A Touristy Timeout for Safety
In October, we loaded up the Mooney and pointed the nose north, seeking out fall colors that only exist for a fleeting moment in Atlanta.
We figured our chances to view seasonal foliage would be better in Maine, and we could knock Acadia off our bucket list of the U.S. national parks. On the way up we’d grabbed gas and lunch in Blacksburg, Virginia, and spent multiday layovers in Burlington, Vermont, and Portland, Maine. These trips far from home present interesting challenges as we explore climates and terrain features that are sharp contrasts from what we are used to.
The leg from Burlington to Portland had proven itself such a contender as we took off beneath a 3,000-foot overcast layer and had to work our way south to find the breaks where we could climb atop the cloud deck—a thin layer I’d hardly have concerned myself with back home, but up here it was very much an icing threat. My time studying the weather proved itself well spent as the flight to Portland was uneventful and a beautiful sight.
I had my eyes peeled for days in Portland, anticipating similar challenges for our run up the coast to Bar Harbor, but on go day, the sun ascended into a clear sky as we watched the display from aboard from the sunrise run on the Casco Bay Line ferry.
At one point I noticed we were moving about as fast as the boat would go, and the exhaust from the twin stacks was outrunning us at a considerable clip. Dawn had broken bright and clear, and while icing, ceiling, and visibility had been my preoccupation—rightfully so, given our arrival into Portland—the actual threat of the day was wind. As we walked from the wharf to breakfast, I saw that peak wind gusts were tickling the 40-knot mark.
Hoping the gusts would soften as the day progressed, we rode out to the FBO. Amy and I walked our gear out to the airplane, and she returned to the FBO while I did my ritual of loading everything up.
Left alone with my thoughts and the breeze, I watched carefully as several airliners came and went. Most seemed to be using more flaps than normal for takeoff, the idea being to get away from the ground as quickly as possible to minimize their time near the ground, where a wind shear could have serious consequences.
Even the heavy iron wasn’t playing around on this day.
The tie-down straps the FBO used for our Mooney were singing in the breeze. I climbed inside the cabin for a moment to tidy up a few loose ends and I watched a Citation rocking and rolling down final. It touched on the nosewheel first. The airliner behind it bounced just a touch. I can tell you the wind limitations for every jet I’ve flown, as they were memory items we were required to know.
The Mooney is a different creature altogether. It doesn’t have any limits for wind.
The handbook for our 1965 Mooney M20C is about a quarter-inch thick. The FAA would have a conniption at the idea of a new airplane rolling out with a sales brochure for a POH, but that’s what the Mooney owner’s manual is. Certified under CAR3 by the Civil Aeronautics Board, our Mooney isn’t bound by the giant chapter of limitations you’d find on an aircraft certified under FAR Part 23, the modern standard. Every reference to a crosswinds in the operator’s manual are as follows:
- Hydraulic disc brakes and a steerable nosewheel aid in positive directional control during taxiing and crosswind landings.
- When making a cross-wind takeoff, hold the nose gear on the runway longer and accelerate to a higher speed than normal. Pull up abruptly to avoid contact with the runway while drifting
- When high, gusty winds prevail, or when landing crosswind, approach at a higher airspeed.
That’s it. There’s no maximum demonstrated crosswind component, much less an actual limitation. In other words, Mooney’s attitude was that you, not the airplane or factory, must set your own wind limits.
The hourly forecast called for winds to lessen around 4 p.m., but the rental car outfit in Bar Harbor would close at 6. The flight was less than an hour, but you know how it goes—nothing happens as quickly as you’d imagine.
After coordinating the rental car logistics, we snagged the keys to the FBO’s crew car and told the line crew we might be there for a couple hours. “Call us if someone flies in and you need the car. We’ll come right back. In the meantime, we’ll go find some lunch and kill some time.” The line guys had a good chuckle at the idea that anyone might brave the landing and need a crew car in this breeze.
Amy found that a few food trucks were set up near the Portland Head Light, so we went lighthouse hunting on our lunch run. On the way back, we got detoured because a giant tree had snapped in the breeze and fallen across the road.
When we returned to the airport, the windsocks still stood at attention, but the gusts had decreased into the low-30-knot range. The airplane no longer strained against the tie-downs, and even the line crew’s comments had shifted from questioning my sanity for even coming to the airport to letting me know that the Piper Arrow down the ramp had landed without drama.
In the airline world, we talk a lot about taking a timeout for safety, and while we often do pause things to make sure something is right or safe, it’s often a matter of minutes, not hours. While we wanted to get to our cabin in Bar Harbor, there was no absolute need to be there—this was a vacation trip, after all.
And unlike the timeout given as punishment where you sit in a chair and sulk, we got out and touristed.
Other than being a little bumpy the first 1,000 feet on climbout, it was an uneventful flight to Bar Harbor, where we tied down and grabbed the waiting rental car. Instead of catching the sunset at our rental cabin, we enjoyed it as we drove away from the airport.
As vacation disruptions go, that’s hardly even an inconvenience.