Such Men II

I steered the Six-seven onto the runway in Rome and told Hank it was his jet. I let go the tiller. He grabbed the yoke and began whispering. I leaned closer to try and understand what he was whispering. I glanced at Shuan, who was on the jump seat. He was watching Hank, snickering.

Then I made out his whispers. “Lord, don't let me prang it off! Lord, don't let me prang it off.”

I cracked up. I could hardly acknowledge the tower's call clearing us to take off.

Hank was a comedian. The guy looked like Bill Murray. Even talked like him. No kidding. His quips had me holding my sides for three days. He would rip off the ATIS printout, read it, grunt, and shake his head vigorously. “Un uh. Nope. I don't do sidewinds. Can't remember which wing goes down.” (Hank was a former Navy pilot.)

Other than being entertaining, Hank knew Rome very well and led Shaun and I around to the best spots. We saw some marvelous sights and supped supremely. Hank was a self-proclaimed adventurous eater. At lunch he bought a sack of smoked porkatello, which was carved from the pig as we watched. While we strolled among Rome's ruins he stuffed the stringy meat into his mouth like cotton candy. At dinner he ordered squid fettuccine cooked in squid ink. His plate of pasta was pasty black. I gutted up and sampled some. It wasn't bad.

I always get a kick out of the stories I hear about other pilots, and Hank had them aplenty. His favorite subject was “Splash.” Seems Splash lived on a sailboat in Florida. That didn't seem so bad—until he said the sailboat spent nine years in dry dock, with Splash living aboard.

Yes, the boat was under repair for that long, and Splash chose to live aboard. It actually wasn't even in dry dock. The marina went out of business and Splash's boat sat in the abandoned parking lot propped up on jacks. He went up and down on a ladder. His power came from an extension cord stretched to the marina office. Splash climbed down and went to the office bathroom when ever nature called. He once fell off the ladder, broke his arm and was out on sick leave for weeks. When finally he finished the work on the boat, Hank asked him if it was worth it to wait so long. Splash said, “Sure.”

After the boat finally returned to the water he fell overboard while his friends were partying below. He treaded water while they turned the boat around and searched for him. They saw what they thought was a cocoanut bobbling in the water, but it turned out to be the ship's skipper.  After that, he changed his name to “Cocoa.”

Not surprisingly, Cocoa's troubles followed him into the cockpit. He was a very structured person and didn't suffer abnormalities well. Hank said Cocoa's brain exploded whenever something went wrong―a very un-pilotly trait. Long was the list of those who called in sick to avoid flying with him. Hank recalled one night while they were waiting out a long delay in the run-up pad Cocoa told the captain he needed to close his eyes for a few minutes. 

Then Cocoa leaned his seat back and pulled out a black hood with a draw string at the bottom. He pulled it over his head and pulled the draw string tight around his neck. It looked like a hood over the head of a man about to be hanged. Hank and the captain watched in disbelief as the material puffed in and out as Cocoa breathed.

Not to worry. Splash/Cocoa will never captain your plane. He washed out of captain's school—twice. The second try was so bad they sent him back through first officer training.

Thus begs the question made famous by the Bridges of Toko Ri: Where do we get such men?

Lord only knows, and He ain't sayin'.

Unfortunately our union seems to overly protect them. But thankfully there are very few of them. The vast majority of our pilots are super sharp and, like Hank, almost always avoid pranging take-offs.  

Discovery's final flight. 

I took this pic this afternoon. The view is looking east toward Cape Canaveral.

Our timing was perfect. The passengers crowded the right side of the plane.

Such moments as these: we live for them.

Groundhog Days

This is happening too much to me―these 75 hour layovers in mid-winter, in mid-Russia. It starts with the agonizing drive from the airport, the last hour jerky bumpy stops-and-goes past miles of monotonous buildings in a cramped dark bus. Conversation among the crew of 11 dies out quickly as heads bend to meet hands propped on elbows.  

Finally we arrive at the Marriott Courtyard at 2pm, a discreet hotel embedded on a narrow back street in north central Moscow about a half mile from the Kremlin. We get keys and we pilots agree to meet at 8:30 to go in search of victuals. Eating at the Marriott is quite out of the question. Breakfast alone is over 1000 rubles, about $29. After a deep hard nap, I meet Bill and Frank at the appointed time. We fill our pockets with rubles from the ATM, pull on jackets, gloves, scarfs and ski caps and step into the cutting winter.

We pass an English pub. Looks warm in there. We go in and choke on smoke. Two Scotsmen sitting at the bar beckon us over. They heard our English. They're Halliburton men. I tell them I used to be in the oil business.

We sit at the bar, order ales and look at menus. Bill ogles the pretty blond tending bar and tries to get friendly with her. “Are you from Nepal?” he asks. 

She puffs up. “I am from Kazakhstan!” she barks, and storms away.

Frank and I look at him. “Nepal? Dude, that's in the Himalaya's. It's a backward country. You've insulted her.”

Bill shrugs. “So, I made a mistake.”

Frank coughs. He can't stand the smoke. We pay and leave without eating. I tell the two Halliburton men to “Keep it turning to the right.”* They about spit their beer. They thought I was joshing them about once being an oil man.

Another frigid block and we find a Mexican restaurant, settle in and eat decently and at great expense to the ear-shattering roar of a live rock band. Back at the hotel we agree to meet at 12:30 pm next day for a lunch hike.

At the appointed time I find my two co-pilots standing in the lobby with eyes half shut. None of us has slept well. Like me, Bill has not shaven. But Frank has. Our wallets thinned out, we milk the ATM again. We find a mall food court. I order a pork stew. I leave half of it. Russian cuisine is just not appetizing to me.

It is here that I first notice Frank's strange eating habits. He cuts a flat piece of mystery meat into a grid, somewhat resembling a tic-tac-toe pattern. He eats each one slowly, eyes shifting back and forth. I'm certain he's accessing the palatability of the dish, and from the looks of it, is not impressed. Bill carves up a hunk of roasted chicken for which he paid a small fortune. He is still smarting over the bar girl’s rebuff. Frank finishes his meat, declares it good and we turn up collars for the RTB to the Marriott. We will meet at 7:30 pm for another hike.

7:30. Bill's beard is thicker, his hair frazzled. So is mine. Frank is fresh and tidy. We execute another bone-chilling walk to another cafe. Tonight it is Belarus food. Not too bad. Bill laments about the bar girl while I continue to study the way Frank eats. Again he grids up his meat. He studies each square before forking it, then pauses in mid flight and rotates it on his fork, examining it from every angle. He completely downs the entree before moving on to the potatoes. He finishes those completely before starting on the vegetables.

We are beginning to learn much about one another. Bill, an ex-USAF pilot, is a scout master and is anticipating taking his young troops on a winter hike and campout next week. Frank, a former Navy pilot met his wife in the Navy. She flew F-18s in Iraq, logging several combat missions. Now she is acing medical school. Frank has married far above his station, he reckons, and Bill and I lend support to his conclusion. Back at the Marriott we agree on a 12:30 meet for tomorrow's lunch mission. We wonder why each meeting must be on a half hour, but that's the way Frank likes it.

12:30, day three. I know now how Bill Murray felt in Ground Hog Day. Bill looks positively ragged. Me too. Frank is ready for inspection. We raid the ATM and head out. It's back to the food court. We get pizza. Talk is sparse now. Even the subject of the bar girl has gotten stale. Afterward, we decide to risk a cold hike to Red Square to go in the Russian Museum of History. A bunch of Tsar stuff is in there, they say. We arrive and a guard turns us away. He points at a sign on the door. It's in Cyrillic. We figure he means it's closed. But why must he frown as if we intend to blow the building up? Why must Russians always frown? Frank suggests―correctly, I believe―that it's going to take another generation before Russians emerge from the mistrustful mindset the Soviet regimes bred into them. Back at the hotel we agree to meet for dinner at 7:30.

This time it's Lebanese. Bills gets lamb, I fish, and Frank portions up a slab of beef. I can stand it no more. I ask Frank why he does that. He's puzzled. No one has ever asked him that before. We go back to the hotel and try to hibernate.
 
On the final morning the crew assembles. Bill and I have finally shaved. The bus arrives. We pile on and head for Domodedovo airport for the 11 hour flight. Bill sighs and mumbles, “Livin' the dream, man. We're livin' the dream.”

We have many great pilots at this airline, Bill and Frank included. Their flying skills are exceeded only by their fluency in the art of sarcasm.

p.s. Just as I was about to post this I heard that Domodedovo airport has been bombed. The body count is so far up to 35. I have always been leery of walking through that airport. I'm always picking my way through great masses of grave looking faces, many of them menacing and seedy looking.

Livin' the nightmare.

*This phrase is the oil business's aloha.

Dire Warnings

The trip got off to a shaky start. In the final hour prior to launch, as we were reviewing the paperwork, my dispatcher called. The Moscow weather had him spooked. He wanted to change the weather diversion alternate from Sheremetyeyvo, which is just north of Moscow, to Hamburg, Germany, two hours southwest. That meant putting on another 25,000 or so pounds of fuel. “You mean all of west Russia is hammered?” I asked.

It was, he said, or at least was trending that way. We would have only enough fuel for one shot at Domodedovo before bolting for Hamburg. It could get interesting. We gathered up the papers―a small National Forest's worth―and headed to the jet.

We got out of the gate on time, but as we took the runway the cabin call chime dinged. Bad. They're not supposed to call us during takeoff, but I had not yet advanced the throttles. Frank looked at me, eyes asking, “Should I answer it?” I nodded.
 

"Sick passenger,” Frank said. “Kid throwing up all over the place.”

“Let's abort,” I said. We got clearance to exit the runway and stopped. I sent Bill, the relief pilot, back. He reported that the kid looked like warmed-over-death, although his mother insisted that he was only “air sick” and said we should go on. Bill said several other passengers told him the kid had been throwing up for an hour in the gate room.

I called the chief flight attendant―known at this airline as the “Purser”―to the cockpit. “What's your recommendation?” I asked.

She wanted no part of that deal. Neither did I. If we flew him, we most certainly would be compelled to divert and put that kid off. A costly problem. We called for the paramedics and went back to the gate.

The EMTs said the choice to bring him back was a good one. They loaded him and his miffed mother into an ambulance. Two other family members, all Russians, debarked. It took our ground crew an hour to located their bags in the cargo hold and get them off.

And, get this: the airline booked them all a paid hotel room and gave them meal vouchers, even though their problems weren't our fault, but in reality cost us a bundle in fuel. Remember that, when you read about how lousy our customer service is.

We blasted out of Dulles an hour and a half late and suffered the long night crossing in the high latitudes. The sun finally came up as we got into Russian airspace. The dispatcher's dire warnings about the weather kept us busy watching the weather at Moscow, St. Petersburg, Helsinki, Stockholm and Hamburg.

As we began the descent we saw Moscow 50 miles out. Fifty miles! We were told to expect to see the runway at a quarter mile! The sunlit city lay sprawled out in front of us and got ever bigger.

Oh, well. One day it will pay―and pay big―to play it safe. No complaints from me about that weather forecast.

The layover? That's another story. See the next post.

Moscow all dressed for winter

Sleepless Break

It mystifies me to no end. How can I go for hours up in the cockpit without needing a head call (in the Marine Corps they say potty break) and then when I'm back here in the crew rest seat trying to sleep, I have to go every half hour?

Maybe it's all that rich Italian coffee I gorged on coming out of Roma this morning. Good stuff. Didn't spill any on the console either. I know you read about that last week. A flight headed to Frankfurt from Chicago diverted into Toronto after one of the pilots spilled coffee on the center console. Costly mistake.

I saw the comments on the public web boards: “How could he be so stupid?”

“Why does this moron still have a job?”

Why? Because he's a professional. The reason he still has his job is precisely because he chose to land and have the plane inspected instead of heading out over the Atlantic with possible degraded navigational capability. A good reason to fire him would have been had he continued.

I've done it―spilled stuff on the console. A flight attended once held a cup of orange juice out over the console and when I turned to get it, not expecting it to be hovering there, my arm hit it and the sticky sweet juice hit the console and splattered. We leaped like mad men with paper napkins to mop it up, and we did seconds. Too late. It did its damage in fewer seconds. The number 1 VHF radio and the captain’s audio panel rolled over and died. You can tell because the radio's eyes close. No kidding. The LED lights in the frequency window turn milky white.

Did I fly into a rage? Nope. Did I say, “See what you've done?” Nope. Didn't have to. She knew. She won't do it again. Radios are easily fixable. Feelings are not.

Sometimes more than feelings get hurt on these trips. Two days ago one of our flights coming out of Zurich was suddenly canceled. One of the first officers didn't show up in the hotel lobby for departure. He wasn't in his room. The police located him in a local hospital, all busted up. Mugged.

One of the first officers I'm with on this trip got mugged in Buenos Aries. He was pounced on and pounded down to the pavement as dozens of people walked by not lifting a finger. It has also happened to crew members in San Francisco, Dallas and most any other big American city you can name. Too bad they won't let FFDOs carry their stingers on layover. Maybe then I would become one.
Gotta keep checking six.

My break's about over. Got to hit the head again before going back up front. This blue water flying wouldn’t be so bad if they would issue me a bigger bladder. Or less coffee.

Quote of the post:
Instrument flying is an unnatural act probably punishable by God.
— Gordon Baxter

Not a bad view for an afternoon stroll on layover.

Beachless isle in a glassy smooth Mediteranian.Or island in the sky?

The Dawn Aims at Us

Been lazed? Boy, I have. By Mother Nature.

In the summer over the north Atlantic the sun hovers all night just below the northern horizon and slowly swings up in front of you like a surfacing submarine. Your eyes have plenty of time to adjust. But in deep winter it pops out of the east and fires an eye-piercing beam straight at the cockpit. Gotcha!

Eyes accustomed to dark flight painfully squint. Blocking hands go up. Curses issue forth as shade panels―sarcely effective―are pulled from their cubbie holes and attached to the windshields.

Every time I hang those loathed things, I want to track down the engineer who designed them, grab him by the lapels, slam him against the wall and slap his feckless face. One first officer I flew with suggested he was the Seattle town drunk. He was probably the same one who designed the overhead panel.

One of the difficult concepts I had to adjust to, when transitioning from the 737 to the 757/767 was the overhead switching. The 737 has real switches hanging down. Forward is on. Aft is off. Simple and fool proof.

Now I have to contend with buttons instead. Still, Boeing calls the buttons switches. You push it, it's on. Push it again and it's off. A little light in the button―hard to see―tells you which is which. Yeah, it had to be the same engineer. Jerk.

The two engine anti-ice switches (1 inch square buttons) are located just below the two center tank fuel boost pump switches (also 1 inch square buttons). You guessed it. We descended into the cold clouds over Moscow and I turned the boost pump switches on. Or were they off?. Idiot. Not me, them. Effective human engineering requires effective humans to do the engineering. Dorks.

Still, the 767 is a mighty fine machine and despite my switchology shortcomings it got us to Moscow two nights ago right on time and in one very desirable piece. Yes, you read that right―two nights ago. This is a once-a-year 75 hour, 3-night, layover, because of the transition to the new year. I've been here so long I feel like I need to apply for Russian citizenship.

But no. Don't want that. The Russians have an English-speaking television news station that features one commentator after another trashing America. I don't think the Cold War is yet over.

I'm with two pleasant first officers. We've been enjoying Moscow's eateries and snow-covered sights for, how long? Nearly three days now. One is an ex-Marine, a Buddhist, a vegetarian, and a socialist. Strange combination of traits. I told him to go to Red Square and sing a mantra over his buddy, Lenin.

In a few minutes I'll go down and join the entire crew for a round or two and then we'll bundle up and be off for the mile or so walk to Red Square, where we'll mix with the Russian multitudes. I'm looking forward to seeing fireworks―brilliant as a north Atlantic winter sunrise―over St. Basil's Cathedral. I'd rather be home, but there are worse palces to ring in the new year.

Happy and blessed New Year to you.

Cockroach Corner

One of the few perks about being on Reserve is occasionally a nice surprise comes down the pike. But most such surprises are of the non-pleasant variety. When I saw Cockroach Corner in the itinerary for this trip I smiled. It's December and I was headed for Miami.

The weather was perfect—sunny and 75 degrees. The blue Atlantic lapped against the beach behind our layover hotel. I took a couple of snaps and sent them to my sons toiling away back home. Their replies were contemptuous, but I asked for it.

As I strolled down the boardwalk I thought about how Miami got tagged with a curious moniker known only to the pilots of our company.

Way back in the early 80s we had a hub here with pilots assigned. It was a hugely desirable base and vacancies went exclusively to the most senior pilots in the company. One day the company's CEO, a guy I'll call “Richard the Big Wheel,” came to Miami to speak to the pilots. His opening words were, “It's good to be down here in Cockroach Corner.” Apparently he had seen one of the nasty bugs in his hotel room. The guys laughed.

He came to pitch a new plan he had conjured for our company. The plan was called “Blue Skies.” Under the scheme the employees, especially the pilots, would concede unprecedented concessions in pay and benefits so that Wheel and his lieutenants could use the savings to "grow" the company. When sufficient growth was achieved, he promised restoration and rewards. 

He made the same pitch at each base using what he called a “road show.” He was very persuasive. The pilots voted to approve the new contract, believing that blue skies, indeed, awaited them at the other end of program.

But Mr. Wheel didn't come through. The savings he picked from the employees' pockets went to buying hotels and rental car companies. The core business (the airline) languished and the other businesses got hammered by focused competitors. 

Wheel even tried to destroy the pilot's union. He failed at that too, and thus began the airline industry's most reprehensible pilot/management relationship, which endures today. No succeeding CEO has managed to regain the employees' trust on our property. (I say "property" tongue-in-cheek, because we don't own any property anymore; everything from airplanes to pencils are leased or rented.) But enough whinning. I promised you I wouldn't do that.

The Miami domicile is long closed. The pilots assigned here have moved away with acid tastes in their mouths for the company, or are commuting elsewhere. In fact, our presence here as an airline has diminished to only a few flights a day. Our competitor blew us away.

Now we have yet another new fearless leader who promises to restore respect and move the company forward to make it the world's best. It certainly is the world's biggest. If all our planes were parked nose-to-tail, the total length would be—

You guess. I'll say it in the next post.

I'll be out of Cockroach Corner in a couple of hours, climbing into blue skies—God's blue skies, not Wheel's—and headed back toward winter, hoping the new guy gets it right.

Merry Christmas and a prosperous new year.

Looking west toward Colorado Springs. 

Someone correct me if I'm wrong,
but I think the squiggly lines in the undercast

are heat dissipation from departing and 

arriving aircraft.

You know how I love to watch contrail swings.
Here's another. Watch this guy hit the sun.

Quote of the post: Fly it till the last piece stops moving.

---Anonymous 

 

Attitude

“It's all about attitude, Boss. Ya know? Attitude is everything.”

Mike calls me “Boss” every time we fly. Normally I'd object, but Mike has a great...ah...attitude. It's his way of rendering respect. He's comfortable with it, and thus so am I.

Today, Mike and I are out flying while most people are home enjoying Thanksgiving with their families. Not us. We've got only a turkey sandwich, courtesy of our company, and we've got each other. Mike says, “Let's don't sweat it. We're doing what we we're meant to do. I'm just glad to be alive today.”

Yeah, attitude. I've got to remember that.

When I strolled back through the cabin prior to departure this morning, trying to look like I was enjoying working today, some of the passengers said, "Thank you for working today," as if I had a choice. I just smiled.

Others said, "Happy Thanksgiving.” I wanted to say, “Thanksgiving? What's that? Is that one of those holidays I hear people talk about?”

But I didn't. I didn't want to sound sour. I just smiled and wished them a happy one. It's all about attitude, like Mike says.

Mike remarked in his Bronx accent that we can make our lives miserable thinking and talking about how things ought to be, or we can revel in what's been given us. When I see Mike's name on my schedule, I revel.

On this Thanksgiving Day, I’ve been given something few people will ever experience. MIke and I sat glued to our cockpit windows this morning on the run down to San Francisco from Portland, and back.

Look at these pix and be thankful with me what we saw this morning.

Tamale Bay northwest of San Francisco. 

(The long narrow inlet.)The San Andreas fault 

runs under the bay and exits out into 

 the Pacific to the lower right. On the left side 

of the bay is the North AmericanContinental plate. 

On the right is the Pacific plate. Makes you feel small.

Sunrise in the Bay area as 

we come in from the north.

Headed back out to Portland over 

an early morning San Francisco.

Looking back at the 

Golden Gate Bridge

 Magnificent Mt. Shasta

A volcano in NorCal

Crater Lake Oregon. A classic caldera. I

must go there some day, on the ground.

The shadow of our contrail moving 

north over the Cascades.

Who but mach rangers 

like ourselves can make such

a mark on the world?

But a fleeting mark, it is. 

Another Tradition Gone

I was awed when I saw it. Decades ago when I first started up a USAF A-7D, pushed up the power, heard that big Allison turbofan whine and eased out of the parking spot, I looked down at my crew chief and—to my utter amazement—saw him standing at attention holding a perfect salute. I had not seen this done in pilot training, because back at Vance AFB, civilians worked the ramp.

I wondered who he was saluting, me or his plane. He had a slight smirk on his face and I knew he was thinking: I hope that snot-nosed lieutenant brings my jet back in one piece.

That was my first exposure to a long and rich traditional practice in military aviation: the send-off salute. I liked that. It was a class act. I knew the crew chiefs were proud of their work. I saw that salute every time I flew the A-7. And when I got into the Reserve forces and pushed up the tall throttles of a C-130 or a C-141, I saw it again. Sometimes stripped above the waist to a t-shirt, they stood perfectly rigid, elbow straight-out, forearm angling and flat hand glued smartly to their brow. I always returned it. It was a matter of professional pride and mutual respect.

A drawing from our manual.
I rarely saw one this sharp.

And when I got into the airline world—to my happy surprise—I saw it again. It was standard procedure at my company for the push-back marshaller to salute the captain after the tug disconnected. The salute meant that the push crew was clear of the aircraft and the captain was free to taxi. The protocol required the captain to flash his taxi light to acknowledge the salute and release. Most marshallers saluted only because the rules required it. They were mostly lackadaisical about it.

But some—those I suspected were former military crew chiefs—rendered a a sharp, military-style salute. Those, I returned. Sometimes, after the salute, I would even see a flourishing Navy carrier deck style launch signal, which is an artful whirling of the body down onto the knees, arms stretched forward toward the launch direction. I loved it.

Here's how it's done.

But, as it always does these days, change has come. We have now adopted the ICAO (International Civil Aviation Organization) release procedure. The push marshaller now only holds a thumbs-up. The salute is forever gone.

It's gone the way of many of the old traditions in this industry. No more water cannon salutes for retiring captains. No more pride in uniforms. No more special caring for passengers. It's just a job, now.

Every day it seems a light at the exit door glows brighter for me. It beckons: Come on. Your time is almost done. Count your blessings; you've tasted the golden years. Step on through.

I will—in due time. And when I do, I'll render a final proper salute, not the limp-wristed crooked Clinton salute, nor the hacking-arm Obama salute, but the real kind. The snappy, pride in your job, and respect for the person your saluting kind of salute. I'll turn and salute the plane.

One of my favorite places on the planet:

Spanish Peaks, Colorado. I've climbed the

west peak (far one) 4 times.
 

Quote of the post: There has always been a certain romanticism associated with the airline business. We must avoid its perpetuation at Eastern at all costs.

— Frank Borman

Lord, Don't Let Me Get Stapled

Every line of work has its jargon, its insider talk and funny little mumblings understood only by members of the ilk that created them. I've been a part of three of the foremost such sorts: the arcane and highly profane military; the profoundly esoteric oil business; and now the most exclusive of them all—the airline industry. More specifically, the airline pilot business. Why exclusive? Because nobody else is allowed in the “office.” 
So, as I was making my commute home yesterday sitting on the jumpseat of another airline's packed Boeing 717, I chuckled while listening to the banter between the pilots. I impulsively decided to pretend to myself that I was an outsider watching and listening to these two men spouting jargon and quips that never leave the cockpit environs—not because they're arcanely profane or profoundly esoteric, but simply because no one outside the profession is allowed to sit there and watch and listen. What struck me was the way we refer to our competitors. The predominate topic that morning was Southwest Airlines. 
The two pilots were cautiously excited because Southwest had just announced it was purchasing their company. Now, surely they would get a hefty raise to match the Southwest pilots' monthly haul to the bank—the biggest in the industry—plus a vast improvement in their slave labor contract. Between radio calls and comments about their future in the Southwest deal, one of them would mumble “staple.” The other would say, “click.” Cynical chuckles would follow.

I pondered a long time about the two words but resisted asking, and I finally figured it out. But I prefer to let some of my readers explain it in their comments.

When I heard them refer to Southwest as “Southblessed” I knew exactly what they meant. For years now, since Southwest's rise to preferential treatment in the news media, the rest of us have perceived (wrongly, I'm sure) that Southwest also gets sweet deals from Air Traffic Control. Common examples:

Ground Control tells you, “Hold for Southwest.” You look and see that he's taxing toward you a quarter mile away yet. You could easily go in front.

Approach Control extends your downwind leg 10 miles to get Southwest, coming in on a straight-in, in front of you.

Center vectors you off course so that a Southwest jet can cross unimpeded in front of you. When you think about how you are twice the size of the Southwest jet salt seeps into the wound. 
And then there's that legendary (and probably fictional) radio call from the Tower that everyone loves to quote: “Aircraft declaring an emergency, standby. Southwest, go ahead with your request.” 
Southwest is beyond argument a great airline, but the rest of us often get a bum rap because the traveling public's expectations of Southwest are low, and thus easily met. Good for them. They know how to do business. Southblessed, they are with a good management team and a good employee culture. But I hope the AirTran guys don't get stapled.

Speaking of amusing airline nicknames often heard in the cockpit, here are a few more:

Jet Blue- Jet Who
US Air- Useless Air
Value Jet- Valium Jet
Air France- Air Fright
BA- Bloody Awful
Northwest- Northworst
Virgin America- Vermin America
Western Pacific- Western Pathetic
American- Sky Nazis
American Eagle- Hitler Youth Corps

United has suffered only a mild insult with the timeless tag, Untided.

No one, to my knowledge, has came up with a nifty nickname for Delta or Continental. Who wants to get one started?

Finally, the trash-hauling corps hasn't escaped descriptive scorn:
UPS- UPS Me Off 
Emery Air- Emergency Air 
Fed Ex- Fed Axe (Will someone else explain that one? I don't have the stomach for it.)

Recent snap shots:
Nice outsourced paint job

Contrail mania over Chicago

On a right downwind to the Maui airport.
At least we don't have to extend for Southblessed
out here in the Pacific―yet.

Quote of the post:
When I returned to earth just at darkness I would shut down the engine and sit for a few minutes without moving. I would pull off my helmet and rub the places where my goggles had pressed too hard....I sat waiting for my spirit to rejoin me on earth, because it always seemed I had left it on some cloud and I would listen to the tinking metal of the engine as it cooled and wondered at my extraordinary good fortune.―Ernest Gann, upon aliting from an aerobatic flight in his biplane

Judging Jenny

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


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

Rolling in hot on the Grand Canyon

Quote of the post:

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

— Robert Priddy, ValuJet CEO, 1996