Stuck Mic

A couple of weeks ago news broke about two pilots who were talking with a stuck mic. You probably remember. They were discussing the sexual orientation of their male flight attendants and the apparent ugliness of their female flight attendants. If you want to hear it, you can click here, but I don't recommend it. It's pretty disgusting. 

Anyway, their conversation went out over the airwaves and was recorded by FAA recorders and somehow it made its way into the news media. How does this happen?

Unintended radio transmissions can go out via a “stuck mic.” (“Mic” is short for microphone and is pronounced like “mike.”) Transmit buttons can get sticky. Dirt accumulates in them. Spilled liquid can short them. Or they just get too worn to function properly and they remain depressed after you release your thumb or finger after transmitting. The problem arises when you don't realize that the button is stuck in the transmit position. 

So after you have made your call to the tower, radar center or whatever, your mic remains “hot” and you don't know it. You turn to the other pilot and begin to chat. Everyone on the frequency hears it. Furthermore, because reception is inhibited during transmission, no one can call you to tell you that you have a stuck mic. It just stays stuck until you figure it out, usually by realizing that no one is calling you.

Thus the question begs, what do airline pilots talk about in the cockpit when the workload permits small talk? (This question will shed most readers now, but I'll go on.)

Ask a hundred pilots and you'll get a hundred differed answers, but I submit that the subject of the conversation is basically whatever the captain wants to talk about. He/she sets the tone. If he talks trash, then the conversation becomes trashy, or one-sided. If he is mostly silent, the first officer will probably clam up too.  

Stuck mics happen every day, many times, but those guys picked a bad day to talk smack. The whole nation heard them fiercely disparage, with highly vulgar language, flight attendants, gays and women. The captain's (I presume) sex life was laid bare for all to hear.

In my experience I attest that the stuff you heard, if you linked to that conversation, is extremely rare. Most of the gab I have heard, as both a working pilot and a jump-seater, is about ordinary stuff. Here's a rough hierarchy of common topics:

Politics are a sticky subject―rarely broached unless you can guess with a good degree of confidence which way the other guy leans. Got to remember, we're couped up with each other for three or four days and we don't need heated debates. That would erode crew coordination. So, if you determine he leans your way you can opine on political subjects, but otherwise, it's best to leave it alone.

There you have it. That duffus who let loose his foul opinions for all to hear is among the few.

Now tell me, if you had a stuck mic in your office, workplace, or home what would the world hear?

 

It's a big ocean. Follow that guy.

Dear Flight 904 Passenger

A friendly note from your caring Department of Transportation.

Last evening at Dulles Flying Field you no doubt benefited greatly from our new “3 Hour Tarmac Rule.” Just to refresh your memory, we passed that rule in 2009 because some folks in Rochester sat out a snowstorm on a jet for about 8 hours and were quite upset over it.

Consequently―and because we value your concerns (and your votes for our boss), we decided to limit the amount of time those incompetents can hold you hostage on the tarmac to just three hours. And―don't forget this―we can fine them up to $27,500 per passenger (yes, you read that right) if they keep you over three hours.

The airline people get their jollies finding excuses to strand you out there. Don't let them fool you into believing those storms are really hazardous to flight. And that old excuse that the airways are saturated is just too stale to swallow. If they tell you a gate is not currently available, it's probably a lie. Our airports will gladly rent them spare gates for, something around $27,500 per day. So you can easily see our logic. By saving all those fines, they could spend that money renting spare gates to take you back to when they have these delays. That's just plain good monetary policy, something we know a lot about here in Washington.

But, as to last night, those of you who thought you were going to LAX got a rude surprise. Your flight, delayed by “weather” (yeah, right) had to return to the gate to avoid busting our three hour rule. They almost didn't make it because the ramp was closed to personnel because of lightning. (FYI: our 3-hour rule is from door closing to door opening. That makes the airline people cut out of the lineup at 2 hours 15 minutes so that they can be sure and make it back to the gate before getting busted―dirty greedy capitalists.)

We understand your flight made it back to the gate with 12 minutes to spare. They cheated your government out of hundreds of thousands of dollars of fines that could have gone toward things we could do to greatly improve your lives. If you were listening to the pilots talking on the radio, which your airline, and only yours, allows at your seat, you probably heard the 777 next to you begging the ramp marshallers to hurry. They had only 3 minutes left. Another jet went 20 minutes over the limit. That's good news for our revenue-starved departments.

Now, as to your cancellation. Most unfortunate. Normally, the airline people will get back to the gate in under three hours, open the door, let anyone off who wants off, shut the door, get more fuel, and go back out and get in line, the back of the line of course. But your flight didn't do that. It canceled. Why? Because those ignominious pilots think they shouldn't work any longer than 16 hours. (But to be fair, that's our rule also.) The trip back to the gate cost your captain his duty day. He could not make it to LAX in under 16 hours. The airline called him off the flight and sent him home.

And you probably ask, why didn't they tap a a standby captain to take his place? He was the standby captain.

Thank you for your understanding. Our mission here is ACCOMPLISHED!

A message from your friendly Department of Transportation. Drop in and see us.

Happy flying!

p.s. Write in and tell us how you like our new logo:

Ode to Keavy

Some predictable words were said over Keavy Nenninger's casket last week. If you stay in the flying game long enough, you'll hear that old overworked platitude. You'll hear it again and again. You'll hear it at the funerals and the memorials. You'll read it in the obits and the columns, in bars and hangars. 

She/he died doing what she/he loved.

I don't want to hear it.

If Keavy had a crystal ball before she went up that day—two weeks ago—and that ball told her she would crash, do you think she would say, “Well, I think I'll go up anyway. I love it so much, dying will be worth it.”?

No. She wouldn't. So don't tell me that. Instead, tell me she died living and loving her life. Because that was the essence of who Keavy was.

I've been flying for over 40 years. I've lost many friends and acquaintances. Most were military pilots. A few of them died in spectacular crashes that made big news and even history. But when word reached me about Keavy it hit me worse than any of the others. It was a kick in the gut.

She was our “airport girl,” a daughter-figure to us graying pilots. She washed our planes, fueled them, begged rides, and sat for hours at a time with us listening to the tales and the techniques. She couldn't get enough. I remember numerous times seeing her running toward me, arms open, then the hug and the great smile. And the question I always knew was coming: “Are you flying today?”

Of course I also saw her throw her arms around the likes of Pete, Gordy, George, Tom, Bosch, Steve, B.J. and anyone else who had a plane. She especially loved us warbird drivers.

I took to Keavy because I never had a daughter. If I did, I would want her be like Keavy.

I knew she had a “life” off the airport too. You bet. She was a model student, a champion soccer player, and an achiever in every club or group she joined. Her energy for living was inexhaustible and she sowed it everywhere she went. Her enthusiasm for living life to its fullest was utterly contagious.

She soloed and got her license at sixteen. We missed her when she left for college. One of the most often asked questions at Moontown Airfield when her mom, Lisa, came out to fly, was, “When is Keavy coming back?”

After dazzling her professors at St. Louis University she collected an aerospace engineering degree, then got a commercial pilot certificate. She interned with Delta and used her travel passes to see the world.

A couple of months ago she called me and said she wanted to be a military pilot. “That's wasted talent,” I told her, but she wanted it badly—wanted another challenge.

Then I met an officer in charge of pilot recruiting in the Andrews Air Guard and told him about her. His eyes got big. “She's exactly what we're looking for,” he said. “Please have her get in touch with me.” She did. They began processing her application. I anticipated bragging to the guys that I had created a new second lieutenant and a new KC-135 tanker pilot. 

Emily

My best memory of Keavy was the day I saw three Yak-52s roaring overhead in a perfect military “vic” formation. They taxied in. One was Gordy's plane but he wasn't in it. In the front seat sat a grinning Emily Dover, another young lady who became smitten with the flying disease at our airport; and in the back, a beaming Keavy. Both wore hats that read, Women Fly. With those two around, our cups ran over with the sweet zests of life. They made us smile a lot. 

I didn't know Emily very well. Two years later her short life would end in an unexplained crash. Two years after that, Keavy would follow her into Eternity.

Now our cup is not so full without them, but our lives are richer because of them.

We bade So Long to Emily two years ago.

Now, So Long, Keavy. Our eyes will go wet every time we remember you.

And that will be often.

 

From Keavy's Facebook page: "I love this plane!"

 

The next-to-last entry in Keavy's Facebook page: "Gravity is over-rated!"

She was right.

Number 100

This is the 100th Decision Height―a good place to pause and consider where to go with it. I ask you.

The first was December 28th, 2007. It began when my sons urged me to blog so they could keep up with my whereabouts and ramblings. I wanted to know what a blog was and why it had such an ignoble name. (I never found out about the name.) The first readers were friends and relatives, but most of them lost interest and fell out. Yet Decision Height spread out and developed a sizable audience, most of whom I have never met. I suppose that's a natural evolution of this sort of thing. Last week I was riding a regional jet and showed the captain my ID badge. He said, “I read your blog!” Cool.

Google keeps blog statistics for only two years, so the complete history isn't available. But the blog has seen over 50,000 page reviews in that period from the world over, mostly the US, Canada, Australia, and the UK. The most popular posts in the last two years have been:

• He'll Take You Up, He'll Take you Down 10/07/2010
• Back on the Vodka Express 08/04/2010
• Attitude 11/25/2010

I would not have picked those as my top three.

The top three drawing the most comments:

• Curt's Bad Day 03/20/2011
• I, the Guinea Pig 07/15/2009
• Dreamin' the Dream 01/03/2010

I set out to make Decision Height not just another “I Went, I Saw, I Did” chronicle, but rather a tone poem of the airline world, seen from where I sit, in the left seat of a Boeing 757 or 767, (depending on which straw I draw on any given day). I have tried to stick closely to the theme of the blog, which is it's very name: The decisions an airline pilot daily makes that effects so many people. I figured this theme would draw two types of readers, interested enthusiasts and the others out there making the decisions. I think it's done that.

Also, I vowed not to whine and to leave politics, both corporate and national, out of it (a vow I have infringed upon occasionally). And I wanted to focus on the good qualities of the folks I have met and had the pleasure to fly with.

I ask those of you who dare make comments what topics and writing style you like best.

Do you prefer commentary on current affairs of the airline world? Ex: No Kids Allowed 03/13/2010 and About Sully 03/02/2009.

Or do you like people stories better? Ex: Judging Jenny 10/28/2010 and A Blue Moment 08/11/2009.

How about trip stories? Ex: Groundhog Days 01/24/2011.

Do like reading about what has happened to me in the bygone days, such as the recent three part story of how I got hired?

I enjoy writing in a lyrical, style, if the subject supports it. Example: Aiming for the Dawn 07/07/2009. Is that your preference too?

For those of you who don't comment, you can vote in the poll I've put up on the sidebar.

One day soon I'll bow out. Which of you left-seaters out there—or left-seaters in-the-making—are interested in taking over the controls of Decision Height? Shoot me an e-mail.

Finally, I've been considering a book about the airline pilot's world, written in the similar flavor and tone of my book Tail of the Storm, which was a memoir of military flying in the Persian Gulf War. Decision Height has helped me accumulate much material for that. Will I find a publisher for that subject? I don't know, but am inclined to write it anyway.

We'll see.

 Eastbound on NAT X at dawn.

We have plenty of company.

Because I fly.

I laugh more than other men
I look up an see more than they,
I know how the clouds feel,
What it's like to have the blue in my lap,
to look down on birds,
to feel freedom in a thing called the stick.
Who but I can slice between God's billowed legs,
and feel then laugh and crash with His step.
Who else has seen the unclimbed peaks?
The rainbow's secret?
The real reason birds sing?
Because I Fly,
I envy no man on earth.

Grover C. Norwood

Part III: The Day I Quit The Airline

Two weeks after my final interview the letter came, but it was neither an invitation to sign on the dotted line, nor a rejection. I was now in the “hiring pool.” Hiring had ceased, for reasons the letter didn't give. I would be informed if and when hiring resumed. I called my old friend Russ, the commander of the Memphis Air Guard unit and asked him if the C-141 instructor job was still mine, and he said yes―in about six months. Not a problem. I could hold out for it. And I could brag to my grand kids that a major airline accepted me; I supposed there was some gratification in that.
 
But the airline spoiled my plans. Two months later they called and told me to go immediately to the Denver training center. I reported to class and got my number―the most revered, most exalted, most sacred number a commercial airline pilot kneels before: the company seniority number.

I looked around at my classmates. Most were men. Ages ran from mid twenties to early fifties. This was a totally new era in airline pilot hiring. Previously no one over 35 needed bother to apply; older pilots were less likely to swallow the company Kool-Aid. The younger ones, on the other hand, could more easily be groomed. But now the industry was growing like wildfire, driven by cheap oil and a blossoming economy. A large bubble of airline pilots nearing retirement added fuel to the fire. The airlines were forced to abandon their old policy of hiring only young pilots so that they could mold them to company specifications. The sardonic colonel I had encountered at Airlift Operations School would have said the airlines needed more monkeys for their cockpits. (See Monkey Business)

The first order of business was to introduce ourselves and say something about our backgrounds. As the first “new hire” stood up to speak, I figured I would hear a few haughty speeches about valiant aviation achievements, but to my pleasant surprise, none was tendered. It was evident that the vastly qualified guys were not interested in embarrassing those who were barely employable. There were no braggers. I felt good about my new associates.
 
Toward the end of the day the anxiety level rose as the bidding process for our first assignments began. A company man wrote on a display board a list of vacancies. Each listing consisted of a type aircraft, a particular seat on that aircraft, and a crew base, or domicile as the airlines called it. I got what I expected, a second officer seat on a Boeing 727 at Chicago O’Hare―the company's mother base.

It troubled me. It was not a flying job. In fact, I would have to sit sideways in the cockpit. I wouldn’t even have a window. My job would be to look after the fuel, electrical system, hydraulics, pneumatics, and other systems that kept the 727 humming, while the captain and first officer did the fun stuff. Furthermore there was nothing fun about the training or the environment.
 
The company had suffered a devastating pilot strike four years earlier, and tempers still seethed. The training center had hired a corps of scab instructors. Their counterparts out flying were suffering daily revilement. They in turn took requital inside the training center walls, where they predominated. This would change as the new decade of the nineties rolled in. But for our class there would be no  traditions, no time-wasting ceremonies, and damned few welcome mats. We were simply newly acquired company assets, to be fed into a training machine and spat out the other side, stamped Ready to Fly.   

I met my “stick partner,” Norm Moore, a retired Army warrant officer. Norm had never had never touched a jet. His experience in Army twin engine King Air turboprops was his only claim of sufficiency. In the weeks ahead Norm and I would share the same instructor and would become study partners. With the weight of the oppressing culture hanging over our heads like a cocked guillotine, Norm and I hit the books, took notes, crammed like college kids, and toiled daily in the 727 simulators.
 
We would alternately sit at the second officer's panel in the retched “box.” He watched while I jumped through hoops. Then I watched him sweat bullets. I hated second officer training. “This is not pilot stuff!” I declared to Norm when we took breaks and got out of earshot of the instructors. We just sat in front of that intimidating panel, so crammed with dials, switches and buttons that we became automatons―seeing a needle out of limits or a light come on that boded trouble, and informing the captain, going to the checklist at his command, reading it, doing the stuff it said to do, watching for the results. Waiting, watching for the next malfunction, straining the brain for pieces of vital information from the classroom, from last night's reading assignment, trying to remember, remember, remember. I hated rote memorization.

Norm got more nervous as check ride day approached. His lack of jet experience worried him. I consoled him, telling him my extensive jet experience didn't mean beans in this place, that we were on equal ground. But secretly I figured I was only helping his self confidence. Our instructor pulled me aside and said I was doing great but he was worried about Norm's progress. I agreed and assured him I was doing all I could to get Norm ready. Then check ride day came.

Norm was a nervous wreck. “I've got a bad feeling about this,” he told me.

I fidgeted while Norm went into the box. The standards captain was an intimidating scab. Two hours later Norm came out smiling. He passed. He was a Second Officer. It was my turn. I went into the box.

Two hours later I came out shaking my head. I was not a Second Officer. I busted. I had tried to parallel generators without syncing them―a no-no of colossal proportions. I knew better but I let the scab's harsh manner intimidate me and I lost my poise. Norm was astounded that it was me and not him.
 
I reported to the box for additional training the next day―with a despicable scab instructor. That jerk ratcheted the intimidation factor up to the point that I marched out and took a flight home. I told Eleanor airline flying was not for me. I would take the C-141 job at Memphis.

The next day I got a call from the second-in-command of the training center. He wanted to know why I left. I stuck to my manly moral ground―no excuses. It just wasn't for me. Fifteen minutes later he had me convinced that walking out was a mistake. He asked me to come back. He said if I wanted to quit, I could decide that later. I was too close now, he said, to bug out.

I looked at Eleanor. She shrugged. I shrugged. I went back. I passed. Those five weeks were dark times, but it's been a good ride ever since.

The September issue of Aviation History will be on the news stands next month. I have a feature story in it entitled, Deadly Sabre Dance: How film footage of a spectacular crash saved lives and spawned a legend. That story had its beginnings right here on Decision Height.

I have also helped establish a new website honoring the pilot killed in that crash: 

http://www.sabredance.net/

I urge you to visit it and sign the guest log. His family will be greatful.

Part II: How I tried Not to Get Hired

Continued from the previous post:

I went back to Denver and checked-in for the second round of gauntlets and waterboarding. Without ado they ushered me into the office of a shrink—a real one, with several impressive diplomas on his wall. He asked me more of the same kind of questions on the big psychological written test I had taken on the previous visit. I knew to be careful not to contradict myself in questions that were disguised as being different but in reality the same.
 

The session wasn’t too stressful until the doc became obsessed with the sole of my shoe. While I proffered a profound answer to one of his more probing questions he leaned over and looked at my shoe, eyes bulging, as if he had found a newly discovered species of insect on it. I immediately recognized this was a diversionary tactic. I wondered how to react as I delivered my discourse on whatever silly question he had posed upon me. 

He might have been testing me to see if I noticed what he was doing. Not to notice would have been an indication of a lack of situational awareness—bad trait for the gig I was applying for. But an over-reaction would surely have been interpreted as belligerence or self-consciousness, both equally bad. I took a chance and turned the table on him. In the middle of whatever I was saying I paused and asked him, “Are you okay, doc?” He looked up at me and nodded.
 
Other airlines also used psychiatrists to screen candidates. It seemed to stop when the rumor circulated that the shrink Delta used to interview their candidates committed suicide. Apparently, asking pilots sensitive personal questions was more than the poor soul could live with. But then, if I had to make a living probing Delta pilots’ innermost thoughts, I too would take to the noose.

After the session with the shrink it was off to the simulator building for the part of the process that I dreaded the least—the sim check. I made damned sure I knew where to go this time.

An instructor pilot who was retired from line flying briefed me on the Boeing 727, an aircraft I had never before flown. He was a nice fellow and made me feel totally at ease. Now, for the first time since I had started this whole ridiculous process I had met one of my own kind. I was at home with the man and finally felt I could just be myself.

He put me in the left seat of the 727 simulator and set it up for a takeoff. The sim handled very well and I had no trouble flying it. He tried to distract me during an ILS approach by letting the engine fire alarm scream in my ears. I landed the sim and he said I did great. This was the first affirmation I had received from anyone while running through the gauntlet of the screening process. I felt good and went to the hotel to rest a while before the final interview—the big one.
 
It didn’t start off well. I checked in with the receptionist and saw her look curiously at me. I think she was aghast that I would show up for such an important interview dressed in a Navy blue sport coat and khaki pants. Then I took a quick trip to the lavatory for a nervous pee. In full view of the receptionist I went into the women’s restroom. I quickly saw my error and came out grinning sheepishly as she eyed me under a raised eyebrow. I saw her pick up her phone. I began evaluating other employment options.

The panel consisted of two people—the woman in charge of hiring and a captain in uniform. We exchanged pleasantries and I answered more questions about my application. Then, sure enough they asked me to give them an example of how I had had a significant disagreement with a previous supervisor/teacher/co-worker and what I had done about it. I was ready. Familiar with that kind of question, I had employed it many times while screening Air Force Academy candidates.

Then the big question came. Every candidate expected it. All the airlines were asking it. It was the question that applicants practiced the hardest for. Everyone studied up on the airline's history and tradition, and memorized a spiel. The consultant gurus that specialized in pilot placement even coached their clients on how to answer this question. Many candidates stood looking in the mirror while reciting their answer. They tested their answer on their wives and buddies. I didn’t do any of that.

“Tell us why you want to fly for United."

I didn’t have to fabricate some sort of custom variation on a canned answer. I had a response that would water their eyes. “I’ll answer that question with a true story,” I said. They perked up.

“Last year I was hired to fly a couple of journalists around in a Cessna for a story they were doing on the Gulf Coast oil industry. I was having lunch with them and one of them asked me if I wanted to fly for the airlines. I told them I was in the process of sending out applications. They wanted to know which airline I preferred. I said it didn’t much matter. Then one of them said, ‘I fly a lot. I live in Denver, which is a big United hub. And as for me personally, if it’s not a Boeing airplane with a United crew, I don’t want to fly it.’ I knew then and there that I wanted to be a part of that legacy.”

I could hardly keep from grinning when I finished the story (which was precisely true). I knew I had had hit a grand slam. I saw it on their faces. The letter came a week later. I was in.

But was I where I really wanted to be? That question kept nagging at me, and a few months later would tear me apart.

The next post: Part III, The Day I Quit the Airline. (Think I'm being facetious? I'm not. You won't want to miss it.)

 Crossing East and West Spanish Peaks, Colorado

east to west. I have climbed the west peak 5 times.

It's one of my favorite places on the planet.

Sometimes I feel a strange exhilaration up here which seems to come from something beyond the mere stimulus of flying. It is a feeling of belonging to the sky...of owning and being owned―if only for a moment―the air I breathe.
―Guy Murchie
Song of the Sky

Part I: How I Tried Not to Get Hired

A few posts back I wrote a piece called “Monkey Business.” You remember; it was about the Air Force colonel who disparaged the airline business at an airlift operations course. His diatribe drove me in the opposite direction he intended. I filled out airline applications that evening. (I had been carrying them in my brief case for weeks.)

And I did every thing wrong according to the hiring gurus. I filled out my application by hand. I didn’t study-up on airline history. I didn't buy practice simulator time, and I didn’t go out and buy a new $400 suit for the interview. I figured my old navy blue sport coat and khaki slacks should be good enough.

If you paid the gurus money they would coach you. I didn't, but I knew that they advised of the exhaustive astronaut style physical exam you would get at American. They cautioned about Delta’s picky application process. They warned of TWA's extensive written exam, and offered to sell you a practice test.  

The interview itself was the biggie, they said. They taught airline pilot hopefuls how to answer the Give Me an Example question. (Example: “Give me an example of a time when you had a serious disagreement with your supervisor, and how you resolved it.”) The list of cautions and recommendations from the gurus went on and on, fed continuously by feedback from their clients who gutted-up and assaulted commercial aviation’s corporate hiring bastions.  
  
Then two airlines complicated my life. They offered me interviews. First I went to Dallas to take the astronaut physical. I passed, despite failing dismally at trying to humor a grumpy nurse, one we dubbed "Nurse Crochet." Then I had to go back for more screening. My Air National Guard pal, “Flat Land" Moore said, “If you get invited for the third trip you're in, buddy!”

I got the third invite. I asked Eleanor how she would like to move to Dallas. She frowned.

On the much ballyhooed “third trip” I was scheduled for a simulator ride and an interview. I was to fly a Boeing 707 simulator. The sim briefing was at 0700 on a Sunday morning. I got there at 0630 but couldn't find the right building. The place was deserted―buildings locked, no one around to ask. I scurried from door to door looking at my watch. It was a nightmare in the purest sense. 0700 passed. 0715. 20. Man, I was late for the most important simulator evaluation of my life. Or was it? For some, maybe.

Then I found an unlocked door, went in, bounded up the stairs and trotted to the correct room number. I opened the door and found the evaluator sitting across from another candidate (two of us were scheduled). The evaluator looked up. “Cockrell, I assume. Glad you could join us.” He wasn't smiling.

I flew the 707 sim with no difficulty. A takeoff. An ILS. Done. And the interview sprang no surprises.

But showing up late was a fatal mistake. Needless to say, the Dallas boys didn't invite me to join them.

Then came an invitation to Denver.

First was a “mini-interview.” That was just to get the immense pile of paperwork right. Then they gave me a physical exam, which was not quite as comprehensive as the one in Dallas, plus the nurses were nice. 

But it was my first experience with a female physician, and she wasn’t bad looking. I tried to think of something else, to avoid coming to attention when she checked me for hernia. I imagined the mechanics of a golf swing. I didn’t even play golf. It succeeded. The trooper remained at ease.     

Next they threw in a battery of brainteaser tests. I sat in a room doing timed practical math and navigation problems while listening to recordings of aviation radio chatter. After that I took a 600 question written psychological test. I had been warned they would ask the same question repeatedly in different terms to check for consistency―warnings that proved correct.  

A month later they invited me back. I was sick of the process and seriously considering throwing in the towel. I packed again thinking that when this is over and behind me, I'll get this airline stuff out of my system and move on. The commander of the Memphis Air Guard unit had offered me a full time position as a C-141 instructor. I asked Eleanor how she would like Memphis, and I got a shrug. I left for the final trip to Denver, but my thoughts were on Memphis. With such an mindset, the potential for failure was immense.

Next post, Part II: I Try Again to Blow It.

"I glance at the instruments. All is as it should be. Occasionally, as we climb, Gillette moves the throttles forward slightly. He is a good pilot, this silent man. His reserve is not cold but warmed with shyness, and consequently with him there is peace."

--Ernest Gann, "Fate is the Hunter"

If only Gann could have seen this.

A Scathing Rebuttal!

I have never gotten such a long and detailed comment on any of my 90 or so posts since I started Decision Height, as I did on the last one from my old friend, UPS Captain Dan Gabel, with whom I obviously struck a nerve. (See "Ode to the Trash Hauler," the last post before this one.) Some of Dan's concerns are compelling, thus I have made them the subject matter of this post. I agree with him on some points and I challenge him on others. My responses are in brackets [and a darker shade of print.] (Also, as usual, I never mention the name of my company. Companies' legal eagles frown on that.)

Alan
Short answer is your company is in/out of bankruptcy & doesn't make any money. [My company has been in bankruptcy one time.]  [Your company] makes a million or two a quarter then loses more! [Actually, more like a few hundred million a quarter, and loses more!] [My company] makes a billion or so each quarter and bitches because we're not making more! Our current contract was based on UAL, Delta, & Fed Ex, before first two cut pay, retirement, etc. [Glad we helped. You're welcome.] We still have trip & duty rigs because we are paid whether we are flying, on a weekend L/O away from our families, or on a commercial D/H. [We had such rigs also. They were stripped away in bankruptcy.] The reason we have that is because of our union, the Independant Pilots Association. [...because of IPA and a robust parcel economy.]  About the time we voted the Teamsters out & the IPA in, ALPA told us they weren't interested in representing us. They changed their tune after a few more "Legacy carriers" went bankrupt: Eastern, Continental, etc. They wanted our dues $ after our first contract (which wasn't that great). [Agreed. Gaining dues $ is what ALPA is best at (although their safety initiatives are unparalleled). Two years ago I voted to switch to an in-house union, but it failed.] Fortunately we stuck with our in-house union [You got lucky. If the package hauling business was depressed, neither your in-house boys nor ALPA would have done you much good]. ALPA ignored the RJ issue [too true], not wanting to pay less than 737 / DC-9 pay. This has festered for 20 years or so, which is why the RJ's are flying so many of YOUR trips, Captain. You can't blame the guys flying the RJs [I don't, never have], they just want to do what we all like to do. The RJs have resulted in a decline of service for the customer. [Not exactly. Many small cities now have jet service that would not have, had the RJs not come into being. The real problem is the big carriers are using them between large markets.] I myself go to great lengths and expense to avoid commercling to & from work with a company paid ticket. If you miss a flight due to mechanical, wx, etc, you're probably out of luck getting the next flight or 2 because they're probably RJs & full. [Not your fault, then. Go home and let your duty rigs pay you anyway.] Not to mention the harrassment by the TSA. [There is a secret agreement between us people-haulers and TSA: they harass only cargo pilots ;) ] Everybody I know that has to travel for business will drive or use other alternative travel before commercialing. [I'm confused; what alternatives are there to driving and commercial flights? Trains? Actually, RJ flights from HSV to DCA and IAD are packed with business people.] As far as flying passengers as opposed to freight, I've done both: do you really think you fly the airplane any differenty with people or freight? [I never suggested such a thing] The front of the airplane always hits the ground first [Oh yeah.] & if I look after my ass, the rest will be OK, too. [I have philosophized at length about this same sentiment] I'm sorry you guys got a shitty deal with the pay cut & screw job on the retirement benefits...but it's not my fault! [Did I ever suggest it was?] Another factor of our pay scale is we routinely transport hazardous materials that are prohibited on passenger aircraft. [Hmm, must be a reason for that.] Those include Lithium batteries [We carry lithium batteries] that were most likely the cause of the crash last year on Flight 6 out of Dubai. You did hear about that [of course I did], both crewmembers died/no significant loss of life reported by the media. [Last week I ferried a 757 to a maintenance base. Just us two pilots. Had we crashed it would have barely made the news. Sad, but it's not our fault (mine & yours) that the media is enamored with body counts.]  A couple years before we lost a DC-8 in PHL for the same probable cause. Had I got my first bid choice I would have been on that flight. [Stay in professional/military flying long enough and everybody will acquire such a story: There but for the Grace of God go I.] I hope I would have been as lucky as those guys were. [I know you. You would not have needed luck's help.]
 
I figured that you, being a much better schooled person than I & world famous author [I want you to be my agent] would know the answer to your own question [I do, but you have said it better than I could.]. Glad to help you out. See you @ Moontown. Fly Safe. Dan Gabel, UPS DC-8 Captain involuntarily displaced /downgraded to B-757/767 (Just kidding, they're fun to fly in their own way, just not enough engines).
--Dan

Thanks, Dan. Keep flying safe. See you around the patch.
--Alan (voluntarily upgraded to 757/767 captain, and yes, it doesn't have enough engines.)

More comments, anyone? Was I too harsh on Dan? Him on me?

Coming in the September issue of Aviation History: A feature story, that was born here on Decision Height. (I'll remind you later.)

Ode to the Trash Hauler

I realize I have pledged not to whine. (I hear the groans. I know, I know: Handles- PULL, Triggers- SQUEEZE. Boom!) See you back next post.

If you're still here, grant me this one deviation.

I'm troubled by something. I simply don't understand why a captain at a package hauling outfit makes a hundred grand a year, or more, than I, your humble correspondent―who hauls living, breathing humans. A co-pilot there is in a higher tax bracket than I. Where's the sanity in this business?

Would I choose to swap with that guy? If I did, I would think about how fortunate I was, as I counted my wads. I would reflect on how boxes never complain about the ride. They never bellyache about how hot or cold they are, and they never pester you for game scores. They don't ask for stuff and they don't need to be fed, watered or boozed. Don't need to go to the bathroom just when you're ready to take off, either.

Boxes don't shop around for another flight that will cost $10 less, and they don't bring carry-ons. Pound-for-pound they pay more to ride than flesh does. They don't need extra legroom or elbow space. They don't get mad at each other, and certainly not at their crews. They don't care if they're late, early or on time, and they couldn't give a rat's rear end if they crash and burn.

Boxes don't need wheel chairs and oxygen. You won't find AEDs back there, either. Boxes don't argue and they don't have to be given that abysmally boring safety briefing every flight. 

Terrorists don't care to kill boxes.

Big boxes never ask to visit the cockpit before departure to photograph little boxes sitting in the captain's seat. Tiny boxes don't cry and annoy big boxes. Boxes never ask to be re-seated. They don't ask for upgrades and they don't want to sit beside other boxes that they like or love.

They never thank you for a nice flight. Not a one of them has ever said “goodbye.” But to be fair, they are actually quite polite also: none has ever flipped off to a crewmember or each other. 

Boxes don't go home. They don't go on vacations, honeymoons, anniversary journeys, or business trips. They don't smile at you, and they don't frown. (They are quite emotionless.) Packages don't have to worry about a ride from the airport; they get delivered to the doorstep.

Yep, I'd think about boxes a lot if I knocked down a quarter mil, or more, a year to haul them. And when the day comes to hand over that last box, I could kick back and think about all the boxes I've delivered safe and sound to their loved ones.

Furthermore I could consider all those memories in great comfort because I would have made many trips to the one box that matters the most: the deposit box.

Ps: Don't get me wrong. I like those guys; I have many friends in the package hauling  business. (Better make that, “had.”)


Coming in the September issue of Aviation History: A "feature" story, that was born here on Decision Height. (I'll remind you later.)

 Beautiful, but best avoided.

"Reverse contrail"?

An aircraft's hot exhaust cuts a rut into

the cloud deck going into Colorado Springs.

Monkey Business

More years ago than I wish to recount I was sitting in an auditorium full of USAF officers. A beak-nosed, beady-eyed colonel was lecturing us about the growing problem of military pilot retention. (The airlines were on a hiring frenzy because of expansion and retirees.) 

“Why,” the colonel asked us rhetorically, “would any pilot leave the dignified service of our Air Force and our country to become an airline pilot?” He spat the words airline pilot with resentment and contempt.

He came down from the stage and swaggered into the aisle. “We need our pilots to stay in the service of the country who paid for their training.” He looked around, as if searching for those of us who were pondering treason.

“You can teach a monkey to drive an airliner.”

He paused and paced. Our eyes followed him. “And why do they do it?” he asked, eyebrows arched. He held his hand out and rubbed his fingers together. “Money.” He rotated his body so all could see the rubbing fingers. “They prefer money to serving their country.”

I regretted not asking the bastard which monkey he would prefer to be the pilot of the jet his wife and children next flew in. But I didn’t. I didn’t have the guts.

I had served plenty of years in Uncle Sam's cockpits. The tax-payers had gotten their monies-worth. My thoughts turned to the airline application I had been toting in my satchel. That night I filled it out.

As the years have sailed by the need for the old and noble skills of the stick and rudder persuasion has taken a back seat to the mundane and much less glamorous decision-making process. Have we become, in the colonel's estimation, more monkiefied or less?

Yesterday's events offer a clue. We ran slam up against a long line of viciously building embedded thunderstorms. The sky ahead turned to a soup of swirling gray tendrils and got darker every minute. The preflight weather briefing indicated this system would lay low but Mother Nature had once again suckered us. The X-band displayed a line of behemoth red soldiers marching abreast with no room to slip un-noticed between them.

The frequency buzzed with anxious pilots asking this and that of the man down in Minneapolis sitting in a dark room, his face alit with the green glow of his scope. They went left. They went right. They probed the line.

Our ACARS printer spewed messages from Dispatch. The line ended 150 miles north, they said, but there may be an opening 50 miles south. The X-band offered no encouragement for either suggestion. The soldiers came closer. The man at the console wanted our intentions. We decided to head north, to buy some time.

The air was still smooth. Our first class section was finishing its meal. The movie was about mid-run. They were all happy back there.

But for those of us in the front office the worries mounted. The X-band showed the line of storms marching well beyond its range, into Canada. We began to ponder whether we had the fuel to go that far off course.

Then a hole opened at our ten o-clock. Visually, there was no hint of it, but the X-band wouldn't lie. Would it? We studied it as it slid toward our nine o-clock. It appeared to be 40 miles across. We knew we were required to maintain 20 miles separation. If we took it we would be at the limits. The storms on either side of the hole were intense. They were full of red with only a thin crust of yellow and green. Meteorologists call this a steep gradient―an indication of a strong storm.

We told the man at the console we would take the hole. We told the flight attendants to strap in and I spun the heading select knob to a 270 degree heading.

Spinning that knob is a simple task. A monkey could easily be taught to do it. Then the monkey can sit back and strip off his banana peel oblivious to the maelstrom on either side of him. We weren't.

Our eyes shifted left and right. No visibility either direction. The red giants marched past our wingtips. We braced for the turbulence. We hit only a few ripples, then the gray gloom ahead burst away into a searing blue Montana sky. We were through. Our destination, Seattle, lay straight ahead.

It was time for our bananas.

USAF AWACS crossing over us

Recently, at an airport security checkpoint:
Me: What exactly are you looking for when you point that flashlight-looking thing at my ID badge?
TSA person: I don't know. They just told me to do it. (giggles) Don't tell anyone!