'neath the Southern Cross

When you see the Southern Cross
For the first time
You understand now
Why you came this way
'Cause the truth you might be runnin' from
Is so small.
But it's as big as the promise
The promise of a comin' day.

--Crosby, Stills & Nash

The Cross is hard to see except on a clear moonless night, and it's not prominent, like Orion or Cassiopeia or The Big Dipper. The ancient Greeks called it the "Crux," a name it still goes by. But as the millennia went by the Crux sank into the southern hemisphere and became forgotten by the northerners. Today, you've got to go way south to see it.

You won't see much, yet it sits there with a subtle presence staring down at you. Its graces have followed me and watched over me for decades as I've prowled the Southern hemisphere from Antarctica to Brazil. Tonight I bade it so long for the last time.

Mendoza lies ahead. It reminds me of that unforgetabble line from St. Exupery’s Night Flight. It’s where Fabien’s wife looked out their widow as he dressed for a mail flight from which he would never return. “Look,” she said, “your path is paved with stars.”

Meddoza is famous for being the source of the world's best Malbec and last night we partook of it along with some succulent Patagonian grass-fed beef. Rusty declared it the finest meal he has ever eaten.

Rusty is my youngest son. He came along on this, my

Rusty stops by the cockpit while boarding.

next-to-last trip, just to taste for himself of Buenos Aires' culinary delights I've told him about over the years. He was not disappointed. He will likely experience more good Argentine cuisine tonight. I had to leave him behind.

All day long I kept checking the passenger loads for tonight's flight and each check reassured me he would get a seat. Then at the last moment the plane filled and there were no seats left for SA's (space available travelers). The last I saw of him, he was getting into a hotel van.

It was tough leaving Rusty behind. But he is a big boy now and well capable of taking care of himself. I really enjoyed having him along. But the ebony skies over South America seem a little lonelier tonight than usual. The Crux comforts. It will look over him too.

And with him left behind I suddenly became apathetic about passengers. I didn't make a "welcome aboard" speech and my "seatbelt off" announcement was terse and forceful.

Ding. "You are free to get up, but keep your seatbelts fastened at all times when seated." That was it. No niceties about weather, ETA and certainly no "sit back and relax" invitations. Those people bumped my son off the plane.

I don't get it. What do they do? Just sit around until two or three hours before the flight departs and say, "I think I'll go to the United States tonight"?

More likely though it's my company's pathetic IT system. But enough of that. Some of you are accusing me of indulging too much in the art of the whine.

We are heading west tonight out of BA toward the Chilean coast. This is new. By breaking toward the Pacific waters before heading north we avoid the dry cells along the Inter-tropical Convergence Zone over Amazonia. Rumor has it we learned this technique from our competitor, American Airlines.

I harbor no regrets tonight about leaving my final contrail across South America. I'm ready to be done. 

I've been pushing jet aircraft around for 42 years. It started with a T-37 "dollar ride" over northwest Oklahoma. It ends next week with an Atlantic crossing to Frankfurt. The other two sons and the wife will be on that one--with positive space passes (promised, but we shall see). Somebody else takes the bump. 

My last flight in a 757 took place two weeks ago from Chicago to San Diego. The weather was perfect and I got to see the majestic Desert Southwest from the windswept heights (where never lark or even eagle flew, BTW). Memories unscrolled as we passed West Spanish Peak in Southern Colorado which I scaled with each son on separate climbs, except that weather forced Rusty and me down before reaching the summit.

Then we skirted the Sangre de Christos where my brother Joe and I foolishly climbed an icy Mt. Crestone with hiking sticks and an old rope between us. Without ice axes and crampons the rope only guaranteed we would both fall and likely die if one of us slipped.

Further on we passed over the Arizona highlands where I spent three days pondering whether to leave the active Air Force. While there I tagged along and watched my old friend and fearless hunter Dave skillfully use his elk call to stalk another elk hunter skillfully using his call.

Minutes later I was still glued to my side window looking down at the bombing ranges near Gila Bend where I flung my eager A-7 through footless halls of air--blowing stuff up. And over yonder was Baboquivari Peak which I once thundered over at 450 knots inverted and looked up at hikers looking up at me.

Then came the descent over the resplendent mountains east of San Diego and the transition to the infamous Localizer 27. Visibility was deteriorating in the setting sun and the runway didn't break out until we were about abeam (and about the same height) as the elephants and zebras in the zoo passing off our right wing. I told the F/O I would dip a tiny bit below the glide path (because of the short runway), but I promised him I would not do a touch-and-go on the multi-tiered parking garage off the approach end. The F/O said, "Go ahead and do it. Southwest does it all the time." I laughed so hard I thought I would botch the landing, but it was perfect.

The F/O had kin in town so he split. As I exited the terminal to catch the hotel van three young Marines, fresh out of the USMC boot camp beside the airport, yelled from across the street, "GOOD AFTERNOON SIR!" I wondered if they thought I was a naval officer. No matter. I yelled back, "GOOD AFTERNOON MARINES!" Seeing their smiles and them proudly wearing those uniforms was the perfect end to a perfect day.

So here's hoping for a perfect end next week to a non-so-perfect career, but one with no regrets.

And may the Crux be with you always.

What idiot at city hall would approve this? And what idiot pilot would take this shot and put it on the web? Rest assured, not I. (Pilots have been fired for this.) This is a Google search image.

The walk-away shot from my last 757 flight. It sits in San Diego after a perfect day.

A July Surprise

A funny thing happened since I last communicated with you. You will recall how the flight manager, upon finding out that I was a mere reserve pilot, slowly shook his head, shrugged and said, “Sorry I can’t help you set up a retirement flight. You’ll just have to accept what comes—if anything.” I walked out quite disgusted—and still am by the way—over the way the company, with the pilots union’s blessing, treats its reserve pukes. But, low and behold, a few days later I was to discover that I was awarded a “line-of-flying” for July—a real schedule.

This was quite unusual because several pilots senior to me got reserve lines. That’s a head- scratcher. But don’t go thinking somebody in the company got all teary-eyed rigged it that way. I know that didn’t happen. The 4^th of July is a big holiday and I’m thinking some pilots who are junior lineholders purposely bid reserve so as to cherry-pick reserve days off and get the holiday. That would leave the line they would have gotten…for me.

So now I’m going to Buenos Aires on the 3^rd and Sao Paulo on the 12^th. I should be happy with that. I can now reserve seats for up to four family members to go along and dine at Bovinos. But I’m not satisfied. Sao Paulo is an all-nighter both ways, and gets back home at 0500. Everybody’s dragging. No. I want Frankfurt, which is an excellent exit event. It has a 50 hour layover and gets back at 3:30 pm. Perfect. I quickly set to work pouring over the awards list and found six captains that had the Frankfurt trip (on six different days of course).

The admin office wouldn’t give me their phone numbers for privacy reasons but they agreed to dial the numbers and let me talk. I worked down the list. I got three answers and three voice messages. Two of the three I talked with said flat out no. One was retiring at almost the same time and wanted to keep Frankfurt for the same reason I wanted it. The third was a guy I knew—a very nice guy. I thought he would agree, but no. He said, "I hate, hate, hate [I think he said ‘hate’ about 10 times] Sao Paulo." That was weird because this guy was a Latino himself. He said maybe he would think about it if all the other guys refused my request. I thanked him while vowing to never call him back. I walked away thinking, Well, Sao Paulo isn’t so bad. The restaurants are good and my wife and a couple of the sons who want to go will at least enjoy that.

Of the three guys I left voice messages with, I never heard back from two. The third one, though…this guy was a prince. Yes. He would be glad to swap. He would handle the arrangements. So I’m going to Frankfurt at last for the grand finale, but at this writing, it is not yet official. The trade has to be approved.

So then, does it seem my belly-aching in the last post was for naught, and I should be ashamed? Not at all. What transpired was none of the company’s doings. It worked out because of a fluke in the bidding process by other pilots and due to a super kind act by another pilot who wanted to help.

It seems though that all this talk about being on “reserve” is causing confusion. One Decision Height follower e-mailed me and said, “Why are you on reserve? I thought your seniority was high.” Good question, and one many others might be scratching heads over. Here’s the skinny.

At all unionized airlines there are two pilot seniority lists: the company-wide seniority list, and the “relative seniority list.” On the 12,000+/- company pilot list I am in the top 24 percentile. But on my relative list, which is Houston/767/captain, of which there are only 100+/- people, I am near the bottom. Remember, it’s the date you were hired, not your age that counts. I came into the company after a military career at age 40. The guys above me came in at a younger age.

When I came to the 767 left seat I was a mid-level line-holder. Then the company began to shrink. I was pushed downward into reserve territory. My company seniority was still good enough to bid and hold a senior position as an Airbus or 737 captain, or a right seat job on a 777 or 747. I would have been solid senior line-holder in any of those jobs. But I like the 76 and just don’t want to retire as a co-pilot. Just ego at work, I guess. So, there you have it. Should have explained that a long time ago.

On another happy note, I had a London trip last week and met British Decision Height follower, Dave Willis. Dave had invited me a couple of times in his comments to call him when I was over that way and meet up for a couple of pints, and I finally did. I really enjoyed that, Dave. You are a super nice chap.

Next post I’ll tell you about my last domestic trip and last 757 flight.

Me (right) with blog follower Dave Willis in London

                              Two weeks ago at the Shoals Warbird Fly-in. "Squatch" VanStaagen 
                              lent me his  Yak-52 for some very staisfying formation flying. Frankly, 
                              there was a time last year when I didn't think I would ever want to do 
                              that again. I was wrong. George is smiling. Thanks Pete.

Sittin' in the slot, breathing fresh airshow smoke, fat, dumb and happy.