Hard Clouds

Iceland: where geology and aviation collide. Literally.

You heard about it today. Go here. Thousands of flights were canceled in western Europe and more trans-Atlantic crossings scrubbed. I saw it coming.

Last week my dispatcher routed our Moscow flight north of Iceland. He said the winds up there were better, but he cautioned us to be careful about selecting Keflavik as an alternate. A volcano was stirring. We would be descending through its ash cloud to get there. I decided there would be no divert to Kef unless we were burning.

It was my rest period when we sailed over the northern tip of Iceland and the lads up front had orders to wake me up if they saw the volcano, but alas the island was embedded with the soft cloud variety. Nice trip, though.

Then yesterday all hell broke loose. The big huffer-puffer spewed a zillion tons of what geologists call pyroclastic ejecta into the upper flight levels. Not good. Planes can fly through ash clouds but not their engines. Here's what happens:

St. Elmo's fire attacks your windows, portending bad things coming. Then your airspeed indications become entirely unreliable. You had better hope you'll make  a daylight landing because your landing light covers will erode to a milky hunk of gunk. But even if it's daytime you'll probably not expect to see out front. The windshields will turn into 1000-grit sandpaper. You'd better hope your auto-land system is up to speed. But all this may be the least of your problems, as a British Airways crew found out in 1982.

The 747 heading to Jakarta entered a clod from an Indonesian volcano. (You thought I misspelled “cloud”, and I did, but decided “clod” is actually accurate.) All four engines punched their time cards and knocked-off early. Flying through rock was not in their union contract.

Ash then entered the cockpit forcing the crew to get their oxygen masks on. I can tell you from experience, that any emergency you encounter doubles your adrenalin pressure when you hang that hose on your face. Reality slaps you and your survival instinct starts whispering urgent appeals to your brain.

The crew decided they had 23 minutes of gliding time—about 100 miles of distance. Huge island mountains loomed ahead. The captain turned toward the sea to give him more time. As they descended toward thicker, clearer air the captain, in typical British coolness, made one of the most famous passenger announcements in aviation history: “Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. We have a small problem. All four engines have stopped. We are doing our damnedest to get them under control. I trust you are not in too much distress.”

As passengers scribbled goodbye notes to relatives, the crew tried to get the engines re-started. Number 4 started first. They used its thrust to reduce their descent rate and gain some time. Then 3 spooled up. Then numbers 1 and 2 must have said, “Aw hell, the fun's over, let's go back to work.” They landed safely and the passengers used their goodbye letters to wipe tears and noses.

So, you want to complain—do you—about getting stuck at the airport or having your flight canceled just because a little old ash clod got loose? Don't just sit there and suffer this outrage. Protest. Get one of these bumper stickers:

Oops. I saw this ugly machine sitting on its nose at San Juan.

What is it, and what is the standing joke about it?

Right Deviation

Plowing contrails gives you a lot of time to think. You think about how the world is, and how you would change it if you were the planetary monarch. You think about how common sense and logical reasoning seem to have gone the way of Nehru jackets and bell bottoms. And then suddenly something happens that proves it.

I had just told the passengers to get their cameras ready. The Grand Canyon was ahead. You know what a nut I am about the Canyon. I'm a degreed geologist and the Canyon captures me into it every time I see it. Remember the post I wrote about following Buddha down into the Canyon in a pair of A-7s? (Mar 21 2008).

Approaching it from the east, I called the Los Angeles air route traffic control center and asked them, as I have done dozens of times, if they would approve a “canyon tour.” It's not a real “tour.” The pilots and controllers have informally dubbed it that over the decades. It's just an approval by the center to deviate slightly off course to overfly the Canyon and make a few S-turns so passengers on both sides can get good views. The people love it. 

But the controller's reply left me aghast. “I'm sorry we can't do that anymore.” I waited for elaboration but he offered none. I asked why. He said a new directive came down forbidding the controllers to approve Canyon deviations. He said he thought it came from outside the FAA from people concerned about noise levels in the park.

I looked at the first officer and we both shook our heads in disgust. Then I punched the mic button and registered my commentary: “No more kids in the towers. No more Canyon tours. What's it all coming to?”

A few long few seconds of silence passed. I imagined him pondering my rhetorical question. I expected he would probably call back and say, “Yeah, that's too bad,” or something similar. Then he called, but he didn't comment on the question. Instead he said, “There's an area of reported turbulence ahead. You're cleared to deviate right of course as necessary.” Right was exactly the direction we needed to turn to get over the Canyon.

I cracked a gigantic grin and pressed the mic button. “We're getting into it now. We'll deviate right and report when we are able to resume course.” There was no turbulence. The people got their view and after the flight many of them thanked us.

Maybe our noise did filter down faintly into the canyon and spoil the natural ambiance of some of the rim gawkers and hikers down there. But dammit, our passengers owned that Canyon too, and they deserved to experience its grandeur from above. I'm an out-doorsman and I love the wilderness, but I've got no apologies for letting a bit of jet noise settle into the Grand Canyon.

Yeah, if I was king, I'd command the return of common sense to the planet. And I'd appoint a certain guy sitting in a dark room in front of a radar console in Los Angeles to head up the effort.   

(Obviously some insolent first officer made 
this nasty write-up about his captain.)

Look at this amazing breached anticline in Wyoming:

Here's how it was created.

Amazing Creator.

No Kids Allowed!

Absurd, don't you think? The incident of the kids in the control tower at JFK last week. You remember how the controllers got in trouble for it?

Preposterous, you say? Me too. Think about it: How dare they? What an abomination! A screw-up of colossal proportions that must not go unpunished and un-made-an-example-of. (Is there a better word for that?)

They let the kids talk on the radio! Ludicrous! Kids need to be banished forever from the crucial expanses of our tower cabs. Why, their controller-parents might just decide the kids are pretty darn good at the job, and might take a coffee break, go down to the lounge and leave them working the cab alone. It could happen, you know! We've got to stop it.

This is the kind of disastrous irresponsibility that must be vetted out and laid open so that the knowledgeable, all-knowing, enlightened, aviation-savvy public can see and throw hot stones of indignation at. Heads must roll, say the talking heads on radio and TV.

Never mind that every accident or near-miss that ever occurred on an airport that was the tower's fault happened without a kid in the tower.

And never mind a plane with 50 trusting passengers stalled and spun out of control in Buffalo because two undisciplined, untrained, unskilled under-paid and un-rested tyros pretended to be airline pilots. That's old news. And that takes too much money to fix. Let's let that one fade. We need something new to jump on.

Maybe I'll be jumped on next. Last week I let a kid visit the cockpit before departure. His rapid-fire questions and effusive enthusiasm caused me to suffer a lapse in judgment. I picked up the handset and let him say, “Hi Mom,” on the aircraft PA. Then I threw all caution to the wind and asked him if he would like to start a jet engine. His eyes widened. His head nodded vigorously. "Not the main jet engines," I told him, "just the little one way back in the tail―the APU."

I opened the side window so that he could hear it spool-up and showed him the start switch. He twisted the switch, heard the engine begin to whine, and watched the lite-off on the EGT gauge. My first officer sat on his side grinning and said to me, “You'll be on CNN tonight.” I looked back down the isle and saw numerous heads leaning out looking toward the cockpit.

So, what's next? I guess I'll soon be seeing a rule come out saying I can't let a kid visit my cockpit before departure. When that happens I think it'll be time for my cursum perficio.

(What about dogs?)

Quote of the post: "If the Wright Brothers were alive today Wilbur would fire Orville to reduce costs."
--Herb Kelleher, Southwest Airlines

Many good comments on the previous post. But one of these days I hope to piss somebody off.

Distracted Solutions

I'm peeved. The FAA and NTSB already has access to a recording of the last 30 minutes of each flight, which they can review in case of an accident. That will soon become the last 2 hours of the flight. I've got no complaints about that. But this latest “safety” initiative that you just read about by these agencies, and some of their stooges in Congress, is an insult to our intelligence and integrity, and if implemented will itself become a cockpit distraction.

Big Brother wants to hear all of the conversation in our cockpits, all of the time. I think this is unchecked government intrusion that can grow like cancer. Moreover, the need for this invasion is not borne out by facts. Despite some isolated incidents, we have brought about the safest era of flying in history.

Yes, there are exceptions. In Buffalo last year 50 died when two neophytes that should have never been in that cockpit prattled like school kids while their plane stalled. That was an anomaly.

And the guys who overflew their destination while working with their laptops? Another anomaly. Nobody died. Not even close.
So, comes now the corporate manager, who jumps on the government bandwagon to show his “concern” with this “problem.” He seeks to garner brownie points with the regulators by conjuring up a new rule to reduce cockpit distraction.
While high over the North Atlantic, riding along in the quiet ebony skies, the three auto-pilots performing flawlessly, we sent an innocuous ACARS message to Dispatch: GOT A SCORE ON THE SUPER BOWL YET? Not only were we curious about the game but several of our passengers had asked me prior to takeoff that I keep them informed about the score.

Shortly a message issued from the printer. My F/O tore it off, read it and looked at me, mouth agape. I took it.

Here. Read it for yourself:
Sorry, indeed. Needless-to-say, we got miffed. In fact, we got so miffed that the very message became a nagging distraction as we let down into the demanding London terminal area.

After we got on the bus to the hotel one of the F/Os got on his Blackberry to spread the word to his friends about the message. Others had also gotten it it. Then he learned that the new “policy” had suddenly been rescinded―only two hours after it was issued.

So, had someone else, even higher up the management ladder, seen it as nonsense? Or had our union found out about it and slapped some sense into the company's face?

Don't know. All I know is that problems, real or perceived, don't get solved with cockeyed, knee-jerking directives. The idea of monitoring cockpit talk falls solidly into that category.

BTW sports fans, what does the red lines across the message mean?


One of my favorite sights: The contrail angle swing.
Man! Do I have a good job, or what?

Quote of the post:
"A recession is when you have to tighten your belt; depression is when you have no belt to tighten. When you've lost your trousers, you're in the airline business."
--Sir Adam Thompson

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?