Hallowed Ground

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

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

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

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

More pics of the museum? Click on the Spit.

A Surprise Call

Some very senior captain suddenly got sick and no reserves were available to fill in. A bad day at the crew desk, I suppose. So I got a surprise call on my day off, a Sunday morning. Could I take a Rome trip that evening at 17:30? If so, they would move my day off to another day of my choice. I told them I'd call back in 10 minutes.

An idea struck me, but it was dripping with hazard. I took a quick look at the passenger loads―there were open seats in first class both ways. I looked in the bathroom. Ellie was getting ready for church. I said, “Want to go to Rome?" The brush in her hair stopped. "We'll need to leave in an hour,” I added. She normally needed a month to get ready for a trip. I waited a few seconds and, as I expected, got no answer. I quickly departed the bathroom premises and waited a couple of minutes to see if a protest was to be issued. Non was proffered, so I interpreted that as an affirmative. She had never been to Rome, nor even anywhere in Europe. After all these years, I have never taken her. Always too busy. Always something more compelling to do. But here now was a chance for a quick visit. The layover was 27 hours.

But we only had two hours to catch the commuter flight to Dulles. It was going to be close. I called crew scheduling and accepted the trip.

We were going to make it by mere minutes when she hit a snag at security screening. Two bottles of whatever were too big. I looked back at her from the secure side and wanted to bang my head against the wall. Why didn't I put her liquids in my bag? I'm not subject to those limitations. I heard a PA announcement about our flight, but didn't get all the words. I had already checked us in on-line. I wondered if they were paging us. I hurried out the exit and put her stuff in my bag, then went back through security. It cost us five minutes.
When we reached the gate the door was closed and the Jetway pulled. No one was at the podium. I stood in the window and waved my arms wildly, trying to get the commuter captain's attention. It was still seven minutes prior to scheduled departure, for Pete's sake. Then the door opened and the agent said, “Oh. There you are! I've been paging you.” He looked at his watch. He pecked on his computer. He cursed. He picked up the phone and called somebody. He told them, “I've already done that.” He pecked again. I looked at my watch and saw three minutes left. I knew they would not hold the flight for us. They had rules and were held accountable. I fidgeted. He shook his head and let out a heavy sigh. He had never re-opened a flight that he had closed. A bag handler appeared. “Cap'n said get 'em on and work out the details later!” Who ever that guy was, he's a candidate for a bigger jet.

We made it to Dulles and Ellie got seat 1A. Perfect. After an hour's delay due to a fuel leak from the dump pipes that mysteriously fixed itself, we launched and made an uneventful crossing.

I couldn't have picked a worse day to take El to Rome. Usually mild and sunny, Rome was wet, windy and cold. None-the-less we got in a Vatican tour, walked through the Colosseum and enjoyed some tasty Italian cuisine and wine. She got 1A again for the RTB and we had another good crossing.

Thanks for all the interesting comments from the last post. I guess I failed to tick anybody off except Scott, but that's easy. I'll try again later.


Coasting-in at Nice, heading northwest
toward the French Alps.



Established westbound on NAT D.
Follow that guy.

Check Your Attitude

No commenter has ever gotten sore at me, which suggests I'm an affable guy, writing about safe subjects. I try to leave out politics and whining, and most people like that. But in this post, I will depart from my usual lyrical musings and try diligently to torque someone off. 

Before I go there, I hope you have read the comments about the Dreamliner in the last post. Some are funny, and others informative and insightful.

I think it's time to get real about this uproar going on concerning airlines' charging for checked bags. The major carriers―excluding the one that only flies domestic-only B737s―are now charging between $15 and $25 for the first checked bag, which may not exceed 50 pounds. NOT FAIR! you say. Until recently you have always been able to check your bag free. That must be a birthright. I decided to quantify the issue and see if there was a different viable perspective.

Consider this: You have a 50 pound bag you want to ship from Atlanta to Los Angeles. Here are your most popular options. If you pay Delta $25, the bag will ride in the same plane with you and will arrive in Los Angeles as you arrive. WOAH! You cry. They might lose my bag! Yes, they might. According to the latest DOT data, you have a one tenth of one percent chance (.01%) that your bag will not appear on the carousel but will be delivered to the door of your choice later on the day of your arrival or the next day. 
Lets assume you neither want to pay that outrageous amount

nor take such a colossal risk of losing your bag for one day. So, you decide to ship it via another means. UPS is ready to take it for the casual sum of
$308. TOO MUCH! you decry. You call Fedex and find they will gladly fly it to LA for you for only $181, but you'll have to reduce its weight down to 30 pounds. Oh yes, and both of them will deliver it to your door―the next day. 

Of course there is always that stalwart standby: Greyhound bus. They'll get it there in 2 days, 2 hours, and 20 minutes, for only $57.85. Not bad.

Now, let's take this a step further. You are interested in shipping not your bag, but your body, in it present status, from ATL to LAX. What will that set you back? Here are a few options:

Greyhound will get you there in the aforementioned 2 days, 2 hours and 20 minutes for $219 ($167 if you get a non-refundable fare.) The good news: They don't charge for your accompanied bag! And the camaraderie among your fellow riders is unsurpassed.

Amtrak—that's the government-run choo-choo―will get you there in 22 hours for only $414 (That's in a coach seat. Add $283 if you want a place to sleep.)

The nation's premier low-cost carrier does not operate out of Atlanta, so you would consider Delta for its non-stop service to LAX. They will get you there in 4 hours and 30 minutes for $477. But don't forget to budget an extra 25 bucks for that checked bag. Scoundrels.

P.s. I don't work for Delta.

Dreamin' the Dream

A big announcement rolled through our company last month. The Dreamliner is coming—the Boeing 787. Twenty-five of them.

Yet there wasn't much fanfare and even less enthusiasm for the news. We are the last major US airline to order them. And only 25 at that. In times past we would have been the launch customer. No one seems to be excited.

I ask my first officers, “You got your Dreamliner bid in yet?” Of course there won't be vacancy bids for several years yet, but the question breaks the ice. They all react the same—they shrug and shake their heads. They're middle-aged guys and gals with families. The lowest paid first officers of major airline pilots, they're all struggling to make ends meet. The promise of the Dreamliner doesn't fix that.

Whining aside, what a magnificent machine it is. Have you seen the videos of the roll-out and the first flight? It's the prettiest jetliner ever built. I keep trying to think of a single word that most describes it. Smooth is what keeps coming to mind. The smooth curves, the smooth sounding engines, the smooth way it slips through the sky. It's so smooth it's slick. It's truly a dream machine.

This is the first airliner, in my memory, that the manufacturer has actually assigned a name to. But will we use that name or make up another one? The precedent for the latter choice is huge.

For example, American and Delta pilots have a history of dropping the first number of a Boeing product and just saying the last two numbers, but they say them as individual numbers, like: “Seven-six” (767) or Seven-three (737). On our property we tend to say “Sixty-seven” and “Thirty-seven.” But we make up nicknames, as well. The 737 is the “Guppy.” (The 737-200 was the “Thunder Guppy” because it was so loud. The 737-300 was the “Super Guppy” because its engines were so powerful.) Will the Dreamliner simply be the “Eight-seven?” Boy I hope not.

There were many other adopted names, too. The old 727 was the “Three Holer” and the DC-10 was the “Diesel Ten” (It smoked heavily on start-up.) The 747-400 is the “Whale” because of the big hump on its spine, and the French-built Airbus A320 is the “Fi-fi Jet.” (I think that was Pepe LePew's girl friend's name.) But more often we call it the “Scarebus.”

Airlines that still fly the primitive Super MD-88s, call them “Mad Dogs” and sometimes just “Supers.” We often call them “snakes” because their long, low-slung bodies look like slithering rat snakes when they cross the taxiway or runway ahead of you.

Military pilots are really radical. They rarely use the official name for their planes (at least not in the USAF). The F-100 Super Sabre became the “Hun.” The F-102 Delta Dagger was the “Deuce.” The F-105 Thunderchief was dubbed the “Thud,” and the F-106 Delta Dart became the “Six Pack.” Nobody ever called the F-16 by its official name, the Falcon. They immediately tagged it the “Viper.”

The A-7 Corsair II—my old mount—was the SLUF, which meant “Short Little Ugly F-----.” (It was actually quite pretty in flight.) The A-10 Thunderbolt II became the “Warthog” (It is actually very ugly whether in flight or on the ground.) The venerable B-52 Stratofortress is much better known as the “BUFF” (Big Ugly Fat F-----), an undeserving name. It's neither fat nor ugly.

The heavy guys did the same. The C-130 Hercules was always called the “Herc,” or simply the “130.” The C-141 Starlifter was the “T-Tailed Mountain Magnet,” but more often the “Lizard.” The C-5 Galaxy is “FRED” (F---ing Ridiculous Economic Disaster).

So, in keeping with all this divergent tradition, what now do we call the Dreamliner? Will we break with tradition—as Boeing itself has done by assigning a name—or will we ignore Boeing's affectionate moniker and invent a new one to suit our fancies?

Knowing the pilot ilk as I do, I suspect there will be a name change. But what? Dream Machine? Dream Sled? Dream Boat? Dream Baby? Nightmare Liner? Seattle Sleeper?

You name it. Put it in the comments. Maybe your name will stick.

As for me, I'm not holding my breath until we get the Dream-whatevers. I'll be retired by then. But I hope to high Heaven those first officers I fly with will some day fly 787. I hope for their sake it's no daydream.

This Time of Night

Mild hallucination often sets in―this time of night.

You're weary and stiff, butt-sore, and numby. Coffee lost its appeal hours ago. But you force down a last cup of the putrid stuff on the promise of it's poisonous jolt. You blink hard and rub your sandpaper eyelids.

Only an hour left and you strain to see the glow ahead; you'll touch down just as old Big Eye trains his laser at you from the far Atlantic. But for now it's the darkest its been all night, except for stars and passing jets. Some of them flash their lights. They want confirmation that you see them, that you are here with them, feeling crappy with them. A brotherhood, of sorts.

A glance at the clock, the fuel, the guy across the cockpit, him glancing back, with a shrug, a sigh, a cuss. “Livin' the dream, man, livin' the dream,” he mumbles, unlatching his belt and casting it off. “Head Call, for me. I'm goin' to the back."

The door opens and a flight attendant appears, he disappears, she slams the door, hands me more vile black liquid. “Here, this is fresh-brewed,” she says, forcing a tired smile. She wants me to stay awake. For me to sleep is her death. I try to be thankful and pretend to drink. “One hour left,” I blurt, knowing the question is coming, knowing she already knows it, and knows I know that. It's that kind of night.

“What beautiful stars,” she says, trying to make small talk. I nod and turn the lights down so that we can see them better. “Wow, look at that one,” she says, pointing straight ahead. I look. It's big and bright. It flashes at us.

“That's no star,” I say with a chuckle. “No, that's a plane coming at us. Looks to be slightly high to us. He's flashing. See?”

“Oh. How nice,” she says.

I show her the light switch and tell her to flash him. She toggles the switch and giggles.

“Do you always do that?” she asks.

“Not all the time,” I say. “Just sometimes.” Talking gets burdensome this time of night.

“Look! He's still flashing,” she says.

So he is. A persistent guy. I wonder which airline he rides in the nose of. She flashes our lights again.

“Cool!” she cries. "He's got colored lights!"

This girl is hallucinating, I fear. It's that kind of night. But forward, I lean, crusty eyes widening, trying to focus. Damn! He does have colored lights. Flashing amber now, then pale blue. Now orange.

Just as the tone sounds, alerting me that the first officer is ready to come back up, it hits me. I'm glad of the tone. There will be no more discussion with this woman. She disappears and closes the door, to tell to her peers of the marvelous lights.

The first officer sits, sighs, runs his fingers through his hair and leans forward peering ahead. “Wow!” he says. Venus is really booming tonight.”

I nod and smile. Silly girl. She flashed our lights at another planet.

Yeah, mild hallucinations often set in―this time of night.

Here's a lamentation for you intrepid RJ pushers:

The Seat

by Richard L. Barlow

The Seat

It's ugly and worn,

lopsided and torn.

It's lumpy and wet,

from coffee and sweat.

"It reeks so bad!" they'll all say,

from no APU with a nine leg day.

It's too hard when you're too soft,

remember those hours you spent in the LOFT?

But it calls you back, it knows your name,

whispers, "the view from here, it's just not the same."

With all of this, it still can't be beat,

you're PIC now, so strap in the seat!

My Tribe

A legendary writer of aviation literature, and a passionate purveyor of truth, once wrote: 

"Airline pilots are separated into tribes in spite of their common occupation....United pilots are considered colorless and sticklers for regulation. American pilots are thought to be a mixed lot, prone to independent complaint and rebellion. TWA pilots, highly regarded individually, are pitied for the chameleon management of their company. Pan Am pilots, admired and envied for their long-range flying, are thought to be shy and backward in foul-weather work. The tribes are each healthy and strong in their way, but their characteristics, conditioned by their aerial territories, are as different as the Sioux, the Navajos, and the Cherokees. All this is recognized as debatable. Yet the legends had to start somehow." 

The writer, whose identity I'll leave you to guess, regarded the airline pilot "tribes" as noble ones, worthy of esteem and honor, but prone to fickleness and eccentricity. I suppose you could say the same about other persuasions. When I joined my tribe I was stunned by the wide spectrum of behavior and personal conduct of the group, as compared to my military experience. But to be fair, most of them were in the middle of the spectrum—respectable, hard-working, caring people. I was proud to be in their midst. I'm not so sure now.

We're not wearing our hats any more. I'll grant you, it seems trivial at first thought. But we have shed the one physical item that sets us apart and above. Cynics will say, “We don't need hats. Hats don't have anything to do with flying.” True, but the headgear means much to the projection of professionalism among those who trust their lives to us.

Here's what happened. Our union, in preparation to entering a long and contentious period of contract negotiations with a stubborn management, decided that we would show our solidarity by collectively shedding our hats, and then re-donning them at the union's direction. They created a nifty little graphic on the website to tell us what we were supposed to be doing.

The problem with this “solidarity” scheme was that management laughed at it and made a clever counter-move. They put out a new regulation saying the wearing of hats was now optional. That torqued-off a lot of pilots who thought shedding the hats was an act of teaching management a severe lesson about how unified we were. They turned their wrath on their brethren who thought that hat-wearing was a projection of their professionalism, and in particular, a demonstration of the highly exalted concept of “captain's authority.”

Soon, those who wore their hats became the targets of ridicule and slander, sometimes right in front of the passengers. Tensions grew. The pilot group split over the very thing that was supposed to unite them. Then, an incident occurred that made newspapers and broadcasts across the nation. A hatless first officer shouted vulgarities at a hatted captain in a gate room crowded with passengers. His heated tirade included the threat to use a baseball bat on the captain.

The captain became irate and shivered with indignation. The captain's first officer (not the guy who initiated the clash) wisely concluded that the flight could not be safely completed with his emotionally upset captain. He called the operations manager and explained his concerns. The flight was canceled. The incident hit the news.

All bad enough, but it got worse. The guy verbally assaulted a second hatted captain the same day, threatening to use a lead pipe on him. This threat landed the offender before a board-of-inquiry. The captain who was threatened—a friend of mine named Tim—testified on behalf of the company. Who do you think the union backed? Yup.

It's appropriate that the union represented the reprobate pilot, but rather than question Tim about what he said and heard, the lawyer tried to cast Tim as a company man who wanted to use the incident to work his way up into a management position. Thankfully, the miscreant lost and was fired. But Tim, long time a union supporter and consummate professional instructor pilot who wanted nothing more than to train the world's best pilots, felt betrayed by his own kind. He had dreamed of being a part of this tribe of pilots since he was a kid. Now he's dejected.

The hat switch is still off, and the union leadership—in the midst of critical contract negotiations with the company—is bickering and backbiting among itself, appearing more like a soap opera than a professional association. The company is laughing harder than ever at our ineptitude. It didn't used to be this way. Our union leadership were once adults.

The other day I saw Tim wearing his hat in the concourse. He looked confident and professional. He grinned when he saw me wearing mine. We walked side-by-side down the concourse passing legions of unhatted pilots. None of them made a remark. The passengers saw us. They paid no heed to the others.

The writer of those sagacious words at the beginning of this post would reel with disgust if he knew what was going on in his tribes. But then again, maybe he wouldn't. I think he understood our ilk.

If the union strikes, I'll strike. I'm no scab. But in the meantime, I'll just do my job and be professional, taking care of my passengers. This man would tip his hat at that.

Who is he?

What's Wrong?

A good friend sent an e-mail the other day―addressed to the usual gang, all friends―citing the recent rash of airline pilot incidents: a Delta crew landing on the taxiway; a Northwest crew getting distracted by their laptops; and a United pilot arrested for drinking. He ended his messages with this question: "What is going on in the airline business?”

After a quick Google search I replied: “Over 50,000 airline flights with dedicated, professional crews in their cockpits operate each day without incident. That's what's going on in the airline business.”

So often―and with increasing frequency, it seems―we allow ourselves to be drawn to the sensational minutiae, rather than considering the whole picture. This is partially a result of instantaneous communications. News flashes appear on our Blackberries. We can't ignore them. Constituents get outraged, call for hearings. It's all over the news. Ignorant commentators chime-in ad nauseum. We hear. We read. We cringe.

Nothing has changed. These incidents have been happening for generations. What haschanged though, remains unheralded: commercial air transportation continues to be the absolute, unmitigated safest way to travel. And it keeps trending even better.

Okay, now your questions. Did I know any of the people in the news? Yes, I am acquainted with the person who got arrested. He's a nice guy. He'll be removed from flight status and placed in a dry-out program, after which he will return to the line. But he won't get a third chance.

The laptop situation? Gross negligence. It's not the laptops that are at fault; it's the way those guys allowed themselves to become complacent. Still, they didn't run short of fuel, and they didn't cause a mid-air threat because ATC kept tracking them. No one came near being hurt.

Landing on the taxiway? Three sets of eyeballs in that cockpit are guilty, not just the captain. But remember they were coming off of a 10 hour all-nighter. My guess is that if there had been airplanes on that taxiway, that crew would have seen their error and executed a go-around. Thus either way, there was no immediate collision potential. No one came near being hurt.

And, the guy who had the alcohol in his blood―he had two other pilots with him. Even if he had flown, a safety factor was already in place. No one came near being hurt.
Moral: Flying is safe. The vast majority of flights don't make the news―a good thing. For the ones that do, many safety layers are in place to correct errors.

There are always exceptions. The latest one: Colgan Air 3407, Buffalo NY, 12 FEB 2009. You know that story. Here's a good place to focus. Make sure your air carrier hires competent, experienced, professional well-paid pilots! How do you do that? I don't know. Write them. Write congress. Write the DOT. But be ready to pay more for your ticket.

Dang, I was going to tell you abut the message I sent to another planet.
Next time.

Post your captions for this. (BTW, that's not me.

It's a pudgy captain I used to fly with a lot

when I was a happy DC1-0 F/O.)

Throwing Darts in the Cockpit

Unless you're living in a snow cave in Antarctica you know about the incident last week in which pilots at another airline didn't respond to radio transmissions and overflew their destination by 168 miles. Now I can hardly pass by a group of passengers without someone asking, “What is it you guys do while the plane is cruising?”

This is not surprising because the "passengers" in the cockpit on the errant flight admitted to being in a heated conversation about company matters for over an hour and completely forgot to do their job. Air Traffic Control finally got their attention just as a flight of F-16s was taxing out to go after them—with live missiles, I suspect.

Autopilots are wonderful inventions that save lives by allowing pilots to multi-task during high workload situations and to relax during long high cruise segments. Programmed correctly, the autopilot and its associated computers (most large jets have three such units) knows when it's time to reduce power and descend. But it won't do that unless a pilot pushes a button to permit it to do so. On the 757/767s I fly, all it will do is put up a tiny message that says, RESET MCP ALTITUDE. That, by far, is not the only way you know it's time to descend, but it's the only cue you get from George (that's what the old timers called the autopilot). Those bums who FUBARed missed all the cues.

So, back to the question. My son Brad, asked a good one, 

“Do you read books, throw darts...what?” Here's the official answer: We mind the store.

Every five minutes or so, the radio barks orders at us to change frequencies and occasionally altitude, course and airspeed. We monitor the fuel burn and keep a log to make sure we don't have excessive consumption that might indicate a leak or other trouble. We monitor the navigation systems to make sure we stay on course. We constantly study the weather along the route and at the destination. If we observe conditions not forecast—a “wind bust” for example—we send in a report. We send maintenance reports on breakages and malfunctions. We download paperwork for the next flight, study it, make amendments if necessary, and send back an acceptance, or (on rare occasions) a refusal.

What else? Crew meals take some time—I'm a slow eater. 

And, sometimes we open a manual and review stuff about the plane or the operation that's gotten fuzzy.

My company regards the airspace below 18,000 feet to be “sterile cockpit” country. Since my company has placed that rule in our operations manual, the FAA considers it theirs also. During sterile cockpit we can only discuss matters relating to the task at hand and perform only actions related to flight. That's why I don't take photos of landings. (One of our pilots did that two years ago and posted it to her website, and was summarily fired.) And, the flight attendants are forbidden to call us below 18,000 unless they have an emergency.

Above 18,000 feet there is no prohibition on conversational topics. The captain usually sets the tone. I allow my first officers to vent, but I discourage lengthy, unending tirades.
They are usually quick to see that I like to talk about airplanes, boats, dogs and certain sports. It would be highly unusual to fly with someone who didn't want to discuss in depth one of those compelling subjects.

So, there you have it. That's what we do. Understand that the newspaper you see tucked in my bag's outer pocket is for the layover. And don't assume the round disc-like bulge in my travel bag is a dart board.

I was going to tell you about the message I sent to another planet, but that'll have to wait. Oh, yeah, I forgot. We send messages to other planets too.

Saturated

Carl was flying the other night on the DEN-LAX leg. He's an ex-naval “aviator.” Never could understand why they don't call them pilots. Carl and I have some things in common; we're about the same age, we both love dogs and we and both flew A-7s. But he had better A-7 stories than I did. He kept my sides hurting from laughing so hard. 

I had given the passengers my standard pre-departure speech when I have navy first officers: “Ladies and gentlemen, your First Officer, Carl _____ will be at the controls tonight. Carl is an ex-Navy pilot. But don't let that concern you. I'm an ex-Air Force pilot and I'll be watching everything he does.” Another pilot came into the cockpit to ask for the jumpseat just as I finished the announcement, saying, “Well skipper, now you've got two squids to watch after."

Carl immediately began extolling his vast powers of Naval airmanship as he climbed us out over the Front Range and made the sun rise again. It was a stunning sight. The evening was clear and peaceful, and the sky colors were so vivid and sweeping that we sat awed for a few minutes―the stories and jokes suspended while the three of us drank in sunset. We were peeking into the studio of the Artist of the Universe. He may have looked over his shoulder at us and winked before turning back to His work.

The western horizon was still crimson aglow when we started down the long straight-in arrival procedure at LAX, well known to airline pilots as the RIVER ONE ARRIVAL. I sat there wondering what river could possibly be below us in that parched basin that would have beckoned the FAA to come up with such a name. The RIVER ONE is usually a benign procedure, albeit a fairly busy one. But that night it turned into a monster when SOCAL Approach pulled the dreaded runway switch on us. They switched us to runway 24R, from the usual 25L.

Our navigation computer, called the FMC, doesn't like it when we put a new runway in it in the final minutes. It punishes us by erasing the current routing. Suddenly you find yourself flying with the autopilot in Heading Select not tracking any course, just descending straight into the beehive of air and radio activity that the LA Basin is. Scary.

The change threw us into a frenzy trying to re-establish the proper route transition into the FMC. Of course at such times nothing happens in series, only in parallel. As Carl started to brief the new runway procedures, as he was required to do, voices on the radio began to demand my attention. “Cleared ILS 24 Right, River One arrival, maintain 250 knots until further assigned.” I read back the clearance and consulted the chart for the next altitude crossing. Carl found it before I did. “Set 14,000,” he said, pointing his finger at the Altitude Set window. I put it in as the voice on the radio demanded my attention again. “There is a heavy Boeing 777 your eleven o'clock descending for runway 24 Left, report that traffic in sight.”

As Carl finished his briefing, I looked ahead and slightly left but there was a layer of scud there. I didn't see the Triple. The voice paused for a second after barking instructions to other aircraft and I told him “No joy on the Triple.”

I reached into the chart bag, pulled out an enormous binder and rifled through it trying to find the Runway 24R approach, as Carl commanded, “Set 12,000 feet.” I set the new altitude, then remembered we had not yet accomplished the Approach Descent Checklist. I quickly double checked to make sure Carl had set the correct ILS frequency and course into the receiver, and heard the voice command me to slow to 210 knots. Carl deployed the speed brakes and we heard the roar of wind over the raised panels far behind us.

I reached for the checklist card and started reading the items on the descent checklist, but the voice interrupted again and told me to slow to 180 knots. Carl slammed the speed brake lever back forward and said, “Flaps 1.” I moved the handle to the “1” position. Now we heard a different wind noise and felt the nose adjust downward. I went back to the checklist and resumed accomplishing the items when the voice asked me again if had the Triple in sight. I looked out ahead and low and saw nothing but the lights of the Los Angles basin, zillions of them. How was I supposed to pick out the lights of an aircraft against the backdrop of that cluster of lights?

Then I remembered the cabin warning. I had not done it yet. I pushed my PA button, “Flight Attendants, prepare for landing.” When I looked back up the runway was straight ahead and getting bigger, fast. I thought, I'm about saturated with all this stuff. Too much to do.

Carl said, “Gear Down!” I reached over and slammed the handle down, then looked back toward the Triple. I saw lights on the ground going out momentarily and coming back on. That was the big jet passing over them. Then I saw his flashing strobes. I punched the mic button and said I had the Triple in sight. “Roger, caution, wake turbulence, maintain visual separation with that traffic.”

I looked at the wind display on my EHSI and saw it was a right quartering crosswind. Good. That would blow the Triple's wake away from our course. Then Carl demanded more flaps. I moved the lever and watched the flap indicator travel to the new position. I looked back at the gear indicators and saw three green lights. I read the Final Descent Checklist just as the voice demanded I switch to the tower frequency. I did that, while wondering what I had forgotten, and as soon as I got a sufficient gap in the constant radio traffic I announced to the tower that were on the ILS 24R.

Carl demanded more flaps. They cleared us to land. I saw 1000 feet on the radio altimeter and announced it. Carl said, “Runway 24 Right in sight, cleared to land.” In a few seconds the radio altimeter read 500 feet. I announced it. 

Carl said, “Final flaps 30.” I checked that they were at 30, the gear was down, and the brake pressure was normal.
Carl set the 757 down expertly and smoothly, despite being a carrier pilot, and I took over for the taxi when he slowed. I slumped and took a deep breath. Carl looked at me, wiping sweat from his brow. “Damn!” he said. “We're getting too old for this!”

“What are you talking about?” I said. “I did all the work. You just flew.”

We got to the hotel and ordered cold beers and some cheesy nachos and swapped some more A-7 tales. We both agreed that those were the days when we really had to work. But those were also the days when we were fearless “bullet proof” young turks. (Truth be known I did get scared a time or two.)

We also agreed we were lucky to survive those fighter driver years so that we could come to this slow, boring, challengeless airline job.

Now check this out. A couple of nights earlier, St. Elmo's fire clawing at our windscreens:

Think that's cool? Read what Dr. Edward Wilson wrote about this phenomenon while on an Antarctic voyage of discovery in 1904:

Sat 12 March: This was the most weird and brilliant night I have ever seen at sea. The water was ablaze with phosphorescence. Acres of brilliant light flashed by and the seas that broke over our decks were all ablaze. Ahead and astern were large luminous balls in the water, like gas lamps as far as one could see in every direction. Overhead was pitchy black, with aurora towards the horizon and occasional flashes of sheet lightning. And, to crown it all, St. Elmo's fire settled...on every masthead and on the two ends of all the upper yard arms, just one bright clear star at every point. It was a beautiful sight in the pitchy blackness above, to see these crosses sweeping backwards and forwards as the ship rolled to and fro. The lights were as big and as bright as the Gemini. One is lucky to see this electric phenomenon, for many have spent their lives on the sea without ever coming across it.

Lucky, indeed.

In the next post: The message I sent to another planet.

Texas Losem

I looked down with my usual astonishment at the colors, shapes and shadows of the Desert Southwest. Unscrolling from the expanse ahead I began to make out a semi-circular shape, the typical arc of a hogback formed by the erosion of a plunging fold.

I became puzzled when I saw it was bisected by a straight hogback that cut the semi-circular one off and extended far out in a straight line, dying out in a big mountainous conglomerate in the distance. It looked like a colossal cent mark ( ¢ ) of uplifted, tilted sedimentary rocks. Strange.


I studied it closely as it slid by below and to the left, my nose pressed against the side window like a kid looking into a toy store. Then I figured it out. The straight hogback was a fault line. It had emerged and broken up through the older semi-circular hogback. I looked over at the first officer, Eric, wondering if I should describe it.

I didn't. Geology doesn't excite people like it does me and some others I know. Besides, Eric looked pre-occupied with something.

But I did remark to him that whenever I look down at the Desert Southwest it makes want to put a bid in to upgrade to the left seat of an F-250 with a cabin behind it that sleeps two plus a dog.

"What," he asked. "You mean retire? Right now?"

"That's right," I said.

“Then do it!” he said. Retire right now! Just like you said.” He started figuring. “Hmm. Let's see, we have three hours to go in this flight, that means I would get three hours of captain's pay!” His grin widened.

I shook my head in mock disgust. “That's all you guys think about. You would do anything to improve your seniority!”

“Yes, we would!”

I said, “I know. I fear for my life every time I start my truck.”

Eric was in a much better mood than earlier. He had been bellyaching about the money he had spent in Vegas the previous evening. He had met two ladies he knew back home in Virginia and had taken them both out for a bit of gambling and dinner. He lost $300 at the Texas Holdem tables; that was his preferred game. 

One of the chicks put $15 in a slot machine and won $500.\They left and went to an upscale restaurant the ladies suggested to him. He bought the drinks, $17 martinis, but he assumed it was to be “dutch” rules for dinner, since it wasn't an official date.

Expensive wine flowed and the meal came in courses. When the bill came due he plainly saw they did not intend to pay.
They started a chatty conversation between themselves, not displaying any inclination to tap into the gambling winnings, while he eyed the tab. It soon became obvious the “rich” airline pilot was to pay. He ponied up.

While I went back to marveling at the landforms below he examined his credit card receipts, shaking his head. “I wasn't even drunk! How could I let them do this?” I asked to see the receipts. The cocktails were $55. The main tab was over $200.

“But you enjoyed their company,” I suggested, grinning.

"Not That much," he yelled.

I had stayed in the hotel and watched Bama take Ole Miss behind the wood shed while Eric was entertaining the chicks. I got the best deal.

That $600, I thought, would go far buying gas for the fifth-wheel rig—when the time comes, that is. It won't be too soon for Eric.

And I've got a chick and a dog who wants to go along exploring the geological wonders of the lonely American outback. That won't be too soon for me.

Runway 25R at Las Vegas. Lose

an engine on takeoff, plan on turning soon.

Admiring cumlo nimbus from afar

What is this? Give me its scientific

name and its common name.

Aviation trivia question:

The F-100 Super Sabre was manufactured in 4 versions, the A, C, D, and F. What happened to the "B" Model?