January 2005
People involved in aviation are a friendly lot. At least we think we are. All you have to do is go to a pancake breakfast at a fly-in or sit around at Oshkosh to “feel the love.”
Over the decades that I’ve been in the flying business, both General Aviation and the airline world, I’ve noticed what an elitist, closed society we really have. I have been noticing this for some time but only recently have I become embarrassed by what a tight-knit snobby group of people we’ve become. As aviation businesspeople I submit that the very elitism that makes us think that over $300,000 is an okay price for a new single engine airplane may be our downfall.
Many of you are probably already saying to yourselves, “He’s not talking about me—my FBO/flight school is so friendly it is sickening.”
I have to tell you that based on my experience, you are wrong. For a good example of this I’ll detail two visits I’ve made to local businesses lately. One was a Ford automobile dealership out in farm country and the second was to a fairly nice FBO near my place in Kentucky.
My wife and I were in the market last year for a new pickup truck for our small horse farm. We knew that it needed to be strong enough to pull a rather large goose neck trailer, but other than that we weren’t sure what we needed, wanted or could afford.
We were babes in the woods—new customers to the Ford Motor Co. Almost totally ignorant of what Ford had to offer, we opened the front door of the dealership and walked in looking like the clueless couple we clearly were.
I know that most of you have had the experience of walking on to a car lot and dreading the approach of the salesman wearing the loud plaid jacket. I was dreading this as well but we were interested in pulling that trailer, so we hung in there.
We only had to hang in there long enough for a man who was dressed professionally in a jacket and tie to approach us, shake our hands and introduce himself.
He then did something that made him the highest-selling salesperson on the floor. He listened to us. He didn’t try to impress us with how much he knew about pickup trucks. He did know quite a bit, but when we got down to the questions concerning pull weights, trailer hauling packages, and differentials, transmission oil coolers and heated mirrors, he didn’t mind hauling out the books or asking someone else to help us with our questions.
Not once did we feel unwelcome, stupid, inexperienced or an outsider. Most car dealerships do this now. From the first cup of coffee they offer you right up through them introducing you to their service manager they try to include you and make you feel part of a larger whole.
After visiting a few other dealerships and after a three-month period of dozens of visits to the dealership I just described, we finally bought a ¾- ton, four-wheel-drive diesel truck. We invested around forty grand in the ride and except for a little consumer dissonance a week later; we were convinced we made the right choice.
We went to take delivery of our new pickup and found it fully gassed, completely washed and cleaned and shining in the sun. As we climbed in to drive it away the entire sales staff came out and cheered as they waved us goodbye. I know—it sounds really hokey, doesn’t it? Later, we got follow-up phone calls and a thank you letter.
What does all of the above have to do with flying Cessnas or Pipers or the aviation business? For that answer, follow me on a recent trip to my local FBO/flight school. I visit a lot of FBOs in my travels and this visit is typical.
I drove up in a fairly new Toyota. I was conservatively dressed with a collared polo shirt, khakis, and brown leather shoes. My gray hair showed my age and while I didn’t look rich, I didn’t look poor either.
The lobby of the FBO was pleasant enough and is probably about the same as the FBO in your area. A counter with a flight schedule resting on it, pamphlets and some recent aviation magazines were resting on the table by the comfortable-looking couches and chairs.
Just as a sort of test, I simply went into the lobby and stood there in the middle of the room. I stood there for 15 minutes. Not a long time if you are a turtle, but an eternity if you are a potential customer at a place that sells aircraft, flight training and aircraft service.
I wasn’t alone. There was a twentysomething person behind the counter. He was reading a book. It must have been a good book, because he didn’t look up from it for the entire 15 minutes. I finally moved from my spot in the middle of the lobby and spoke with him.
“I was in the neighborhood,” I began, “and thought I’d drop in. I’m interested in learning how to fly and maybe even buying an airplane. Am I at the right place?”
Trying to be friendly, but a little clueless (which is no stretch for this 16,000 hour pilot) I came on like I was an off-the-street prospect to sell a private pilot course and maybe one of those $300,000 airplanes to.
Basically, I was meat on the hoof, a pear getting ready to fall off of the tree. I was what should have been the most sought-after customer that General Aviation could have. A fairly prosperous looking slightly older guy going through a midlife crisis that had interest in flying and the money to back it up.
The counter guy, looking a little annoyed that I interrupted his book, said, “There is a pamphlet on the table about our flight school rates and our aircraft salesman is out of the office today.”
He then went back to his book.
The pamphlet was a price list. It said nothing of how much time it would take to learn how to fly, how to go about starting or why I should be interested in parting with at least $5,000 to learn. There was a coupon for a $49 introductory flight on another table but since the counter guy didn’t tell me about it, I didn’t bother to pick it up.
This experience isn’t limited to this place. To test my theory a little further I went to a larger local airport and did the same drill at a place that was the only flight school on the field.
In this case I was made to feel like I really didn’t belong there. All I got there was a very chilly reception and an even colder “may I help you” from the counter person. Going through the same spiel as before, I was directed to a pamphlet there as well—even though I knew there were instructors around because I could hear them laughing in another room.
Both places let a potential customer worth at least $300,000 walk out of their door forever. Why? I submit to you that it is because we people in aviation are snobs but won’t admit to it.
Flying is something not everyone can do. Either their temperament or their physical condition or even their intelligence might hold them back. Like any other endeavor, from playing chess to juggling chainsaws, there is a certain amount of talent required to fly.
Face it—when you first soloed, when you got your first rating and when you bought your first airplane you felt like you belonged to a pretty cool group of people, didn’t you? It is a natural thing to want to have that slight edge over others when it comes to coolness. In the business world that attitude is deadly.
Almost every year groups like GAMA come out with the latest promotional gambit to get more butts in more new airplane seats. Everybody in the business says they want more student pilot starts and more new aircraft sales, but I’m not sure they mean it.
How cool can you possibly feel if everybody gets to be a pilot? Think for a minute about the very first computer geeks—they must be really cheesed off now that every idiot on the street has Internet access. The coolness of being a computer expert paled when it became as common to own a computer as it was to own a telephone or a television.
Taking that first step into a flight school or FBO isn’t easy for a new customer. The world of flying is mysterious, even today, and let’s face it, the expense is awesome to a person trying to raise a family or pay off a house.
You would think that a person like me wandering into an FBO with a potential to spend a third of a million dollars on an airplane would get at least 10 times the attention that your average new car buyer gets, but it simply doesn’t happen.
New aviation customers are made to feel inadequate, ignored, part of the uncool group of kids and let’s face it—stupid.
The two FBOs I’ve mentioned will either limp along not making money for the upcoming years or more likely, go under. I hope I have enough money to buy one of them because if I do, here’s what will happen when you walk into my FBO:
When you walk into my lobby the first thing you notice is that it is clean, bright and filled with the busy sound of success. No television is playing in the background and you don’t smell day-old coffee. A receptionist located close to the entrance gets up and welcomes you into the building. He or she asks you what they can do for you and immediately follows up on what you say.
For example, if you say, “I’m interested in maybe learning how to fly but have a lot of questions,” the receptionist says something like: “Flying is great! You are really going to be happy you stepped in here today. Let me get Frank, our chief pilot, and he’ll be glad to talk with you. Meanwhile, would you like a Coke or maybe some coffee?”
Frank comes out and spends the better part of an hour talking with you about how wonderful it is to learn how to fly and how his school/FBO can help you with that. By the way, there is always a Frank or a Joe or a Karen available to talk with. If everybody that can sell to new customers is out flying or unavailable, you just lost an account.
He shows you around, introduces you around and makes damn sure you get to at least sit in a new airplane that day. Just the smell of the leather seats alone will be enough to sell you and besides, you didn’t come all the way out to the airport to not see airplanes!
By the time you leave my fictional FBO you may not have spent that third of a million dollars but you are convinced that you belong there. People are friendly, don’t think your questions are stupid and are happy you dropped in. They have made the world of aviation a place you want to come back to and spend your money. Instead of buying a ski boat or that second home, you are well on your way to aircraft ownership and a life of flying.
And much like the Ford dealership I mentioned, we make a big deal out of things that are a big deal to you. When you solo we will cut off that shirt tail and hang it proudly. That new rating will get your name in the newsletter, your picture on our wall and a free hour of dual toward your next rating.
When you finally do have all your questions answered and close the deal on that $300,000 dream plane, I want to be there cheering you on like an idiot as you taxi it out for your first flight.
Special things like flying are only fun and profitable if you share them. Welcome your next walk-in to your world and I think you’ll be surprised at your FBO’s success.
Kevin Garrison’s aviation career began at age 15 as a lineboy in Lakeland, Fla. He came up through General Aviation and is currently a senior 767 captain. When not frightening passengers, Kevin plays tennis and lives on a horse farm in Kentucky, where he writes unsold humor projects and believes professional wrestling is real and all else is bogus.
