“How do you get in?” That’s the first thing Patty said to me when she saw the PBaron. It had been decades since she flew in the right seat of such a personal airplane. You wear the Baron like a snug shoe.
Just getting in is a challenge. The first leap is a major one from the ramp to the wing. A step is provided, just out of reach for most ladies. A twist to the left as you jump from the ground to the aft wing, then another twist to face the door handle.
Opening the cockpit door is another issue. It’s a two-handed affair, rotating a small, red knob while grabbing the latch and maneuvering it backwards. Then, if all goes well, you drop yourself onto the seat and take a breath to recover.
We developed a simple routine in previous Citations and King Airs. After reaching cruise altitude, Patty completes her co-pilot duties and moves to the cabin for a short nap. She returns for the descent and landing. There is ample room in turbine airplanes for the short trek to the cabin. Not so much in the Baron.
During our first flight, Patty took a look backwards and said, “How do you expect me to get back there?”
I had been hiding a dark secret. It simply wasn’t possible. The space between the seats was tiny, even for petite Patty. “You didn’t even plan for me to get in the back,” she demanded. “Let me do some research,” I said to stall for time.
I called my mentor, Doug Moss, a PBaron owner. “Doug, how do I get Patty from the cockpit to the cabin?” “Can’t be done, physically impossible, was the response. It’s only been attempted once by a teenager, and her skeletal remains are on display at some museum in Washington, DC,” he said.
I didn’t have the guts to tell Patty the news.
A recent flight from Colorado Springs (KCOS) to Addison (KADS) had us waking up at 4:45 am to beat the summer temperatures. At cruise altitude, Patty was fading, her eyes closing every few seconds. “I am going to the back,” she announced.
Do I tell her it is impossible? Nope.
Years of yoga had prepared her for this moment. She peered through the tiny opening between the seats. “Can I stand on this?” she asked. It was the emergency gear extension handle. “Sure,” I said as she fell into the abyss.
I began what I will call the “Beechcraft shove.”
Over the fifty-two years of our marriage, I have had the opportunity to be “up close and personal” with Patty’s backside. But never at seventeen thousand feet. And never for what seemed like an eternity. Seconds later, a bump from an unexpected cumulus build-up slammed my head into her rear denim pocket as I gasped for air.
“What the hell are you doing?” she yelled.
And then, just as quickly, it was over. Like a gush through a waterfall, she landed headfirst on the rear seats. Asleep minutes later.
“Wake me for the descent,” she said.
“Sure,” I said. Sure.
Fly safe.
Patricia W. Miller has not seen or approved this article. Please keep it confidential.
