On the day of my first flying lesson, a tiny voice spoke to me in a Sicilian-like accent. It pleaded, “Rodney, donta goh, donta goh. I cook you pasta, I cook you pizza. Just donta goh flying today,” I’ll never forget that voice—it came from my grandmother, standing in the kitchen.

I replied, “Granny, why are you speaking like that? We’re not even Italian.”

Yes, I still flew that day. Yes, I still had Italian food that night. And yes, I’m still not Italian.

Many of us, even those without grandmothers, hear voices. They may be the ones speaking to us when laying our eyes on the printed word or those associated with our conscience and its splintered kin, each with personalities all their own. Most of the time, these voices are supportive. Punctuating our waking moments with helpful suggestions and prodding us to behave in sensible ways, they act as wise overseers.

Occasionally, while aloft, we encounter voices that go bad. These are the ones that attempt to sabotage the means by which we find satisfaction in airplanes. I’m speaking of those voices emanating from the darker corners of our mind. The ancient Greeks knew of these voices, often referring to them as dysdaimon or bad demons .

Bad demons compel us to doubt ourselves, to worry unnecessarily, to be fearful and anxious when those responses aren’t justified. For most of us, these demons remain confined to the dusty dungeons of the unconscious mind. But for reasons that are both known and unknown, they occasionally slither onto the bedrock of consciousness and lay siege to our intellect and emotions. Here, they deplete us of the joys and pleasures we find in flying airplanes. Once these demons assume custody of our mental machinery, we’re forced to make a simple choice. Either we learn to control them, or submit to being controlled by them.

Before Ted wrote me several months ago, he had been flying for many years, accumulating several thousand accident-free, fun flying hours in the process. Then, on one cross country trip, everything changed. Ted heard an alien voice, a nagging voice, that prodded him to worry about his safety. As a result, he made an unscheduled landing to collect his wits (and offload that voice).

Ted said he’d never experienced anything like that before. Before long, Ted would only fly when accompanied by another pilot. Yet, it wasn’t Ted’s ability to control the airplane that troubled him. It was the general feeling of uneasiness that plagued him on subsequent flights. Just for the record, Ted didn’t experience heart palpitations, dizziness, sweating, trembling, chest pain, choking, chills. Nor did he experience panting or rapid breathing, as if he had just eaten a dog biscuit. These symptoms are typically associated with panic disorders and anxiety attacks (or the oral portion of a private pilot checkride). Instead, Ted had come face to face with a bad demon.

As Ted explained it, his sudden onset of discomfort was inexplicable. While we might associate similar events with the trauma of an aviation accident or even a close call, Ted had encountered neither. Experience tells me that there’s almost always a reason behind the sudden appearance of a bad demon, despite the difficulty in identifying the means by which we unknowingly summoned it.

Much of the time, these demons are kept in check because we pay selective attention to the world around us. It’s simply human nature not to dwell on our mortality. We seldom think about how easily frightened we might be by the most banal and common things in our lives (e.g., a seemingly friendly dog that attacks us, perhaps because we at its biscuit) or even how vulnerable our body is to being punctured, squished or bent. That’s why we have little reason to feel anxious about these issues. While we may tacitly acknowledge our vulnerability at times, we certainly don’t dwell on it.

Now consider what happens when a solo pilot, cruising at several thousand feet, stumbles onto the perfect combination of time, opportunity and circumstance to muse about his vulnerability. Suppose, for example, he begins to nibble on the idea of losing consciousness. As he chews on the thought, the devastating and ultimate finality of blacking out might easily lead to feel ill at ease. Now a very bad demon (i.e., a voice) might rise from its slumber and gain access to the waking mind. Never mind that this fellow is in perfect health and has never lost consciousness a day in his life. All that matters to him now is his newly revealed vulnerability (albeit a statistically insignificant one), and the lack of protection against it.

Sure, this fellow might find comfort in wiring the parachute system of his Cirrus SR-22 to an onboard EEG monitor so that it automatically deploys at the first sign of diminished mental activity. The problem is that some pilots with dimly lit stars might find their chute deploying regardless of whether or not anyone actually fainted. Fortunately, there’s a more practical solution to the problem. In situations like these, pilots must intervene on their own behalf to stay their runaway emotions. Here is where we can take a lesson from the past.

Goethe, the German poet, once suggested that he never shunned any of his personal thoughts, no matter how disgusting, grotesque or disturbing they were. To him, these thoughts—representing his bad demons—were part of him and part of the human condition. Instead, he acknowledged these demons, listened to them, and allowed them conditional access to his psyche for one very important reason: so as not to empower the bad ones by ignoring or dismissing them .

Goethe knew that great peril existed when attempting to banish by force of will those parts of his psychic self that he didn’t like. Great mind that he was, he recognized these bad demons as errant or spurious thoughts that didn’t reflect his true values or beliefs. The lesson Goethe and other wise men of antiquity learned was to acknowledge their disturbing thoughts (their demons), listen to their message, then begin talking to them.

Talking to them? That’s right!

Does that sound like crazy talk to you? Are you thinking I’m possessed and need immediate debriefing by a priest? Perhaps FAA psychologists are kooky, too. After all, the recommended strategy for countering irresponsible behavior requires that you to talk to yourself in applying their recommended hazardous thought antidotes. If you still believe talking to yourself is crazy, then you’ve certainly riled the ghost of Goethe and probably vexed the spirits of Montaigne, Shakespeare, Ruskin, Socrates, Thomas Jefferson and many others, as well. These were men who, to different degrees, learned to cope with their personal demons by holding conversations with them.

For instance, in the book Jefferson’s Demons , Michael Beran details Thomas Jefferson’s battle with the many different and sometimes disturbing voices and personas with which our third president struggled. Like most intellectuals of his time, Jefferson was skilled in the classic literature of the Greeks and the Romans. He knew that the ancients perceived these demons and their accompanying voices, as instructional forces that could either hobble a man’s creativity or help him marshal it effectively. Socrates, for instance, was known to chat with his demons, which the great Greek sage recognized as nothing more than the whispers of his conscience.

Like many great men of the Renaissance, Jefferson learned to carry on conversations or dialogues with these internal voices, his demons. In the process, he and others like him, found a way to talk to themselves , letting their wiser parts offer counsel and guidance to their more troublesome personas. This is the means by which Ted and pilots with similar afflictions might come to terms with their demons and the uneasiness and discomfort they produce.

Here’s an example of how this process might play out from beginning to end. Pilots who suddenly find themselves chilled by a disturbing and unreasonable thought (fainting, acrophobia, etc.) should acknowledge this demon and its accompanying voice. They shouldn’t ignore or dismiss it. Then they should listen to it, giving it the benefit of the doubt by assuming its message might contain advice from a part their psyche that’s concerned for their safety. After all, there’s no reason to automatically assume that these demons are against you. The animating force behind all life is the preservation of life. We have every reason to assume that in strange and indecipherable ways our demons might actually be trying to assist us in much the same manner of an admonishing and overcontrolling mother. This is the part of the process that opens the doors of communication between one’s consciousness and the mental machinations that lie beneath it.

The next step is to talk to the demon (if you have passengers, do it subaudibly lest you give them a good reason to start cranking out their own supply of demons).

For instance, you might begin by saying, “OK, thanks for the warning and the information. That’s interesting. I’ll consider your point, but I believe I’ll be fine for now.” Then go about your business.

If you’ve listened to your demon’s message (be it one of anxiety, acrophobia, competence, etc.) you’ll know what to say in return. While I can’t possibly tell you how to talk with your demon in all instances, I can suggest that you treat it as you would a concerned neighbor who is respectfully but stubbornly trying to butt his nose into your business. Reasonable people will listen politely to that neighbor, but then establish a limit line beyond which his nosiness should not cross. Trust your instincts here. Remember, talking to your demon allows you to influence your behavior in much the same way your behavior is influenced when someone talks to you.

Ultimately, your objective is to find a way to make your demon work as an ally for you. Jefferson managed to do just that, using his many voices to turn anxiety into action and chaos into order. Perhaps Beran said it best about Jefferson when he wrote, “He learned better than most people do [about] how to talk to himself—how to cherish the stray pieces of consciousness he found within him. The Renaissance masters taught him to treat his various voices [good and bad alike] like bright playful children, little prodigies who must be given scope for the expression of their elegant (demonic) energies.”

Finally, let’s be clear about one thing. Mentally healthy people hear voices. That’s a fact. They don’t, however, dress them up, drive them places and introduce them to their friends. That’s goofy and a sure sign that someone needs a shrink to help shrink his new friends away. As long as an individual doesn’t have too many bats in his belfry, he can probably deal with most forms of cockpit unease or discomfort by treating it as the ancients did—recognize it as a personal demon, listen to it, talk with it.

Copyright 2010 by Rod Machado (www.rodmachado.com)

Dear Rod:

I imagine that in the course of your time as a pilot, you’ve flown long enough to personally know someone who has died in a plane crash?

Several years back, a fellow CFI died in an airplane crash along with his student. The part that is most vivid in my mind is that my instructor desk (at the former school I used to teach) was at the front of the CFI office area, right near the door; I remember this instructor’s smiling face (he was always happy) saying that he’d see me later, and I told him to have fun. Just a couple of hours later that smiling face was a cadaver at a crash scene. It was all very sudden and totally unexpected—the contrast, for me, was between the moment I told him to have fun and the moment he was dead.

First of all I still continue to love instructing and flying and am a very big proponent of teaching my students safety by my own example—enough said. I guess what I wanted to ask you is this normal? Not ALL the time, but sometimes I catch myself wondering while I am bidding my dog and cat goodbye (for my trip down to the airport) if this is the last time I will see them? Now I want to stress that it isn’t a fearful thought, just sort of like a passing thought, a brief ponderance on the notion, so-to-speak.

Do other pilots/instructors have thoughts like this? The part I find silly about the whole thought is that one’s life could just as easily end by doing just about anything (driving to the corner market, or going to the ATM). So, why should going off to fly cause the thought to pass through my mind…?

Thank you,

No Name Please

Greetings Member of Witness Protection Plan:

You ask a question that happens to be on the mind of more than a few pilots. Yes, you’d be surprised to know how many pilots actually wonder whether or not the last time they left home to go flying will actually be the last time they leave home. There are several significant reasons why some pilots think this way and they’re worth a little exploration.

Most of us who’ve flown for a while know of someone (either directly or indirectly) lost in an airplane accident. And if we don’t actually know someone who vaporized themselves this way, then we willingly go in search of someone like this by subscribing to magazines and periodicals that describe aviation accident scenarios in great detail. It doesn’t take long before the accumulation of these stories tip the balance of our aviation risk-reward scale and start us thinking about our chances of lifting off and returning to earth in one piece.

What makes matters worse is that all pilots carry genetic coding in the form of an instinctual fear of falling. Eons ago, we lost those big grasping hands and feet, the tail we use for balance and those powerful muscles we used for jumping which made high treetops and bananas look less inviting, and the ground, more appealing. It’s not much of a stretch to see that flying might arouse our instinctual fear of falling by reminding us that we can fall if we fly wrong.

So it’s pretty hard to deny, much less ignore the ever increasing collection of reasons we accumulate supporting the idea that it’s possible for us to actually get hurt in an airplane (which, of course, doesn’t mean that we will). As a result, we often respond psychologically to protect ourselves from this perceived danger. It appears that our response typically evolves through four distinct stages.

Most of the time, we dedicate very little conscious energy to thinking about the bad things that can happen to us in an airplane. We go about our flying business until a significant enough event (be it an aviation accident, an accident report or simply a discussion of accidents) causes us to question our ability to actually fly an airplane safely. Never mind that we might have flown without an incident for decades or that we might be considered the safest of pilots by our peers. When doubt takes root, the mental stew that brews in our noggins is often disturbing enough to cause us to personalize these aviation accidents. It’s as if we emotionally and somatically (physically) project ourselves into each airplane accident, wondering what would happen if we had been the person doing the flying. This is the first stage in which we typically experience our nascent anxiety about flying.

Next we posit what it would be like if our presence were suddenly removed from the planet. We begin to think about what our homes would feel like if we never returned because we managed to demolecularized ourselves in an airplane accident. We run these mental scenarios as we leave home, not because they’re therapeutic, but because they’re symptomatic of an ever increasing—but not yet debilitating—fear about our future (or whether or not we’ll have one).

The stage that follows next is where be begin making excuses not to fly. We actively look for reasons not to go to the airport and get in an airplane. In a sense, on some conscious level, we act to sabotage the thing that once gave us great pleasure. And here’s the great irony. Once we actually get in the airplane and fly, we feel just fine. When airborne, we wonder what all the fuss was about in the first place.

The fourth and final stage is where the risk-reward scale tips one way or another. If the scale tips toward the side of perceived risk and excessive anxiety, then the pilot doesn’t receive as much pleasure from flying as he or she used to. The discomfort associated with flying wins the day and the pilot often hangs up his or her headset and seldom returns to the airport. On the other hand, some pilots manage to sustain a sufficient balance of risk to reward or pleasure to discomfort and continue to fly, despite the ubiquitous anxiety they have about flying. Yes, they still occasionally wonder if they’ll ever see their family, their home or their dog again when leaving for the airport. They aren’t, however immobilized by these thoughts, despite the fact that, in some small way, flying is less enjoyable to them than it once was. On the other hand, there’s another group of pilots that have found a way of controlling and even diminishing their anxiety while simultaneously increasing the pleasure they receive from flying. These are the folks that have something valuable to teach pilots who’ve been or are being immobilized by their fears.

The pilots who are able to sustain their aviation pleasure and keep their anxieties at bay know one very important thing. They know the antidote to apply to counteract the debilitating thought patterns that diminish the pleasure they receive from flying. What’s the antidote? Well, brace yourself for impact. Here it comes, and it’s framed in the form of a self-referential statement: I know I can choose to fly as safe as I want to fly. This is the antidote that gives pilots great comfort and helps them derive great pleasure from flying airplanes. Furthermore, they actually believe the statement because it’s absolutely true.

We can indeed choose to choose to fly as safe as we want to fly. Period! You can’t, however, say the same for driving a car, can you? No, you can’t. That’s because you don’t have control over what other drivers do on the road, but you do have almost complete control over what you do and what happens to you in an airplane. In other words, you have nearly complete control over the safety statistic outside an act of God. That’s right. If you are clobbered by a meteorite on the downwind leg, well, that will teach you to hold a heading, right? Acts of God are things for which no one can prepare. They are, after all, acts of God, and are so rare that we shouldn’t even think about them. Then again, we can control nearly everything else that affects us in an airplane.

Years ago, the head of NASA Dryden once told me that their pilots are safer flying one of their experimental jet airplanes than they are when walking on the ground at Edwards Air Force Base. That’s because NASA’s flight operations are conducted within the scope of a pilot’s ability to actually influence and control the safety statistic. And this is precisely the way general aviation pilots can fly their airplanes, but only if they choose to do so.

In fact, if you want to reduce your chances of getting hurt in an airplane to nearly zero (no, not zero, but close to it), then do the following things.

• Never allow yourself to be airborne with less than 1/4 fuel in your tanks (you can “choose” to do this).
• Never fly in weather that’s beyond your capability to handle (you can “choose” to do this).
• Learn good stick and rudder skills sufficient to fly by the seat of your pants, and keep proficient at these skills (you can “choose” to do this).
• And finally, prioritize everything you do in the following way: Aviate, Navigate and Communicate, in that order (you can also “choose” to do this).

Most pilots bend their airplanes and a few bones by neglecting one or more of these four items.

It’s important to understand that fate isn’t the hunter here. But if fate were the hunter, it would certainly be so when driving a car rather than flying an airplane. So if you want to be scared, please be scared in your car. In an airplane, there’s no need to be scared. There’s only a need to be cautious and to choose to fly as safe as you desire to fly. The odds are really on the side of the cautious pilot here. Sure, there will always be someone who crashes an airplane, but in almost all of these instances, it’s because he or she didn’t choose properly. Even the NTSB says that 75% of accidents are primarily a result of pilot error. That means the pilot had a choice in three out of four instances but didn’t choose properly. If we had a little more courage as a society, we’d probably up the NTSB’s number to 95%.

So the next time you (or anyone else) begins to wonder if this is the last time you’ll ever return home, make a simple choice for yourself. Choose to fly safely. It’s within your ability to do so. Even in those small and rare instances where you may not actually have control (think catastrophic engine failure here), you can still regain control if you’ve practiced your emergency skills (think emergency landing skills here) before hand.

As a final note, I have several articles on this subject in my Rod Machado’s Plane Talk book as well as on my web site at: (http://www.rodmachado.com/_available_products/plane_talk_book.php).

Pilots are actually quite good at “almost” not running of fuel during flight. Several years ago a study indicated that in 70% of the fuel exhaustion accidents, the pilot crashed within 10 miles of the destination airport. In 50% of all fuel exhaustion accidents, the pilot crashed within one mile of the airport. Are you thinking what I’m thinking? Perhaps we can reduce fuel exhaustion accidents by 50% if pilots would simply pick an airport a mile short of their original destination. A jest, of course, but not a big one.

Here’s how to think about the statistics above. It’s a no-brainer that pilots will avoid flying airplanes beyond their fuel range when the trip distance is ridiculously large. After all, who would attempt to fly a normally-tanked Cessna 150 from California to Hawaii? The answer is, someone with no brain, of course. And why would anyone worry about flying for an hour in an airplane with five hours of fuel on board? That leaves those trips where there’s room for doubt as to whether there’s enough fuel on board to complete the flight safely. Here is where some pilots fail miserably at doubt management.

Doubt should be the motivator that compels pilots to carefully consider the ratio of risk to reward during flight—the risk of fuel exhaustion compared to the reward of avoiding an unplanned fuel stop. In these instances, pilots often mismanage their doubtful disposition by attempting to prove to themselves that they actually have enough fuel to make the destination airport. The problem with this type of thinking is that it doesn’t tell us the truth about our perception of reality (in other words, it’s anti-scientific). I believe Einstein once suggested that a thousand theories proving relativity correct are meaningless if even one theory proves it wrong (all that from an amazing guy who couldn’t manage his curling iron). The correct doubt management strategy here is to look for ways to prove yourself wrong, not prove yourself right. As the statistics suggest, the proof that pilots had enough fuel to land must have been compelling, at least compelling enough to get them within 10 miles of the destination airport in 70% of those accidents. Had any of the pilots above attempted to confirm their doubt—to prove themselves wrong—it’s likely that they would have found at least one compelling bit of evidence (if not a lot of evidence) to support making an intermediate fuel stop.

Another ineffective doubt management strategy occurs when pilots use superstitious behavior and magical thinking to avoid acknowledging their limited fuel levels. For instance, one form of superstitious behavior occurs when a pilot is low on fuel and begins “hoping” that he can make his destination. Of course, hoping has no influence whatsoever on fuel levels, but it certainly can make a pilot feel better. The sad thing is that feeling better is exactly the opposite of how the pilot should feel if he or she wants a better chance at avoiding fuel exhaustion. The only way hope could possible help a pilot is if he “hoped” into the radio, preferably on 121.5 MHz, where hope springs eternal. Clearly this is doubt management gone bad.

Other forms of superstitious behavior include, reworking in-flight fuel computations until we have a fuel quantity that pleases us as well as modifying our recollection of the amount of fuel we believed we had prior to departure. My all time favorite form of superstitious behavior occurs when pilots say, “I’ve heard pilots say that they’ve flown airplanes similar to this one for over five hours straight at this power setting without running out of gas.” Each of these forms of superstitious behavior (and the many, many others that I can’t possibly list here) are terribly ineffective strategies for managing the doubt we have about our in-flight fuel levels.

Magical thinking is also an ineffective doubt management strategy. A form of this behavior occurs when pilots find solace in the use of parallax to increase their apparent fuel levels. I’m speaking of pilots who look slightly to the left of the fuel gauge needle—a needle reading close to “E”—and feel better because this view shows a sudden increase in their fuel supply. Anyone turning a car that’s low on fuel and sees the gas needle suddenly (and temporarily) point to a higher quantity knows exactly what I mean. Drivers may actually feel a bit better as a result of the needle’s movement. Pilots low on fuel in turbulent air know this magical feeling, too. Turbulence may temporarily nudge those fuel gauge needles into the higher fuel quantity region, allowing pilots to feel some degree of relief, albeit temporarily. The fact that these types of superstitious and magical behaviors can make pilots feel better, is a sure sign that we need to be better doubt managers.

Given that pilots in these fuel exhaustion accidents managed to get so close to the destination airport, you have to wonder how many pilots actually land on fumes? Of course, this is something we don’t hear about, perhaps because there’s no such thing as an FAA “fumigator” stationed at the end of each runway. The scary thought here is that superstitious and magical behavior may actually be a strategy that appears to work for pilots, at least until the time that it doesn’t. It’s entirely possible that some pilots compensate for a lack of proper flight planning through the unwitting use of superstitious or magical behaviors. Either way, becoming a good doubt manager means reducing any reliance we have on these types of behaviors.

The takeaway point here is that it’s the doubt we have about our fuel situation that should signal us to change our thinking strategy. First, we need to become more aware of our natural tendency to engage in superstitious behavior and use magical thinking. The moment we find ourselves hoping, fudging fuel calculations, modifying our memories or enjoying the pleasures of parallax, we should (sorry Mr. T. Leary) turn off that thinking, tune out those strategies and drop in to a more rational frame of mind. Instead of trying to prove that we actually do have enough fuel to land at our intended destination, we’re often better off trying to prove that we don’t. If we can’t prove this, then there’s a good chance that we have sufficient fuel for a safe landing. So be it. If we can prove ourselves wrong, then the chances are that we are wrong. I have no doubt that this strategy brings us closer to knowing the truth about the actual amount of fuel we have on board our airplanes. Without a doubt, it make us better doubt managers.

If you’d like to learn more about how pilots think (or should think) in the cockpit, take a look at my book titled, “Rod Machado’s Plane Talk,” available for $19.95 as an ebook (instant download). This book is filled with chapters on effective cockpit thinking strategies, coping with in-flight anxiety, dealing with first time passengers, and many other useful tips to help pilots fly safer and wiser.

The Nexaer LS1

On July 24^th, 2009, the FAA Office of the Chief Counsel issued a letter of interpretation stating that the flight training provided by subpart K instructors (those with only a sport pilot instructor certificate) cannot apply toward the flight training time required for the private pilot certificate (normally, this training is provided by a subpart H certified flight instructor).

From the four-page letter of interpretation written by FAA attorney Paul Greer, the FAA’s rationale for this ruling can be distilled down to a single argument supporting the agency’s position:

“Permitting a sport pilot to use flight training provided by a flight instructor with a sport pilot rating…to meet the aeronautical experience requirements for the issuance of a private pilot certificate however, would be the functional equivalent of permitting that instructor to provide flight training for the issuance of a private pilot certificate…. It [the FAA] did not intend to decrease the minimum experience requirements for flight instructors who provide training for the issuance of private pilot certificates….”

My position relates only to flight training in the light sport airplane category, although I believe the following argument holds true for other categories and classes of aircraft, as well. In my opinion, the flight training provided by sport pilot instructors is sufficiently similar in both the quality and quantity (with the exceptions listed below) to that provided by certified flight instructors that some or all of this flight training time should be applicable toward meeting the private pilot flight training requirements. My reasoning follows.

It’s true that sport pilot instructors are not required to provide training in basic instrument maneuvers, night flying and electronic navigation to the sport pilot, nor are these instructors required to possess this knowledge themselves. Knowledge in these three areas, however, represents only about 15% of the total flight training knowledge required by a private pilot applicant. This means that 85% of the flight training provided by a sport pilot instructor to sport pilot applicants is identical to that provided by certified flight instructors to private pilot applicants. In fact, Paul Greer writes, “The FAA recognizes that many of the areas of operation on which an applicant for a sport pilot certificate is required to receive training are identical to those on which an applicant for a private pilot certificate is also required to receive training….” The areas in which the received training is identical is based on an examination of the FAA’s own Practical Test Standards. (The PTS identifies the minimum standards of competency that the FAA requires of all pilot applicants.)

Comparing the sport and private pilot Practical Test Standards reveals that every single flight maneuver required of a sport pilot applicant (less basic instrument maneuvering and electronic navigation) is also required of the private pilot applicant. The Practical Test Standards also make it clear that the areas of operation, tasks, objectives and minimum proficiency levels for both sport and private pilot applicants are fundamentally the same, with no practical difference between the two. It’s clear from the Practical Test Standards that the FAA requires sport pilots to demonstrate levels of performance similar to that of a private pilot applicant on the practical flight test.

It thus becomes difficult to argue that sport pilot instructors, despite having less experience, can’t or don’t provide training comparable to that provided by certified flight instructors. While it’s true that a sport pilot instructor may have less experience than his or her certified flight instructor counterpart, the FAA’s Practical Test Standards also makes it clear that this produces no practical difference in the quality of flight training provided by either instructor.

Please keep in mind here that the training a sport pilot receives isn’t somehow deficient when compared to a private pilot’s flight training. Instead, the sport pilot’s training is simply appropriate to the limitations of the airplane and regulated limits under which he or she flies (i.e., two-place, day only, at/below 10,000 feet MSL, etc.). Clearly the PTS’s completion standards indicate that in those areas where the sport and private pilot applicants receive training by their appropriately rated instructors, there is no difference in either applicant’s proficiency, skills, or competence.

Let’s also remember that sport pilots wishing to apply their flight training time toward the flight training time required for the private pilot certificate will not be deficient in knowledge or flight proficiency when becoming private pilots. The regulations require that all private pilot applicants receive a certain minimum amount of ground and flight training in very specific skill areas. Where the sport pilot regulations don’t require this training, the private pilot applicant would be required to receive that training from a certified flight instructor. In other words, the regulations ensure that sport pilots seeking a private pilot certificate will meet the minimum standards required for that rating by the FAA.

On the other hand, to be intellectually honest in this endeavor, it is important to acknowledge the FAA’s position on not lowering the experience level of flight instructors who provide training for the private pilot certificate. An instructor’s experience must, after all, count for something. It’s reasonable to assume that an instructor with more experience may have more to offer in terms of the intangibles of piloting, such as judgment and wisdom. The problem here is that these intangibles are difficult to qualify, much less quantify.

Given that sport pilots trained only by sport pilot instructors will have to spend some amount of training time with a CFI in preparation for their private pilot certificate, it’s reasonable to assume that some of these intangibles will be conveyed to this applicant. If, however, these “intangibles were not passed along to the sport pilot by sport pilot instructors, I doubt this ultimately matters in terms of safety. Why? Because there is a significant safety benefit derived from allowing sport pilots to apply their flight training time to meet the private pilot flight training requirement. This benefit consists of the economic incentive a qualified sport pilot now has to continue his or her training toward a private pilot certificate without having to worry about funding an additional 20 hours of dual instruction.

The FAA has many precedents for safely lowering the overall flight experience requirements as an incentive to attract more people to aviation (think about the reduced experience requirements for the recreational pilot certificate, sport pilot certificate, reduction in total time for instrument rating, etc.). Common sense suggests that incentives for pilots to attain a higher rating must have some positive effect on that student’s overall safety.

As an additional note, there is a precedent that allowed private pilots to instruct students in preparation for the private pilot certificate. Prior to 1960 (and through the early 1960s), CAA regulation 20.130 provided for private pilots to obtain a limited flight instructor certificate with as little as 200 hours total time and no instrument rating. If this private pilot instructor had an instrument rating, then he or she could also give instrument instruction to prepare and endorse applicants for their instrument rating. This ruling change in the 1960s for several reasons, one of which was the CAA’s concern that pilots were operating aircraft of ever increasing performance. The intent was to raise the standard of instruction to match the needs of pilots who might eventually fly these higher performance machines. Then again, for at least a decade, the CAA apparently found it reasonable in allowing private pilot instructors to teach in lower performance airplanes. This is precisely what sport pilot instructors are doing today, with light sport airplanes generally being of lesser performance than they were prior to the 1960s.

While I have the greatest respect for the work the FAA does, especially in the sport pilot area, I do believe that this ruling undervalued the capabilities of sport pilot instructors. I also believe that the FAA didn’t properly weigh the safety benefits of encouraging students to continue training as compared to the loss of those intangibles associated with an instructor’s lesser experience.

I hope that the FAA will reconsider allowing some or all of the flight training time provided by sport pilot instructors to sport pilots to apply toward the private pilot flight time requirement.

Sincerely,

Rod Machado

August 20, 2009