I’ve never had any sense ahead of time of whether any particular flight would be easy or not. I’ve had to actually start flying to figure that out. Now, don’t get me wrong, I don’t dread that moment when I decide that “this one isn’t an easy one”. But it does settle in the back of my mind like a wolf on the back porch: it’s probably not going to be an issue, but I’m definitely more attentive about the possibility of a problem.
I’ve never heard of or read articles of any pilot talking about this, but it’s not an uncommon feeling among cave divers. We have a saying: “You can call [end] a dive at any time, for any reason, or for no reason.” That’s a life saving rule that cave divers have because when things go wrong, they often go wrong is a big way. When i have a not-so-easy flight, I usually don’t end the flight, but I’m usually a lot more careful, and always keep in sight a safe landing-out spot. I think it’s important that we listen to ourselves before and during a flight. Many people have shown amazing abilities to detect that something was wrong without knowing what it was. We pick up on hundreds of signals through all of our senses and the brain often puts all that together and comes up with “a feeling” (sometimes good, other times not). (I’m not talking about 6th sense, etc., or other faux-scientific mumbo jumbo… I’m just talking about subconsciously sensing things that we exploit when we “judge” something.) We should learn to pay attention, and not be afraid to act on that feeling. If you want a sound bite, how about: When in doubt, check it out! In other words, double check yourself, your plane, your equipment and if there’s anything not up to your high standards, then delay that flight until you figure it out, or the feeling goes away.
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