I pulled up on the collective with my left hand. I could feel the engines strain, and watched as the view from the cockpit windscreen shifted. My brother Dave, sitting copilot, pointed to our right, "There's Point Loma. That's where we were yesterday."
Flying this thing was a handful, and I had it easy: the aircraft was empty, the weather perfect, and there was no other traffic in the area. Still, I had to think about every movement, pre-analyze every flight adjustment before making it. In my left hand was the collective, which controls the up and down movement of the aircraft. In my right hand, the cyclic which moves the bird forward, aft, right, or left. Two foot pedals control the tail rotor, and therefore, direction of flight.
Dave explained it so simply, and in one breath: "Think of the rotor blades as a wing, providing lift; the greater the pitch of the blades, the more lift is created. The collective changes the pitch of the blades collectively, so that the entire aircraft moves up or down. The cyclic changes the blades' pitch in a cycle, so that they take a bigger bite only at one point in their rotation, allowing for lateral movement. Because the torque of the main rotors would spin the helicopter like a maple seed, you have the foot pedals, which control the speed of the tail rotor. Press the foot pedals to point the nose either left or right.
Got it? Good. Let's go flying."
This, the Navy Seahawk H-60, is a huge, incredibly capable aircraft. It can dead-lift three tons. It can fly up to 160 knots. It costs some $20 million. Pretty cool, to be able to fly one, huh.
At the experience, I marveled. Despite the imposing size of the aircraft, I literally felt plugged in, as though I was wearing it. Every simple movement required multiple corrections. For example, let's say I simply want to fly forward, out of a hover. I push forward on the cyclic, with my right hand. But, since I am changing the attitude of the blades, I also have to slightly compensate with the collective. I pull back a little with my left hand, in order to maintain altitude. This requires more power from the engines. Now, the added torque begins to spin the aircraft, so I again compensate; this time with the foot pedals. All this, just to go forward.
What an incredible way to kick off our time in San Diego. We buzzed around the city for about an hour, during which we all took turns flying the helicopter. Stewbert tried his hand, and even my sister took the controls. None of us crashed, although with Dave sitting copilot, I doubt he would have let it happen.
Like he said, "Normally I'd let you crash it, but tonight we don't want to. It would make for a late night for the technicians. There are a lot of systems they'd need to restart."
As we finished our flight, Dave felt compelled to show off: "This is a really fun thing to do while landing on a ship." He came in, extra fast for a landing. At the last second, he whipped the aircraft around, using its momentum to spin in place before gently settling on the pavement, facing the opposite direction of the approach. The entire maneuver, which utilized all of the controls, was over in the blink of an eye.
Dave, Stewbert, my sister Sarah and I stepped outside the simulator and stretched. We hadn't flown an actual military helicopter, but rather the state-of-the-art simulator the Navy uses to train its pilots. I stepped back and admired the machine. A huge, helicopter-sized box sat atop an arachnid network of hydraulic pistons.
The pistons replicate movement, so that when you turn the aircraft left, the entire box literally leans to the left. Inside the box was a perfect mockup of the cockpit of a H-60. All of the switches, gauges and systems are exactly what is presented in the real thing. The multiple-split windshield is replaced with computer screens, which present a shockingly real display that swings and recedes during "flight." Even the landscape is detailed. At one point, we flew over Dave's house.
In fact, as we exited the building, I was surprised to be immersed in darkness. I had forgotten that it was night. Dave added, "Yeah, sometimes I log so many hours in the sim' that when I come outside, I'm surprised to remember that it's night, or sunny, or something." He added, "Today I was nice to you. Next time you fly the simulator I'll have you land on a ship during a hurricane."
Next we walked to the hangar, to see the real thing. For the umpteenth time, we presented our IDs, which always prompted a neat salute from the security guard toward my brother, "Good evening, Lieutenant Commander."
This was definitely my brother's home territory. We walked into the aircraft hangar, Dave calling out friendly greetings to the personnel. A maintenance officer joined us, explaining the aircraft systems and how proud she was to be attaining her new rank. This, she explained, would allow her to be deployed overseas, where she might finally be able to apply her expertise in a real-world scenario.
I walked around the Seahawks, looking up in awe at the impressive machines.
Outside the hangar, a jet aircraft howled a run-up. Dave expressed surprise that someone would be flying at this hour, and the noise was deafening.
It may sound like such a cliché, but I smiled, "Hear that? That's the sound of freedom." We said goodnight to the personnel on duty and left the Naval base.
Stewbert and I had five days to tour San Diego before heading home again on our motorcycles.
Time to enjoy that freedom.
- Dan Wegmueller of Monroe writes a column for the Times each Monday. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net
Flying this thing was a handful, and I had it easy: the aircraft was empty, the weather perfect, and there was no other traffic in the area. Still, I had to think about every movement, pre-analyze every flight adjustment before making it. In my left hand was the collective, which controls the up and down movement of the aircraft. In my right hand, the cyclic which moves the bird forward, aft, right, or left. Two foot pedals control the tail rotor, and therefore, direction of flight.
Dave explained it so simply, and in one breath: "Think of the rotor blades as a wing, providing lift; the greater the pitch of the blades, the more lift is created. The collective changes the pitch of the blades collectively, so that the entire aircraft moves up or down. The cyclic changes the blades' pitch in a cycle, so that they take a bigger bite only at one point in their rotation, allowing for lateral movement. Because the torque of the main rotors would spin the helicopter like a maple seed, you have the foot pedals, which control the speed of the tail rotor. Press the foot pedals to point the nose either left or right.
Got it? Good. Let's go flying."
This, the Navy Seahawk H-60, is a huge, incredibly capable aircraft. It can dead-lift three tons. It can fly up to 160 knots. It costs some $20 million. Pretty cool, to be able to fly one, huh.
At the experience, I marveled. Despite the imposing size of the aircraft, I literally felt plugged in, as though I was wearing it. Every simple movement required multiple corrections. For example, let's say I simply want to fly forward, out of a hover. I push forward on the cyclic, with my right hand. But, since I am changing the attitude of the blades, I also have to slightly compensate with the collective. I pull back a little with my left hand, in order to maintain altitude. This requires more power from the engines. Now, the added torque begins to spin the aircraft, so I again compensate; this time with the foot pedals. All this, just to go forward.
What an incredible way to kick off our time in San Diego. We buzzed around the city for about an hour, during which we all took turns flying the helicopter. Stewbert tried his hand, and even my sister took the controls. None of us crashed, although with Dave sitting copilot, I doubt he would have let it happen.
Like he said, "Normally I'd let you crash it, but tonight we don't want to. It would make for a late night for the technicians. There are a lot of systems they'd need to restart."
As we finished our flight, Dave felt compelled to show off: "This is a really fun thing to do while landing on a ship." He came in, extra fast for a landing. At the last second, he whipped the aircraft around, using its momentum to spin in place before gently settling on the pavement, facing the opposite direction of the approach. The entire maneuver, which utilized all of the controls, was over in the blink of an eye.
Dave, Stewbert, my sister Sarah and I stepped outside the simulator and stretched. We hadn't flown an actual military helicopter, but rather the state-of-the-art simulator the Navy uses to train its pilots. I stepped back and admired the machine. A huge, helicopter-sized box sat atop an arachnid network of hydraulic pistons.
The pistons replicate movement, so that when you turn the aircraft left, the entire box literally leans to the left. Inside the box was a perfect mockup of the cockpit of a H-60. All of the switches, gauges and systems are exactly what is presented in the real thing. The multiple-split windshield is replaced with computer screens, which present a shockingly real display that swings and recedes during "flight." Even the landscape is detailed. At one point, we flew over Dave's house.
In fact, as we exited the building, I was surprised to be immersed in darkness. I had forgotten that it was night. Dave added, "Yeah, sometimes I log so many hours in the sim' that when I come outside, I'm surprised to remember that it's night, or sunny, or something." He added, "Today I was nice to you. Next time you fly the simulator I'll have you land on a ship during a hurricane."
Next we walked to the hangar, to see the real thing. For the umpteenth time, we presented our IDs, which always prompted a neat salute from the security guard toward my brother, "Good evening, Lieutenant Commander."
This was definitely my brother's home territory. We walked into the aircraft hangar, Dave calling out friendly greetings to the personnel. A maintenance officer joined us, explaining the aircraft systems and how proud she was to be attaining her new rank. This, she explained, would allow her to be deployed overseas, where she might finally be able to apply her expertise in a real-world scenario.
I walked around the Seahawks, looking up in awe at the impressive machines.
Outside the hangar, a jet aircraft howled a run-up. Dave expressed surprise that someone would be flying at this hour, and the noise was deafening.
It may sound like such a cliché, but I smiled, "Hear that? That's the sound of freedom." We said goodnight to the personnel on duty and left the Naval base.
Stewbert and I had five days to tour San Diego before heading home again on our motorcycles.
Time to enjoy that freedom.
- Dan Wegmueller of Monroe writes a column for the Times each Monday. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net
