Monkey Business

More years ago than I wish to recount I was sitting in an auditorium full of USAF officers. A beak-nosed, beady-eyed colonel was lecturing us about the growing problem of military pilot retention. (The airlines were on a hiring frenzy because of expansion and retirees.) 

“Why,” the colonel asked us rhetorically, “would any pilot leave the dignified service of our Air Force and our country to become an airline pilot?” He spat the words airline pilot with resentment and contempt.

He came down from the stage and swaggered into the aisle. “We need our pilots to stay in the service of the country who paid for their training.” He looked around, as if searching for those of us who were pondering treason.

“You can teach a monkey to drive an airliner.”

He paused and paced. Our eyes followed him. “And why do they do it?” he asked, eyebrows arched. He held his hand out and rubbed his fingers together. “Money.” He rotated his body so all could see the rubbing fingers. “They prefer money to serving their country.”

I regretted not asking the bastard which monkey he would prefer to be the pilot of the jet his wife and children next flew in. But I didn’t. I didn’t have the guts.

I had served plenty of years in Uncle Sam's cockpits. The tax-payers had gotten their monies-worth. My thoughts turned to the airline application I had been toting in my satchel. That night I filled it out.

As the years have sailed by the need for the old and noble skills of the stick and rudder persuasion has taken a back seat to the mundane and much less glamorous decision-making process. Have we become, in the colonel's estimation, more monkiefied or less?

Yesterday's events offer a clue. We ran slam up against a long line of viciously building embedded thunderstorms. The sky ahead turned to a soup of swirling gray tendrils and got darker every minute. The preflight weather briefing indicated this system would lay low but Mother Nature had once again suckered us. The X-band displayed a line of behemoth red soldiers marching abreast with no room to slip un-noticed between them.

The frequency buzzed with anxious pilots asking this and that of the man down in Minneapolis sitting in a dark room, his face alit with the green glow of his scope. They went left. They went right. They probed the line.

Our ACARS printer spewed messages from Dispatch. The line ended 150 miles north, they said, but there may be an opening 50 miles south. The X-band offered no encouragement for either suggestion. The soldiers came closer. The man at the console wanted our intentions. We decided to head north, to buy some time.

The air was still smooth. Our first class section was finishing its meal. The movie was about mid-run. They were all happy back there.

But for those of us in the front office the worries mounted. The X-band showed the line of storms marching well beyond its range, into Canada. We began to ponder whether we had the fuel to go that far off course.

Then a hole opened at our ten o-clock. Visually, there was no hint of it, but the X-band wouldn't lie. Would it? We studied it as it slid toward our nine o-clock. It appeared to be 40 miles across. We knew we were required to maintain 20 miles separation. If we took it we would be at the limits. The storms on either side of the hole were intense. They were full of red with only a thin crust of yellow and green. Meteorologists call this a steep gradient―an indication of a strong storm.

We told the man at the console we would take the hole. We told the flight attendants to strap in and I spun the heading select knob to a 270 degree heading.

Spinning that knob is a simple task. A monkey could easily be taught to do it. Then the monkey can sit back and strip off his banana peel oblivious to the maelstrom on either side of him. We weren't.

Our eyes shifted left and right. No visibility either direction. The red giants marched past our wingtips. We braced for the turbulence. We hit only a few ripples, then the gray gloom ahead burst away into a searing blue Montana sky. We were through. Our destination, Seattle, lay straight ahead.

It was time for our bananas.

USAF AWACS crossing over us

Recently, at an airport security checkpoint:
Me: What exactly are you looking for when you point that flashlight-looking thing at my ID badge?
TSA person: I don't know. They just told me to do it. (giggles) Don't tell anyone!

Curt's Bad Day

At various times along the way I've written stories about other captains. Keep in mind that I can only get these second hand since I don't fly with other captains. First Officers like to unload on me about the bad flights they've had with certain captains. I hear their names regularly. “Captain Strange Glove” comes to mind. They call him that because he wears military Nomex flying gloves. That's only one of his many eccentricities. (He just returned from anger management counseling.) But let me tell you a story about another one, one I actually know.

Curt was that captain's first officer that day. Curt had no military experience. He had “come up through the ranks,” as they say, flying small airlines, and finally breaking into the big leagues. He had no—what should I call it?—“aggressive” flying experience. (By that I don't mean stunts and pushing the safety limits, but simply challenging oneself to do the more difficult tasks.) His captain, on the other hand, had plenty of it. A bit of unpleasantness between the two surfaced one fine day in Salt Lake City.

It was the captain's leg. They were on a high left downwind when they were cleared for the visual. The captain looked over his left shoulder and decided to make an “energy efficient” approach. To do this, you chop the power at just the right time, usually close to the runway, and throw the gear out to get some serious drag. Then you begin to slow down rapidly. As you come down and slowdown, you milk the flaps out one step at a time as airspeed allows. The goal is to reach 500 feet above the ground at full flaps, on target airspeed and on descent profile. Too high or too fast and you're out of there.

As the captain began the maneuver, Curt became nervous. He said, “I don't think this is gonna work.”

The captain uttered, “Lets take it on down and see if it works out.”

As the runway came into view Curt said, “I'm not comfortable with this.” (Safety specialists call that kind of statement a “red flag.”) But the captain continued. At 500 feet they were too fast and too high. Sometimes things don't work the way we plan them. The captain correctly initiated a go-around.

The tower cleared them for another left downwind visual. The captain was determined to get it right this time. He ordered the gear down a bit earlier than the first approach, figuring that should do the trick. He chopped the power and rolled in on the runway as if to bomb it. Half way through the turn Curt yelled loudly, “I CAN'T BELIEVE THIS! YOU'RE DOING THIS TO ME AGAIN!”

The captain told him to relax, things would work out all right. Curt fidgeted. They came down like the proverbial rock but met all the necessary parameters (barely) at 500 feet. The captain  spooled-up the engines and they made a normal landing. On the taxi to the gate Curt was visibly distressed, breathing heavily, sweating, shaking his head and mumbling. The captain glanced over at Curt and regarded him as a Nervous Nelly.

When the passengers had disembarked the captain went out onto the loading bridge and overheard Curt telling someone on his phone (wife presumably) about what happened. Curt hung up and said. “I'm considering removing myself from this trip with you.”

The captain knew he had done nothing wrong procedurally, except misjudge his first approach. The go-around decision was correct. But he knew he had violated Curt's trust. He apologized and said he would never put Curt in such a situation again. Curt demonstrated enormous maturity and professionalism—traits the captain lacked that day—and accepted the apology. The rest of the trip went very well, with Curt and the captain even enjoying dinner together on layover. And, they flew again on several other occasions.

I know that captain very well, and I know he learned a valuable lesson that day. He thought he had a good knowledge of what they call Cockpit Leadership and Resource Management. He had even led a seminar on the subject with a large group of military pilots and crew members. But he realized he didn't always walk the talk. He got better after that day.

I wonder what they call him now. “Captain Go Around”? “Captain Watch This!”?

What would you call him?

The "Super Moon" coming up over the Bermuda Triangle

Eye of God?

Above the planet on a wing and a prayer,
My grubby halo, a vapour trail in the empty air,
Across the clouds I see my shadow fly
Out of the corner of my watering eye

—Pink Floyd

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