Judging Jenny

I admit it. I can't seem to break the propensity to pre-judge folks. Usually I predict their behavior and job performance at first sight. I have a long history of this flaw in my character, having fallen in love the first millisecond I saw Eleanor. I called that one right, but otherwise I'm mostly wrong.
 
So when I first saw Jenny in Flight Ops, I figured the trip was going to be trying. She looked like she ought to be in a house full of toddlers plying the nanny trade. Middle-aged, she was a bit broad of girth and round-faced with an ashy complexion. Hair style was clearly not a priority with her. Her deep Texas drawl was slow and soft.
 
She mumbled a lot too. She looked up at me from her examination of the flight plan, probably seeing the question mark on my face. "Don't mind me," she sang. “Just talkin' to my self.” I girted up for a solo flight.
 
The mumbling continued in the cockpit as she made her nest and began her cockpit set-up. I listened intently, trying to discern when a question or a valid comment that required my response might swim out of her prattle. Then I heard humming. I half expected to look over and see her doing needle-work.
 
Then she stopped humming. I heard a mild imprecation issue forth. I looked over. She was punching buttons on the pressurization panel over her head. I saw the yellow AUTO INOP light glowing. It shouldn't be. She began snarling. I said, “Better call maintenance.” She suggested she “fiddle with it” a while longer before calling the mechanics. I acquiesced and turned back to my cockpit checks.
 
When I got all my stuff finished I went back and briefed the flight attendants. As I climbed back into the seat I looked at the light. It was off. She was humming away again while jotting performance numbers on a piece of paper. I said, “How'd you get it to go out?”
 
She stopped humming and looked up at it. Her forehead wrinkled. Her stare turned menacing. She looked at me and slowly said, “I stared it down!”
 
One hundred percent certain she was telling the truth, I said, “Ohh...kay.”
 
I flew the first leg, as captains normally do, while Jenny handled the radio duties. She alternately hummed and mumbled, occasionally evoking a question or a comment from me. Conversation finally warmed up between us and I learned she was a self-proclaimed spinster (not surprising); that she lived on, and took care of her inherited farm in east Texas (commuted through DFW); and absolutely lived for her nieces and nephews. They were, she likened, her own children. She never came back from a trip without presents.
 
So here was a woman, I discerned, who was happy with her lot in life, not to be pitied because she wasn't feminine, and certainly not―as I quickly learned―because she wasn't capable of handling a 757. When it came her turn to fly she was as capable as any I've ever flown with. Surprised at her adeptness with the stick and rudder, I inquired as to her background, something I ordinarily would have done much earlier with most.
 
She was a former USAF major, a KC-135 aircraft commander, and an Air Force Academy graduate.
 
The humming and mumbling continued, along with the cute stories of her “children” and I enjoyed this humble woman's company in the cockpit so much I hoped I would fly with her again.
 
So much, for pilot stereotypes.
 
I wonder what her first impression of me was. But then, maybe I don't want to know.


You guys made some great comments on the last post. (BTW, I had to switch to comment moderation to weed out spammers.)

Rolling in hot on the Grand Canyon

Quote of the post:

Every other start-up wants to be another United or Delta or American. We just want to get rich.

— Robert Priddy, ValuJet CEO, 1996

He'll take you up; he'll bring you down.

Heard of Michael O'Leary? He's a moron, albeit a very rich and successful one.

He owns an airline. His airline is Ryan Air, of Ireland. It's the premier lost-cost flying cattle car company in Europe. But people ride his planes because his prices are nasty, rotten dirty cheap. They're cheap because he is always looking for ways to cut corners. He has cut employee pay to the bone, and can't do much more damage, so he has come up with another idea: DO AWAY WITH THE CO-PILOT.

Now, you know we don't call the guy or gal who sits across from the captain a “co-pilot” in this industry―the military does that. We call them “First Officers,” or F/O for short. The reason we do that is because they do not merely assist the captain, they are second-in-command. Mr. O'Leary wants a flight attendant to be second-in-command. (I think he still calls them “stewardesses”).

Think I'm making this up? Click here and read: Ryan Air
O'Leary told Bloomberg Business Week, “Why does every plane have two pilots? Really, you only need one pilot.” He likened flying a modern airliner to playing a computer game. “Let's take out the second pilot. Let the bloody computer fly it.” Now let's see how this might work. Hmm. 

Okay, I'm descending through stormy skies toward our destination. I'm tired and very lonely, since I'm the only one on the flight deck. This plane needs to go back to the manufacturer so they can move about a hundred switches, buttons and knobs over so that I can reach them. Suddenly I'm feeling dizzy and ill. Must be that rancid kidney pie they fed me, for which they docked my minimum wage pay. So I “ring the bell” that Mr. O'Leary envisioned, and up comes a voluptuous stewardess, giggling and looking back over her shoulder at her peers. Her fists are balled against her cheeks. “I get to fly the plane!” she squeals. Her co-workers clap. “Good for you, Rose. Go get em', gal!”

I hear the passengers applaud and cheer. They're happy. They didn't have to pay for this innovative new safety initiative, and they're getting their money's-worth.
  
My vision fades in and out as she squirms into her seat, tugging at her mini-skirt. She exercises her fingers.

“Okay, where is the button,” she asks with coy giggle.

“What button?” I ask, fighting to stay conscious.

“You know, the Sully button!”

“The what?”

“Like that American chap. You remember, Captain Sullen-whoever. He landed the plane in the river when the engines went dead. That button!” She looks at me waiting for me to praise her aeronautical knowledge.

“He used this,” I say, pointing to the control yoke.

“Oh!” she said. “Yes, they told us about that. They said when you push it the houses get bigger. When you pull back they get smaller. Keep pulling back and they get big again ."

"That was a joke," I informed her.

She looked puzzled and shook her head. “I don't get it.”
 
“How did they come to choose you for the emergency pilot training.”  

She gleamed. I was Miss Ryan Air, 2010. I'm on the cover of the calendar.”

I manage what feels like my last breath. “There's no one button, Lassie. There's lots of buttons. Didn't they teach you that?”

“Yes, but I was really tired that day they taught me. Just, like, totally wiped out, you know. Too much partying, you know. We were very excited about getting accepted to Mr. Ryan's stewardess school.”

I try to refresh her memory on the sequence of events and the procedures to get the plane down, avoiding the thunderstorms, calculating the landing and go-around performance criteria, getting out the proper STAR charts, and approach plates, tuning and identifying the proper frequencies, testing the auto-land system...but she interrupts me, her head shaking, eyebrows furrowed. She sure looks cute when she furrows those brows.

“They went over that stuff right after lunch. I was, like, really drowsy. I don't remember much.

“Have you ever even flown a plane?” I ask.

“Oh, no!” she giggles.

“Simulator?” I press.

She blushes. “Captain!”

“Oh! But this one guy in my class, he, like, had some flying lessons once in a Cessna, or whatever, and he, like, taught us a lot!” Her head is nodding assurance to me. Just before my vision goes away, I manage to say,

“Get him up here!”

“Oh, I can't! He's not here. They promoted him to captain. He's flying another plane.”

She tosses her head up and giggles in glee. “Oh! He was so cute!”

I'm fading now. The last vision is the Level 4 thunder cell straight ahead on the radar weather display. As the world around me melts away, the last I hear is a voice from the open door to the cabin.

“Remember, it's just a big computer game, Rose. Keep pushing buttons until―”

Losing consciousness, I become the luckiest person on the plane.

Click here on this Moody Blues classic and imagine they're saying "Michael O'Leary" when they say "Timothy Leary." You'll get the picture.

Sunset over Newfoundland

Quote of the post:

The appropriation of a concubine, I remembered from a certain night in Peking, was a most delicate business.
-Earnest Gann

Back on the Vodka Express

Russians don't invest a lot of money in air conditioning. I venture to say many of them have never seen it. But summer has now smitten them with a terrible resolve, and there go I into the furnace.

I found Moscow hot in ways other than the thermometer can measure.

The heat was utterly appalling. A Southerner, I'm used to wet heat, but I loathe dry, sauna-like hotness that, as opposed to steaming you, parches you. As I strolled about Red Square and its environs I sweated torrents and watched many Russians walk about in shorts, tees and sandals, a rare sight.

The smoke added more misery. Russia is literally burning up. Great plumes of smoke are hanging across Moscow and the surrounding prairies. You could see it even inside buildings. You could smell it―Russia aflame. The drought is their worst in decades and now a world-wide wheat shortage looms because of it―or at least that's the wheat futures peddlers say.

My two F/Os, Mike and Andy, wisely napped through the parching afternoon and took their walks after we had dinner―which BTW was unremarkable. After three trips there I've decided to abandon my plans to open a fine Russian cuisine restaurant in Alabama.

But their desserts can be appealing to some. Mike and Andy reported great “eye candy” in Red Square on their walk. Much to their delight the Russian ladies had retrieved tiny thin garments from their closets, things they probably hadn't worn for seasons. Andy, a bachelor, described one girl as so gorgeous he could have died at her feet happy and fulfilled.

We were equally happy to get away from that miserable air. The air conditioning aboard the 767 never felt so good. We got there early to make ready for the dreaded first ten minutes out of Moscow. But no matter how hard you prepare for that Byzantine departure, it's never enough. It goes like this:

You let go the brakes and start the 7,000 foot roll. The sun is hot overhead but you can't see the end of the runway for the smoke. You go solid IMC seconds after liftoff, and the gear is hardly in the wells when the radio erupts with a cacophony of croaking, spit-spewing Russian commands. Your arms and hands poke and stroke the panels changing frequencies, course, speed, and altitude.

“WHAT DID HE SAY?” Andy, the pilot at the controls, shouts.

“I DON'T KNOW!” I shout back.

From the jump seat Mike shouts “I THINK HE SAID GO DIRECT WHISKEY TANGO...I think.”

We're shouting at each other. The radio is shouting.

The Russians give us altitudes in meters. Mike and I must consult charts to convert to feet. They give us a climb to flight level 1500. I convert that to meters. Andy yells, “THAT's NOT RIGHT! HE DIDN'T SAY 'FLIGHT LEVEL.' HE SAID 'ALTITUDE'.” (It can make a big difference.)

“NO,” Mike admonished. “HE SAID FLIGHT LEVEL!”

Two to one, “Flight Level” wins.

The distraction causes us to miss another Russian command. The radio blasts a rebuke. We humbly comply.

The radio is a hotbed of shouting Russians. The controllers' accents are so thick and their English so limited you can hardly tell when they switch their attention from their countrymen to you. You expect Vodka and spit to drip from the speakers and headsets.

God forbid you ask them to repeat a clearance. By the time they realize you need clarification you're past the fix, or through the altitude; they've got other customers to shout at. While you're trying to figure it all out, the 767 is moving like a missile across Moscow. Hell, it is a missile. Our job is to keep it from hitting anything. Things are happening so fast your senses go into maximum buzz. You're so far behind the jet, it's towing you. Then suddenly, it's over.

Just like that, the dreaded first ten minutes are done. You wipe sweat and slump back. You take a long pull from the water bottle. You're out of Moscow. Ten hours of listening to calmer, less frequent, and certainly less demanding voices lay ahead.

“What was that temperature in Washington?” I asked Mike as he started to leave for his break. He tossed the ATIS down. “Ninety-seven degrees. But we've got air conditioning.”

Makes one think there's a new kind of cold war going on.
проклятье, он горячий!

Stunning sunrise over the GUICK Gap. The eye of God.

St. Basil's Cathedral. I sat down in a grassy, shady spot
and just gazed at it for a long time.

A smokey Domodedovo Airport (pronounced Domo-de-dev-e-ya)

Like me, Mike couldn't resist snapping shots of a rare, clear Greenland coast.
In his "other job" Mike is an F-16 squadron commander.

Stunning sight. Greenland glaciers forming a cross-flow pattern.

Greenland crossing video

Quote of the post:

Man is not as good as a black box for certain specific things. However he is more flexible and reliable. He is easily maintained and can be manufactured by relatively unskilled labour.
— Wing Commander H. P. Ruffell Smith, RAF, 1949

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.