Boom Boom

You want your flights to be peaceful and boring, because that means they're safe. But when your lead flight attendant introduces herself as “Boom Boom” you know this flight will likely not be mundane. While she talks you think about the last time you heard that name. You were in a far away land, long ago in a place where cultured fighter pilots with an appreciation for the art of the dance, and attired in their Nomex best, politely applauded a talented Oriental lady named Boom Boom. 
Boom Boom, cooked to well-done in the tanning booth, was undoubtedly a woman in denial, well beyond her youth, pretending she was still in her prime. Bedecked in costume jewelery, this walking monument to the powers of Avon was a loquacious master of suggestive innuendo, dropping risque phrases left and right as she prepared the forward galley. When she discovered it was my birthday she swung her cross hairs my way. She would make my birthday a very happy one, she cooed, if only she were on the same upcoming layover, the ring on my finger not deterring her in the least. My first officer, greatly amused by her proposition to me, stood aside and chuckled. 
As we neared push time Boom Boom brought word that a woman in the far back was having conniptions. I went to the mid-ship boarding door where an agent was conferring with the other flight attendants. The woman was a musician and had brought her cello aboard, for which she had purchased a seat. But Boom Boom correctly informed the woman that the only place the cello could ride was in first class seats 1A or 1D, and those seats were taken. Don't ask me or Boom Boom why, but that's a written rule. Whoever sold the woman her tickets in coach should not have done so. 
No wonder the woman was irate. We offered to put her gargantuan fiddle in a closet, but she vehemently refused, saying it would “bang around in there,” a phrase that made Boom Boom beam with approval. The woman and her cello left the flight, presumably to take a later one, but I doubt we'll see her at our airline again. 
That done, we launched on time. True to premonition the flight continued to be far from peaceful, as we bucked and rolled (words Boom Boom would have gleefully used) for hundreds if not thousands of miles, fighting storms and turbulence. There was no rest for us weary ones, as one cluster of thunder bumpers after another appeared in our windscreen and on our X-band scope. For hours the radio chatter was replete with pilots enjoining ATC to give them course relief from the bulging clouds. Left and right, we deviated, over and over again, picking our way through the towering monsters until we found a relatively quiet stretch where we could make a head call. Because of the minimum 2-person in the cockpit rule, we now each were to face Boom Boom alone in the cockpit while the other went back. 
Yet away from the audience of the rest of the crew Boom Boom shed her polished facade and turned normal. She chatted affably about weather, the passengers and her fatiguing schedule until Joe's return. Joe and I had some fun suggesting possible scenarios in the cockpit during our respective absence.
We finally broke out of the weather over the Utah desert and made an uneventful approach and landing at San Francisco. But one of our company jets wasn't so lucky. Following us by a few hours they hit severe turbulence and a number of people were seriously injured. It made national news.
 
Thankfully, most flights are boring, but that's when the complacency monster creeps in. You've got to watch for that subtle enemy as surely as you avoid the storms.
But nothing is complacent when Boom Boom's aound. Her place is out there among the booming thunder clouds. May my course steer way clear of them both

And the biscuit?

Quote of the post: “Give your plane a little pat when your walk around it. Show it you love it and it'll take care of you.” —Dave DeRamus

God's G

You meet at the field at six, near sundown as the Southern sun starts to cool, and gather round and plan the 30 minutes that will define your week. Maybe your month, or life. Maybe end it, too.

You pick a leader. No one wants it but somebody's got to do it, and so today we volunteer Squatch. He hates to lead but we make him lead because he's due. He sighs, his big shoulders slumping. He leans forward, “Okay. Gordy you're Two, Alan Three.”
 
Steve's pick-up swerves to a stop and he walks up. “You guys planning somethin'? Why didn't you call me? Don't want me flyin' with you, eh?”

“Sit down!” Squatch commands. “We've been trying to call you. You're Four.”

Squatch proposes a plan. We nod and break for the planes—Yak-52s, all of them. Military trainers all from Soviet Russia, planes that trained pilots that Gordy and I trained to fight against. Sweet revenge. We get the spoils of the Cold War, and splendid spoils they are.

Fifteen minutes later the Yaks go rolling out onto the grass from various hangars. The props turn, blue smoke belches and rolls in the prop wash across the green grass and Squatch checks us in on the radio: “Yak check.”
“Two.”
“Three.”
“Four.”
The check-in is crisp and timely. This could be a good one.

We line up on grass runway 9. Squatch drops his head and releases brakes. Gordy's student, in the front seat, Brandt, drops his heels to the floor and pushes the throttle up. The two Yaks roll like they're riveted together and get smaller as they head down field. Steve and I are making single ship takeoffs. I release brakes and whip all 360 horses into a frenzy. I'm pulling the gear up in seconds and rolling into the rejoin.

The two planes ahead grow bigger, fast, expanding in my canopy. In a minute it's time to rein in the horses and kill the overtake. I'm in, and Steve comes aboard. Four 3,000 pound hunks of steel and aluminum hang in mid-air mere feet from each other, softly bobbling up and down.

Most of the people on our field think we're crazy. Maybe we are.

Squatch takes us out over the Flint River Valley in “Fingertip” formation, turning, climbing. He breaks us up and brings us back together—“pitch-outs and rejoins” it's called. Brandt gets good practice. Steve, too. They're both fast learners. Steve is proficient enough to solo on the wing and not cause us worry. Brandt will be there soon.

Then comes the part we've been waiting for. Steve breaks out and holds high. He's not ready for this. Brandt turns his controls over to Gordy and hangs on. Squatch and I break away and separate from them. And then...

“FIGHT's ON! FIGHT's ON!”

I tell Squatch to go Fighting Wing and I roll in on Gordy. I gun him in a few seconds. He's playing it easy—for now. He's a Fighter Weapons School graduate, a “Top Gun.” Knows this stuff. I did it too, but I'm not his caliber. Squatch hasn't done this before at all.

We separate and do it again, Squatch leading the attack, me on his wing. He nails Gordy in short order. We repeat a number of times, Gordy getting more aggressive on defense as we go. In the last fight he's tough prey.

We're using the “egg,” or “God's G” to gain a turning advantage and get inside of Gordy's turn. “Working the vertical,” it's also called. Yo-yo maneuvers is another name for it. The earth twists and crawls around you, rolls overhead and slips back underneath you, then overhead again, like a big tapestry that is unimportant, not worthy of notice because you're after that target, that's also turning, twisting, trying to keep you away from his vulnerable “six o'clock” position where you will administer an unceremonious coups d'état with your imaginary guns.

So, for a few minutes, the town of Gurley watches a Wednesday afternoon air battle overhead and aircraft working Unicom 122.7 for miles around hear a few curt calls like, “Fight's on!” and “Guns, Guns, Guns!” and “Knock it off,” and wonder what's going on, wondering if we we're insanely suicidal or supremely favored by the God of the Surly Bonds.

Gordy and Brandt call “Bingo fuel.” Squatch takes us down Initial for a pitch-out and we plop the four heavy birds onto the grass. We hangar the Yaks and wipe them down as the sun sinks. Sweaty, tired and grinning, we debrief, drink something cool and smooth, and and leave the grass field to go back to the world.

For me, it'll back to the proverbial “Line.” But I'm more at home here on the grass strip.

Sometimes I get cocky and think that our bunch knows how to pack more living into 30 minutes than most people do in a lifetime. God's G does that for you.

Lucky Ones

I hate it when I get to flight operations for a trip and see a table laid out with sandwiches, cookies, drinks and such. That means I'm working on a holiday, which I do a lot of these days. The company puts out free food for pilots, ostensibly to express their thanks for us coming in to work while everyone else celebrates—as if we had a choice. I grabbed a sandwich and printed the flight paperwork

We crossed the continent, landed at San Fran, changed planes and launched for San Diego. “Have a nice holiday,” the LAX controller said, as he handed us off to San Diego Approach.

I shot back with my now standard retort to that enjoinment. “Holiday? What's that? I've heard people talk about that. I need to look that up.”

He laughed and said, “I know what you mean.”

It was Memorial Day weekend, and there I was out plowing contrails across America, the Land of the Free―made that way because of a bunch of soldiers, sailors, Marines, and airmen, some who never came home.

I knew it would be this way when I took the 767/757 captain vacancy. I was enjoying great seniority and a good QOL (quality of life in airline labor contract-speak) as a Pig Jet (737) captain, but the lure of the big iron, the sheer beauty of the 757, and its attendant pay raise captured me into it.

So, here I am working on those holidays and...those other what-you-call 'em's? Weekends, is it? Isn't that when they play ball games, and families get together, and concerts happen, and people go to church? You know, those times when people do most of their living.

But at least I was in San Diego. Not a bad place to be on Memorial Day weekend, but when the family calls you while you're out walking around and says they are all together, cooking out and chilling out and wishing you were there, it really sucks.

I strolled around the waterfront. The USS Midway was crawling with people. They wanted to see its combat legacy. Its flags were flapping and its colors flying high. Parents chased fleeing kids and bored teenagers loped around the ship with I-Pods plugged in their ears. A few old timers with caps that bore the names of their military units stood to the side staring at the the ship and its planes, remembering, perhaps, somebody they knew who didn't come back.

On the wharf beside the ship people hawked T-shirts, caps and ice cream. An old hippie wearing a Che Guevara shirt strummed a guitar singing Stairway to Heaven, still seemingly pissed about Viet Nam.

I headed back to the room to turn in early. I'd be airborne next morning before sunup. And I'd get home just as everybody else in the family finished up their holiday festivities and headed back to college and work.

On the way back to DC, we stopped in Chicago. While holding short, we beheld a beautiful 757, painted just like ours, slipping past us on a crossing taxiway. My first Officer, Rocky, said, “Look at that big beautiful bird, would ya?”

I knew what he meant. I looked. I smiled.

He said, “Boy, those guys sure are lucky, aren't they?”

“Yep,” I said. “That, they are.”

So, there's a silver lining in that lonesome cloud. At least I get to spend those what-you-call-'em days flying these big beautiful birds—for a little while longer. Then I'll get out my unit cap (355th Tactical Fighter Wing) and spend my Memorial Days watching the parades, and remembering a few airmen I knew that never came back.

 
When I pulled the curtains back on my hotel room window 

in San Diego on Memorial Day morning 

I saw this very appropriate sight.

Some of you commentators had a bit of fun with me on that last post, coming frightfully close to causing me to get short with you. BTW, I heard it again today: “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Huntsville.” (We were still 17 minutes out.)
 
Quote of the post (I actually heard this one, today): “United 896, Chicago Center, there's an area of continuous occasional light chop 40 miles ahead.”

Words I Don't Want to Hear

If I hear that word on the aircraft PA one more time, I think I'll cast off my seat belt, jump up, shake my fist and yell, “I DON'T WANT TO HEAR THAT WORD AGAIN! YOU HEAR ME? NOT AGAIN, OR ELSE...”

The passengers will look at me, stunned, mouths agape. The flight attendant will reach for the handset to call the captain. It'll be a “Level I” incident, maybe a Level II. Security will be waiting at the gate to take me into custody. My name will land on the “No Fly” list. I don't care.

Don't tell me we are going to land “shortly.” Shortly is a stupid word that defies definition. Webster takes a feeble stab at it. They say it means: in a short time. But short can't be quantified. Short to me is five minutes. To you it might be 15. To somebody else, 30. Why say it? Why not just say, “We are about to land.”

But then, why even say that? Everybody on the plane knows we're descending. The houses are getting bigger. Spare me that preposterous word.

And here's an annoying practice I hear on the RJ's—seldom on mainline flights: “Our flight today is under the command of Captain Bob, assisted by First Officer Ted.”

Do those sound like cartoon characters to you? Captain Bob? I've got visions of Sponge Bob sitting up there in the left seat. Jeeze! Include the man's last name, for Bob's sake.

I willfully suffer the safety briefing because I know the FAA requires it. The flight attendants have got to do that. But some of the extraneous stuff they do really gets to me. For example: please don't welcome me to my destination before I even get there. The other day, I was welcomed to Huntsville 50 miles out!

I might be painfully wrong about this, but I've lived all my life under the impression that I get welcomed by someone who is there waiting for me to get there, not someone who is traveling with me. So, how about just shutting up about that, okay?

But now, don't think pilots are immune from silly announcements. Here's the one I detest the most: “Ladies and gentlemen, sit back and relax...”

SAY WHAT? Sit back, you say? I can recline my seat back a whopping 2 degrees. My knees are jammed against the reclined seat in front of me. I'm sandwiched between two guys with the girths of a turbo-fan engine, and you want me to relax?

I'll relax if a damn well please, and I don't need a pilot telling me to, even if I could.

Okay. I got that off my chest. What's on yours? 

 
The last post had some interesting comments and ideas. My comments on the comments: Build more gates? Not likely. Use portable stairs and buses? Makes sense but not practical at most airports. Take the fight to the source of the problem, fine those nasty thunderstorms? Right on.

 Could be a rough ride up there.

 
Quote of the post:
"Who was the best pilot I ever saw? You're lookin' at 'im."— Gordon Cooper in the movie 'The Right Stuff,' 1983

Delay Tactics

Our government has come to our rescue again. They've passed a new law. Have you heard? They will now fine the airlines up to $27,500 per person if they strand you on the tarmac over three hours. My, how they look after our best interests.

Fearing they my have to shell out about $3 million bucks for each of their planes that sit off-gate for more than three hours, the airlines will surely establish two hours as the cut-off for bringing a plane back to the gate. That means that some gates must be held vacant, which means fewer gates will be available for normal operations, which means schedules must be reduced, especially during the stormy summer. (Ah, let's see, that's the time of year you travel the most, eh?)

So, when the plane goes back to the gate more fuel has to be boarded. That's more expense. Where will the airline make up that lost revenue?

Also, some passengers will inevitably want to get off. That will take more time and personnel services. And while all this is happening, you look and see the plane that was in line behind you taking off! And it's not even three hours yet! That could have been your plane. But, the government knows best, so don't fret.

Finally, your plane has its fuel load back. Your crew has their new paperwork, and hopefully, the return to the gate has not caused them to reach their duty time limit for the day. You push back. Now, do you think Ground Control sends you to the front of the line-up? You know better that to think that. But your government knows what's best for you, so relax. Write your congressman and tell him/her we need still more rules to protect passenger rights.

How has this all played out for me in the past? Here are three snippets, the first one was a classic goat-rope, much like the scenario I just described. The other two are the way it's supposed to be done. First the goat-rope.

LaGuardia: Thunderstorms blocked almost all the departure corridors. LaGuardia is not big―they have to be creative about lining up planes. The line-up looked like a rope doubled back on itself about five times. But, I wisely discerned, the hold area was west of our gate, while the departure runway was east of us. It didn't make much sense to me to waste fuel getting in the back of that winding line because we would eventually taxi right past our gate on the way out to the runway.

We managed to get Ground Control's attention on the busy frequency and asked them to insert us in the line when our “theoretical” position in the line passed by our gate. To my surprise they said yes. The wait would be about two hours. I coordinated it with the company and they liked the plan. They wouldn't have to pay us if we stayed at the gate longer. But―a people's hero―I was.

The time went slowly by. At two hours we called Ground Control and asked when we would be inserted into the line of planes inching by our gate. You guessed it. The deal was off. They sent us to the end of the line. Two more hours.

Salt Lake City: The weather in Denver was stormy. During our taxi out they gave us a one-hour delay. We pulled aside and shut down. I made an announcement. I flung open the cockpit door. I invited visitors up. I walked back through and greeted everybody, answered their questions. They like that. The hour went to two hours, with still no idea of when we might go. We were well past lunch time. I got on the PA. “Who wants to go back and grab a sandwich? We'll have to make it quick. Give me a show of hands.”

The plane voted to go back. There was no long line-up like in LaGuardia, so we were not in jeopardy of loosing our place. The station personnel were not too happy when I disgorged 120 people to raid the airport's lunch counters. The first officer sent word to me while I was out at the check-in counter. We were released. I grabed the handset and made an airport PA announcement. They came scurrying back. I helped the agents check boarding passes as the passengers filed back on board. We were off in less than 30 minutes. All happy.

San Diego: They told us to pull aside and wait. San Francisco was fogged-in. No estimate. I did my usual. Opened the cockpit, walked back. Chatted. The minutes turned to an hour. Then two. Two businessmen in first class told me they could no longer make their meeting in SFO so there would be no use now in their going. Could they get off? “Absolutely!” I said. Those guys were our bread and butter. I called station OPS and told them we were returning to the gate to disembark two passengers.

They said absolutely not. I asked why. Was a gate not available? Yes, they said. They had a gate, but they didn't have spare personnel to marshal us in and to operate the bridge. I politely said we were coming back. No, they unpoltely said. Can't do that. I politely said I was doing that. They protested more, but I was already underway back to the gate. I would see who would blink first in this stand-off. And I suspected a counseling session by my chief pilot was in the offing, but I pressed on.

When we got to the gate a marshaller met us. A bridge operator waited to attach it. I got off and apologized to him that our coming back necessitated him being pulled away from other duties. “No problem, man!” he exclaimed. “We were just all standing around up there. Nuthin' much going on right now.” The two businessmen went by, paused to shake my hand, smiling. They would be back to fly with us again. Thirty minutes later were were winging toward SFO. All happy. And no calls from the boss.That's the way it's done. We don't need no stinkin' new laws. We need crews to do their jobs.

What delay adventures have you experienced?

Quote of the post: "If an airplane is still in one piece, don't cheat on it. Ride the bastard down".
― Ernest K. Gann, The Black Watch, 1989

Hard Clouds

Iceland: where geology and aviation collide. Literally.

You heard about it today. Go here. Thousands of flights were canceled in western Europe and more trans-Atlantic crossings scrubbed. I saw it coming.

Last week my dispatcher routed our Moscow flight north of Iceland. He said the winds up there were better, but he cautioned us to be careful about selecting Keflavik as an alternate. A volcano was stirring. We would be descending through its ash cloud to get there. I decided there would be no divert to Kef unless we were burning.

It was my rest period when we sailed over the northern tip of Iceland and the lads up front had orders to wake me up if they saw the volcano, but alas the island was embedded with the soft cloud variety. Nice trip, though.

Then yesterday all hell broke loose. The big huffer-puffer spewed a zillion tons of what geologists call pyroclastic ejecta into the upper flight levels. Not good. Planes can fly through ash clouds but not their engines. Here's what happens:

St. Elmo's fire attacks your windows, portending bad things coming. Then your airspeed indications become entirely unreliable. You had better hope you'll make  a daylight landing because your landing light covers will erode to a milky hunk of gunk. But even if it's daytime you'll probably not expect to see out front. The windshields will turn into 1000-grit sandpaper. You'd better hope your auto-land system is up to speed. But all this may be the least of your problems, as a British Airways crew found out in 1982.

The 747 heading to Jakarta entered a clod from an Indonesian volcano. (You thought I misspelled “cloud”, and I did, but decided “clod” is actually accurate.) All four engines punched their time cards and knocked-off early. Flying through rock was not in their union contract.

Ash then entered the cockpit forcing the crew to get their oxygen masks on. I can tell you from experience, that any emergency you encounter doubles your adrenalin pressure when you hang that hose on your face. Reality slaps you and your survival instinct starts whispering urgent appeals to your brain.

The crew decided they had 23 minutes of gliding time—about 100 miles of distance. Huge island mountains loomed ahead. The captain turned toward the sea to give him more time. As they descended toward thicker, clearer air the captain, in typical British coolness, made one of the most famous passenger announcements in aviation history: “Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. We have a small problem. All four engines have stopped. We are doing our damnedest to get them under control. I trust you are not in too much distress.”

As passengers scribbled goodbye notes to relatives, the crew tried to get the engines re-started. Number 4 started first. They used its thrust to reduce their descent rate and gain some time. Then 3 spooled up. Then numbers 1 and 2 must have said, “Aw hell, the fun's over, let's go back to work.” They landed safely and the passengers used their goodbye letters to wipe tears and noses.

So, you want to complain—do you—about getting stuck at the airport or having your flight canceled just because a little old ash clod got loose? Don't just sit there and suffer this outrage. Protest. Get one of these bumper stickers:

Oops. I saw this ugly machine sitting on its nose at San Juan.

What is it, and what is the standing joke about it?

Right Deviation

Plowing contrails gives you a lot of time to think. You think about how the world is, and how you would change it if you were the planetary monarch. You think about how common sense and logical reasoning seem to have gone the way of Nehru jackets and bell bottoms. And then suddenly something happens that proves it.

I had just told the passengers to get their cameras ready. The Grand Canyon was ahead. You know what a nut I am about the Canyon. I'm a degreed geologist and the Canyon captures me into it every time I see it. Remember the post I wrote about following Buddha down into the Canyon in a pair of A-7s? (Mar 21 2008).

Approaching it from the east, I called the Los Angeles air route traffic control center and asked them, as I have done dozens of times, if they would approve a “canyon tour.” It's not a real “tour.” The pilots and controllers have informally dubbed it that over the decades. It's just an approval by the center to deviate slightly off course to overfly the Canyon and make a few S-turns so passengers on both sides can get good views. The people love it. 

But the controller's reply left me aghast. “I'm sorry we can't do that anymore.” I waited for elaboration but he offered none. I asked why. He said a new directive came down forbidding the controllers to approve Canyon deviations. He said he thought it came from outside the FAA from people concerned about noise levels in the park.

I looked at the first officer and we both shook our heads in disgust. Then I punched the mic button and registered my commentary: “No more kids in the towers. No more Canyon tours. What's it all coming to?”

A few long few seconds of silence passed. I imagined him pondering my rhetorical question. I expected he would probably call back and say, “Yeah, that's too bad,” or something similar. Then he called, but he didn't comment on the question. Instead he said, “There's an area of reported turbulence ahead. You're cleared to deviate right of course as necessary.” Right was exactly the direction we needed to turn to get over the Canyon.

I cracked a gigantic grin and pressed the mic button. “We're getting into it now. We'll deviate right and report when we are able to resume course.” There was no turbulence. The people got their view and after the flight many of them thanked us.

Maybe our noise did filter down faintly into the canyon and spoil the natural ambiance of some of the rim gawkers and hikers down there. But dammit, our passengers owned that Canyon too, and they deserved to experience its grandeur from above. I'm an out-doorsman and I love the wilderness, but I've got no apologies for letting a bit of jet noise settle into the Grand Canyon.

Yeah, if I was king, I'd command the return of common sense to the planet. And I'd appoint a certain guy sitting in a dark room in front of a radar console in Los Angeles to head up the effort.   

(Obviously some insolent first officer made 
this nasty write-up about his captain.)

Look at this amazing breached anticline in Wyoming:

Here's how it was created.

Amazing Creator.

No Kids Allowed!

Absurd, don't you think? The incident of the kids in the control tower at JFK last week. You remember how the controllers got in trouble for it?

Preposterous, you say? Me too. Think about it: How dare they? What an abomination! A screw-up of colossal proportions that must not go unpunished and un-made-an-example-of. (Is there a better word for that?)

They let the kids talk on the radio! Ludicrous! Kids need to be banished forever from the crucial expanses of our tower cabs. Why, their controller-parents might just decide the kids are pretty darn good at the job, and might take a coffee break, go down to the lounge and leave them working the cab alone. It could happen, you know! We've got to stop it.

This is the kind of disastrous irresponsibility that must be vetted out and laid open so that the knowledgeable, all-knowing, enlightened, aviation-savvy public can see and throw hot stones of indignation at. Heads must roll, say the talking heads on radio and TV.

Never mind that every accident or near-miss that ever occurred on an airport that was the tower's fault happened without a kid in the tower.

And never mind a plane with 50 trusting passengers stalled and spun out of control in Buffalo because two undisciplined, untrained, unskilled under-paid and un-rested tyros pretended to be airline pilots. That's old news. And that takes too much money to fix. Let's let that one fade. We need something new to jump on.

Maybe I'll be jumped on next. Last week I let a kid visit the cockpit before departure. His rapid-fire questions and effusive enthusiasm caused me to suffer a lapse in judgment. I picked up the handset and let him say, “Hi Mom,” on the aircraft PA. Then I threw all caution to the wind and asked him if he would like to start a jet engine. His eyes widened. His head nodded vigorously. "Not the main jet engines," I told him, "just the little one way back in the tail―the APU."

I opened the side window so that he could hear it spool-up and showed him the start switch. He twisted the switch, heard the engine begin to whine, and watched the lite-off on the EGT gauge. My first officer sat on his side grinning and said to me, “You'll be on CNN tonight.” I looked back down the isle and saw numerous heads leaning out looking toward the cockpit.

So, what's next? I guess I'll soon be seeing a rule come out saying I can't let a kid visit my cockpit before departure. When that happens I think it'll be time for my cursum perficio.

(What about dogs?)

Quote of the post: "If the Wright Brothers were alive today Wilbur would fire Orville to reduce costs."
--Herb Kelleher, Southwest Airlines

Many good comments on the previous post. But one of these days I hope to piss somebody off.

Distracted Solutions

I'm peeved. The FAA and NTSB already has access to a recording of the last 30 minutes of each flight, which they can review in case of an accident. That will soon become the last 2 hours of the flight. I've got no complaints about that. But this latest “safety” initiative that you just read about by these agencies, and some of their stooges in Congress, is an insult to our intelligence and integrity, and if implemented will itself become a cockpit distraction.

Big Brother wants to hear all of the conversation in our cockpits, all of the time. I think this is unchecked government intrusion that can grow like cancer. Moreover, the need for this invasion is not borne out by facts. Despite some isolated incidents, we have brought about the safest era of flying in history.

Yes, there are exceptions. In Buffalo last year 50 died when two neophytes that should have never been in that cockpit prattled like school kids while their plane stalled. That was an anomaly.

And the guys who overflew their destination while working with their laptops? Another anomaly. Nobody died. Not even close.
So, comes now the corporate manager, who jumps on the government bandwagon to show his “concern” with this “problem.” He seeks to garner brownie points with the regulators by conjuring up a new rule to reduce cockpit distraction.
While high over the North Atlantic, riding along in the quiet ebony skies, the three auto-pilots performing flawlessly, we sent an innocuous ACARS message to Dispatch: GOT A SCORE ON THE SUPER BOWL YET? Not only were we curious about the game but several of our passengers had asked me prior to takeoff that I keep them informed about the score.

Shortly a message issued from the printer. My F/O tore it off, read it and looked at me, mouth agape. I took it.

Here. Read it for yourself:
Sorry, indeed. Needless-to-say, we got miffed. In fact, we got so miffed that the very message became a nagging distraction as we let down into the demanding London terminal area.

After we got on the bus to the hotel one of the F/Os got on his Blackberry to spread the word to his friends about the message. Others had also gotten it it. Then he learned that the new “policy” had suddenly been rescinded―only two hours after it was issued.

So, had someone else, even higher up the management ladder, seen it as nonsense? Or had our union found out about it and slapped some sense into the company's face?

Don't know. All I know is that problems, real or perceived, don't get solved with cockeyed, knee-jerking directives. The idea of monitoring cockpit talk falls solidly into that category.

BTW sports fans, what does the red lines across the message mean?


One of my favorite sights: The contrail angle swing.
Man! Do I have a good job, or what?

Quote of the post:
"A recession is when you have to tighten your belt; depression is when you have no belt to tighten. When you've lost your trousers, you're in the airline business."
--Sir Adam Thompson

Hallowed Ground

Because of the glaciers attacking Washington, I got two extra days in Londontown. The weather was dog crap, as usual this time of year over there, so I decided to stay indoors. But not at the hotel. I took the “Tube” to the RAF museum. Admission was free. What do you think the first plane is that you see when you walk in?

SPITFIRE, you shout with absolute certainty. Wrong. Hawker Hurricane? Nope. Sea Fury? Nah. Oh yeah! You know, the Lancaster bomber! Wrong again. You're scratching your head. Hmm. What other plane would the Brits likely put on display at the front entrance to the RAF Museum? Click on the museum.
Can you believe it? I can. In fact, the Brits revere all the allied planes that defended them and took the fight to the enemy.
The letters “RAF” carry an aura in the UK that USAF and USN don't back here in the states. They love their RAF and hold its members in lofty regard. I felt humbled just to amble through that magnificent museum filled with awesome planes, some beautiful, some ugly, that defended freedom and etched their place in history.

The museum was quiet the day I was there. Not many visitors on a rainy mid-week day. Good. The silence helped me hear their voices reading their checklists, and feel their presence in the shadows, checking their gear, pre-flighting their planes.

As awesome as this museum is, it's what you don't see that compels you to know you're among greatness.

More pics of the museum? Click on the Spit.