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.

T.U.C.

You all know I don’t normally comment on current events in aviation—preferring instead to muse upon the human experience of flight, which is why I avoid all talk about Mayasian Flight—whatever the number. My guess about the lost 777 is as good as yours. But this business about the boy who rode the 767 wheel well to Maui is too compelling to ignore. I won’t go into details because this blog’s readers know them already. The question is, is it true or a hoax?

I remember way back in 1972 when my friend Steve Hart volunteered to remove his oxygen mask at 35,000 feet in the Vance altitude chamber. Steve was a big, healthy lumberjack type of lad from Oregon, a little oafish but one of the most likeable characters in the class. Steve was also naïve and had not yet learned that the act of volunteering in the military has more downside potential than upside. The rest of us were admonished to watch Steve and relate what we observed, from his sacrificial shedding of his mask, with what we had learned in the classroom about TUC (“Time of Useful Consciousness”).

TUC is self-explanatory. Obviously, you can be awake but not useful at the controls of an aircraft—a passenger none-the-less. Depending on which source you look at, TUC (at 35,000’) can range from 30 seconds to 2 minutes, depending on the age, sex, weight, and physical condition of the ill-fated subject who experiences it. Steve, with his youth, strong body and robust disposition would tend toward the long end of the aforementioned TUC range—or so the classroom instructor had us believe. Steve and I being buddies, I was sitting beside him when the ruckus broke out.

Two instructors wearing “walk-around” oxygen bottles closed in to be of assistance if needed. One asked Steve, via intercom, if he was ready. He nodded awkwardly (which is the only way you nod when wearing a helmet and mask, and all the flailing accoutrements that go with them). Steve also punched his mic button and tried to verbally answer “yes,” but against the onrush of pressurized oxygen being forced into his mouth and nose, we all heard only a hissing, croaking, guttural grunt.
 
His big hand reached to the side of his helmet and fumbled clumsily at the mask attachment fitting. We were all new to helmets and had not yet learned exactly how to attach or detach a mask without looking like a klutz. It embarrassed all of us until we learned the drill. Steve’s shaking hand fumbled for the release. Finally one of the instructors unlatched it for him. The mask dangled to the side of Steve’s face. I leaned out and peered to the side. Steve’s eyes were the size and shape of dinner plates. He cut them toward me. Then hell broke loose when Steve’s TUC terminated—in about ten seconds.
 
He became a wild man. His body convulsed and bucked. His arms flailed and jerked. He half arose, half fell from his seat. The two instructors moved in and tried to re-attach the mask but could not get past the strong fighting, flailing arms. Finally they succeeded as Steve began to expire. It was clear to us all that death would have come quickly had they not gotten his lifeline back on him.

The rest of us sat astounded, sucking our O2, watching the color slowly return to Steve’s face, watching his eyes become clear again. The demonstration over, they slowly re-pressurized the chamber and as we “descended” Steve became his jovial self again but remembered absolutely nothing after pulling that bayonet latch from its tunnel on the side of his helmet.

That taught us a lesson we never forgot about TUC, but more importantly it taught us that man was not meant to fly high up where the air molecules are far apart. We weren’t built for that and when we venture into those regions we should never take for granted that we are teasing Mother Nature with our daringness and our engineering feats. She always bides her time and waits for the technology to break down.

Then comes along a dumb-ass teenager who allegedly soars to 38,000 feet and sleeps peacefully and warmly for 5 ½ hours until he touches down in balmy Hawaii, after which he sleeps for another hour atop his mystery bed.

I heard what a doctor said—it’s possible. I don’t believe it. It’s a hoax.

But more important is Steve’s story, and you knew I’d get back to the usual ponderings. Steve was a decent pilot, not Top Gun by any stretch of the imagination, but very average. He handled all the aircraft we flew well—the T-41, T-37 and T-38. But Steve’s nemesis was formation flying. With only a few weeks left in our year of pilot training Steve washed-out because he simply couldn’t fly stable formation. It didn’t matter that he was a good instrument and contact pilot, they wanted us to do it all, so they sent him home. Steve would have made an excellent aircraft commander on a large plane. Today the USAF would have let him continue on a multi-engine track, but this was 1972 and they thought everyone should be trained to be fighter pilots.

I’ll never forget that sad day when Steve said his good-byes to us all—we in our zoom-bags and he in his civvies. With wet eyes and the unsavory countenance of perceived failure, he drove his Chevy out the gate and into obscurity. Those of us in that class, Vance 73-06, who keep up with each other have often tried to contact Steve. If you know him, tell him we’re looking for him. Tell him we miss him and tell him we never thought for a second that he didn’t have those silver wings on his chest, where they deserve to be.