N777PV on the ramp | Photos and Story by Peter Ruskay
Aviation is a cyclical business. Hiring droughts can suddenly become booms, and timing is a big factor in career advancement for those who wish to become professional pilots. Due to age demographics and the enormous retirement of older pilots, aspiring aviators are enjoying what could be the greatest hiring wave ever. Today, the hiring is so frenzied that the journey from student pilot to airline cockpit has never been shorter. Those who chanced into this cycle have won the career lottery.
In 1991, as a newly minted graduate of the Florida Institute of Technology, I wasn’t as fortunate. The Gulf War began and ended that year, and airline hiring was almost nonexistent. The rest of the industry follows as airline hiring goes, and this logjam created a stagnant market. The result was that I had to beg, borrow and steal opportunities to gain experience and flight time.
From 1991 to 1995, I simultaneously worked as a flight instructor, a passenger, and a cargo pilot for two Part 135 companies and as a Chief Pilot and Check Airman flying Navajos, Aerostars, Cheyennes, and King Airs. When there was no scheduled flying, I worked line service for International Aviation at KHPN, fueling and towing business jets. None of these jobs were full-time or salaried. Armed with my period-correct pager, I juggled my schedule as the work came, and hustling was the only life I knew.
Every summer at KHPN, a magnificent bird would appear and base out of our FBO for the season. It was a vintage Grumman G-73T Mallard manufactured in 1949. Radial to PT6 conversion complete, she always drew attention when sitting on the ramp. The owner was a colorful and gregarious man who lived seasonally in New York and Florida. He was an avid fisherman who owned homes near his fishing boats in Montauk (KMTP) and Walkers Cay (MYAW). For those unfamiliar, Montauk sits at Long Island’s eastern tip, and Walkers Cay is a small island north of the Bahamas, about 100 nm from West Palm Beach, FL.
The owner was a particularly nervous flier. He would bring the New York Times and intently work at the crossword puzzle to distract himself during flight. Since most of his flights were conducted over water, he reasoned that he should own an amphibian on the chance that his aircraft would have to ditch. The owner employed an equally colorful character as his Chief Pilot, and each summer, a local First Officer was selected to fly with him. In the summer of 1995, I was chosen to fly right-seat on this classic machine.
The Grumman Aircraft Company was founded by Leroy Grumman and headquartered in Bethpage, NY. They designed some of the most successful World War II Navy combat aircraft, including the famous cats – the Wildcat and Hellcat, along with the Avenger dive bomber. Grumman was affectionately known as the Iron Works because their ruggedly built airframes would bring their crews back to the carrier, even after battle damage.
Before the war, Grumman had manufactured amphibians, starting with the J2F Duck, a single-engine biplane that saw widespread military service. The Duck fuselage was attached to a large center-mounted pontoon with smaller wing-mounted pontoons for stability. Grumman produced a total of 632 Ducks.
In the 1930s, some wealthy New Yorkers commissioned Grumman to design a twin-engine amphibian, which they could use to commute from their Long Island estates to Manhattan, conveniently landing in the city rivers. The result was the G-21 Goose, a 7,500-pound model with a 49-foot wingspan powered by twin 450-hp Pratt and Whitney Wasp radials. First flight was in 1937, and Grumman marketed the Goose as a flying boat that could carry two to four passengers in nautical comfort. As war broke out, the US Navy, Army Air Corps, Coast Guard, and Civil Air Patrol adopted the Goose in transport, reconnaissance, and rescue roles. Grumman built 345 G-21s.
Post-war, Grumman sought to re-enter the civilian market with a larger model that could accommodate 8-10 executive passengers. The G-73 Mallard first flew in 1946, and 59 were produced through 1951. The 13,000-pound beast featured a 66-foot wingspan powered by two 600-hp Pratt and Whitney R-1340 Wasp radial engines. It was the first Grumman amphibian to have a tricycle landing gear, and with a fuel capacity of 380 gallons, it had a range of 1,200 miles while cruising at 160 mph. The Mallard was designed for two types of customers: commercial air taxi and private-use operators. The stand-up cabin could accommodate a high-density airline layout or a luxurious, yacht-inspired interior with a galley and private lavatory. Grumman advertisements at that time depicted passengers in wood-paneled interiors, sitting on large seats and couches, traveling in style.
This particular Mallard had an unusual past before it was privately owned. It served as a utility aircraft for Freeport McMoRan, Incorporated. Freeport was founded in 1912 and is one of the world’s largest mining companies. The company used this amphibian to survey difficult-to-reach areas in Indonesia and New Guinea for mining opportunities. In 1959, Freeport discovered a massive copper and gold deposit in New Guinea, which they developed into the Grasberg mine. To this day, Grasberg is the largest gold mine in the world.
After a hard life of transporting geologists, engineers and survey crews, she came back to the US and was acquired by my employer. The working interior was removed and replaced with something befitting the old Grumman ads. It had a double club configuration with six large seats, a four-place divan, a mid-cabin galley, and an enclosed aft lavatory. Frakes Aviation in Cleburne, Texas, developed a modification to replace the Wasp radials with the venerable Pratt and Whitney PT6A-34 turboprop rated at the same 600 hp. She got the engine conversion to become a G-73T and, with this upgrade, lived on as a well-cared-for lady. It was a fitting way to begin her second life.
Most of my trips were between KHPN and KMTP, a 30-minute flight over the Long Island Sound to the end of Long Island. The owner was known as a gracious entertainer, and we would shuttle his family and numerous friends back and forth to visit his home and fish on his boat.
Out of the hangar and chocked on the ramp, I would carefully climb on top of the wing and have line service pass me the Jet-A hose. The FBO would not let their fuelers on the wing of the Mallard, as it was a dangerously long fall to the ramp. With the galley stocked and preflight complete, our passengers would arrive, and we would get on our way.
The cockpit could get hot. Its automotive-like, roll-down windows gave us some relief as we brought those PT6s to life. In classic seaplane configuration, the power levers were on the overhead panel, above the glare shield. With a monkey-bar-style nudge, we’d get the old girl moving. The short wheelbase and stiff gear made taxiing a bit bumpy, so we kept it slow so our passengers didn’t give us dirty looks. Since the flights were short, we didn’t carry full fuel, which made takeoff and climb performance surprisingly brisk. Once level, we would settle into cruise as we winged across the Long Island Sound.
Montauk Airport has a short, uncontrolled 3,250-foot runway wedged between the marina and the dunes. Being on the very end of Long Island and exposed to the open Atlantic Ocean, it was perpetually windy, and the wind direction was rarely down the runway. Designed to land into the wind on a water landing, the Mallard was a handful to land on a runway in a crosswind. The combination of the high wing, weather-vaning fuselage, and fat pontoons had me hanging on the power levers while working the infinity-shaped yoke throughout the approach, landing and rollout. Once we navigated this big bird onto the ramp, done for the day, it was off to the hotel.
Interestingly, the hotel was a private club adjacent to the marina where the owner kept his boat. We would each get a small bungalow on the stately grounds. This club could have been a setting in The Great Gatsby with eccentric, old-money members who had been frequenting the property for years. They would sip gin and tonics by the pool and engage in spirited croquet matches to pass their days away. The staff was from the iconic 21 Club in New York City. The 21 Club was only open during the work week, and on summer weekends, they would bring the chefs, servers, and bartenders to Montauk. There were no menus or bills – the servers would simply ask what you felt like having, and it would magically appear. For a young pilot accustomed to FBO vending machines, this was heady stuff, and I’ll always have great memories of my time there. It was a unique and entertaining slice of life.
One afternoon, I heard someone climbing up the stairs while getting ready for a run to KHPN. I turned around to see Jimmy Buffett poking his head into the cabin and asking for a tour. He was as friendly and casual as his music, and we enjoyed talking about aviation and his love of Grumman amphibians. Jimmy recounted his ordeal the summer before when he crashed a Grumman Widgeon in Nantucket Harbor. He hit a rogue swell on takeoff, and the amphibian flipped upside down. Luckily, he swam out with only minor injuries, crediting his water egress training with the Blue Angels to save his life. Later, he would own and fly a Grumman Albatross, the follow-on to the Mallard with an impressive 98-foot wingspan and massive 1,475 hp Wright radials, which he aptly named Hemisphere Dancer.
Admirers and tours were common whenever we were working around the aircraft. Observing how excited both pilots and civilians would become when inspecting the Mallard up close was amusing. Sometimes, I felt more like a museum docent than a pilot, explaining its history and answering their many questions. In all my years of professional flying, I’ve never flown a plane that made so many people smile. It was a unique aircraft that had undeniable ramp appeal.
My only regret is that I didn’t get to operate the Mallard on water as she was designed. Already 46 years old in 1995, saltwater operations were ruled out by the chief pilot and our maintenance department to avoid their corrosive effects. Although the owner had a lakeside home in the Adirondack Mountains north of KHPN, I didn’t crew any trips that operated into the lake. The right side of the cockpit had rudder pegs that folded out of the way so a crew member could go underneath the instrument panel to open a hatch on top of the nose. Pilots used this hatch to tend ropes or the anchor while floating. I’m sad that I didn’t get to crawl through and cleat her off just once.
I flew about 120 hours that season and enjoyed every minute. My years of hustling paid off – a few months later, I started flying a Falcon 50 and have been a jet pilot ever since. The Mallard continued to fly with lucky new FOs for several more summers. In 2003, the owner passed away, and shortly after that, the Mallard was sold. I am happy to report that this lovely lady still flies today, nearly 75 years old, getting her tailfeathers wet in the lakes of California and Arizona – just as Leroy Grumman had intended. I hope the pilots who earn the privilege of flying her will hold that experience in their hearts as I do.
Long live the Iron Works!
