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.

Fading Away

I enjoyed another nice layover in Sao Paulo despite the madhouse atmosphere on the streets over the coming World Cup. That and the social unrest over the government’s spending on that event, to the exclusion of other things the country needs, is fueling bad juju with the folks.

Nevertheless they all are excited about the games. I heard that Team USA checked into our hotel while I was sleeping off the all-night leg down from Houston, but I never saw any of them during the layover.

We had decided earlier to splurge a bit to celebrate my coming freedom and so planned to dine at Bovinas. While waiting for the restaurant’s van to pick us up another United crew showed up. Good. The more the merrier.

As the two crews sat across the table exchanging pleasantries and news of mutual friends I noticed the other captain, a guy named Bill, was mostly quiet. When Bill got up to go to the salad bar one of his guys told me he was about to retire—the very day before I do. I thought I would humor him a bit. When he got back I said, “Bill, I just heard you retire July 19^th. You old fart!”

He looked back at me, expressionless. Then he looked aside at his first officers. “I told you guys not to bring that up.” They laughed nervously and goaded me to tell him when I retire. I told him. I was expecting at least some emotional response from what I considered some sort of a brother now that we were virtually walking out the door together. All I saw was a guy looking down picking at his salad.

I decided to leave it be, but the outher guys started pelting me with questions about what I was planning to do (see previous post for answer). After a spirited and funny exchange with them, curiosity overcame me and I asked Bill what retirement trip he had in mind. With absolutely no emotion in his face or voice he shook his head and said, “Nothing. I just want to fade out.”

I pondered that for a minute and knew it was best to change the subject, but I couldn’t help but ask him one more question, the one I had been answering profusely to the other guys for the last ten minutes. What was he going to do in retirement? His terse answer: “Look for a job.”

I was astounded. This guy had been hired in 1978. He was super-senior. He could easily have two million in his retirement accounts; could hold any airplane he wanted as captain; could have any base he wished; any schedule, any vacation. He was a top dog on the much revered seniority list. But why was he so bitter?

I was not to find out, but the next night on the northbound flight we discussed it. Maybe he had personal problems. Maybe the company had done him wrong somehow. Maybe financial problems. Two or three ex-wives, perhaps? Who knows? There are unlimited ways a guy can screw up his life. I wrote Bill off as an oddity and hoped his future would be bright. My thoughts turned to my own much anticipated retirement trip. I would see the boss next morning about it.

The company had established an impressive method of sending its pilots into retirement, to include special consideration on where the honoree wants to go; two free reserved first class seats or four free reserved coach seats for his or her guests; up to two extra hotel rooms at corporate rates; a water cannon salute upon return—courtesy the airport fire department; and a cake and a presentation in the pilots lounge at the completion of the trip. I wanted all of this. I would not be a bitter fader-outer like Bill.

The “flight manager” as he is called, welcomed me into his office. He congratulated me and asked the usual questions about what I planned to do (see last post again). Then I asked him what the protocol is for arranging that final celebratory flight. He said, “Well, it’s a bit early yet. We need to see what your July line looks like when it comes out and we’ll make adjustments. Where do you want to go?”

I said, “Frankfurt. But I’m not a line holder. I’m a reserve.”

He frowned. He took out a copy of the rulebook mumbling, “Hmm. I’ve never done this for a reserve pilot before.” A minute passed as he read and rubbed his chin. “This is not very clear,” he said. “Excuse me for a minute.” He went out, apparently to seek consultation with someone.

He came back with a long look on his face and drew a deep breath. “I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do for you.”

I sat stunned, mouth agape, not knowing what to say. He continued saying, “ALPA and the company apparently got together and decided that you guys can’t pick your trip because that would usurp the seniority protocol.” He shrugged. “All you can do is take what they give you or try to pick up an open trip. I’m sorry.”

I slowly got up and turned away. I remember mumbling to no one in particular, “So, that’s that.”

As I walked out his door without further comment he said, “It didn’t used to be that way around here.” I didn’t look back.

I found a quiet place and sat and tried to make sense of it. Even if I was lucky enough to find an open Frankfurt trip, or any other exactly when I needed it, it would be too late for all those other arrangements. Those things needed time and coordination. The promised reserved seats had to be booked early, not hours before I got the trip assignment.

I rubbed my face and stared at the floor, unbelieving it had come to this. The company and the union—if the flight manager had been right—had thrown me and all other retiring reserve pilots under the bus. My 25 years of service—most of which I spent as a line-holder, not as a reserve—meant nothing. I didn’t feel special in the least. I was simply a paper clip used and thrown away in the everyday business of corporate commerce. There would be no fini flight. My family had been talking about it for weeks. Some of them wanted to go along. What would I say?

The vision of Bill sitting across that table looking down at his salad came to mind, and his statement, “I plan on just fading away.”

I guess that's what I'll do too.

"Old soldiers never die. They just fade away."

--Gen. Douglas MacArthur

The northern Andes decompression escape procedure depicted on the EHSI.

            

 I just spent ten and a half lonely, dark hours in that office.

Down to the Wire

It would seem Decision Height is coming to an end soon, as retirement looms only a few weeks away. I haven't decided yet whether to keep posting or craft a profound finale and let the blog rest on its laurels.

In the meantime a question has been coming repeatedly my way in recent weeks by nearly everyone I know or meet anew: “What are you going to do when you retire?” I give them my canned answer, trying without much success, I reckon, to squelch any rumination that I might miss this job. I know I will though.

What I won't miss is the o'dark-thirty alarm that compels me out to the local airport to hop a packed 50 seat regional jet headed to Houston so that I can make an afternoon trip check-in. I won't miss standing in the depressing terminal being told the RJ is weight restricted and will fly away with three or four empty seats, leaving me and justifiably irate paying customers standing by watching it push off. I won't miss begging jump seats on other carriers, and I certainly won't miss riding the torturous, electric chair style jump seat on an ERJ-145. Actually an electric chair would be preferable.

I won't miss the morale-sapping labor/management wars and the impersonal government-style bureaucracy of an enormously bloated airline. I won't miss the plethora of absurd, smothering rules and nonsensical procedures that daily come down the pike from administrative "pilots" who rarely fly but need to justify their cushy weekends-and-holidays-off desk job.

Take the No Smoking sign switch, for example. They found a use for it. We cycle it passing through 10,000 feet to signal the flight attendants, which is a good thing. But the new rule—which we ignore—says the captain and only the captain can touch that switch, even though it is right in front of the first officer. So, picture this: I’m hand-flying the plane in IMC and passing through 10,000 (going up or down) I’ve got to take my eyes off the gauges, lean way over toward the first officer’s side of the cockpit and cycle that switch, which is right in front of his eyes. That switch must be so awesomely critical a first officer cannot be trusted with it. Jeeze, I won't miss that crap.

I won't miss the petty turf wars constantly being waged in both the company and the pilot's union. I won't miss bowing down three times daily to the sacred contract and abiding by its confusing, absurdly complicated and contorted commandments (Not to say I don't appreciate the contract; I'm just tired of ordering my life by it.)

And the big airport culture—boy, I will not miss that rat-race. No more being caught up in crowds of people running to catch their connections, either because they are late or because they stupidly booked too close a connection time. No more getting blocked in the moving walkway by someone standing there looking ahead, agog and clueless. (My "Excuse me" always startles them, makes them realize they are not the only person on the planet. They start walking, slowly, at a snail’s pace. No. That is not what I want. I want you to stand aside.)

No more answering brain-dead questions about where baggage claim is while standing right under an enormous sign that tells where it is. No more being stuck behind a slow walking group chatting with each other and who simply must walk line abreast blocking the whole width of the concourse.

No more crashing in to idiots looking down at their phones, or others with tunnel vision who suddenly reverse course, or cut across in front of you, with no awareness whatsoever. Why do people check their brains at the airport door? I will not miss this madness.

What will I miss? Too much to list. Examples: Taxiing the 767. What a delight it is to motor that beast around an airport—almost as much fun as flying it. I'll miss its awesome power and its delightful flying characteristics. I'll miss that odd sound the two big Pratts make when you reduce the power to idle for descent. Remember what a whale sounds like under water, from the National Geographic programs? That's what it sounds like. "Finally," they're saying to each other, with a huge groaning, mournful sigh, "we're going down. I'm tired."

I'll miss the moon-lit skies over the Caribbean and the Southern Cross over Amazonica. I'll miss watching from the North Atlantic tracks the summer sun dipping very slightly below the northern horizon and then angling back up in front of us blasting its retina-searing lasers into our cockpit. I'll miss that oh-so satisfying feeling of a grease-job landing, and the almost narcotic feeling of relaxation and relief knowing the long trip is behind us. I'll miss the satisfaction of binging her to a nose-bobbing stop at the destination gate. I'll miss the handshakes after the shut-down and the parting words that are exchanged. “Good job!” “Great flying with you.” “Enjoy your days off." "See you next time.” After July 20 there will be a lot of days off and there won't be a next time.

Mostly, I'll miss the folks. Quality people are drawn to airline cockpits. Most of them are top shelf. They love their work and they work well. They are consummate professionals. I have spent many years among the crème de la crème of the flying profession. I will miss them more than anything else.

So, back to the question; what am I going to do?

For starters I'm flying my RV-6 to AirVenture (I've finally learned to land it) to meet up with several of my old USAF pilot training buds, some themselves recently retired. After that there will be a few trips to make with the family, and every Bama football game, and the enjoyment of the Fall—every single day of it. There will be hiking treks, canoe trips, boating, fishing, airshows and fly-ins, and frequent visits to kin and friend.

There will be church and Sunday dinners with the family,Thanksgiving to enjoy at home, all the parties and delights of December, Christmas Eve candle light service, Christmas Day, New Years, and the Super Bowl—things most people take for granted. Liberally dispersed in amongst all the above activity will be long visits with a wee little guy that came into our family about 18 months ago. I aim to see him grow. Wow! Such freedom.

Is a new blog in the offing? One that celebrates sport and general aviation? Maybe. We'll see. If I decide to do that I'll post a link to it. I plan finish up a novel I'm writing and start another. It may surprise you that they're not about flying.

I’m not sold on the currently popular trend of having your blog posts bound into a book, although I will ponder using much of what you have read over the years to write my story about “flying the line.” We’ll see about that too.

It appears that guy is going to FOD the engine.

OMG! He is FODing that engine!

 

Ham Lee and me. Such hunks.