After the storm: fly home–but not so fast.

After the divert to Wichita Falls, time to gas and go: Flight Dispatch says DFW is accepting arrivals. That’s all we needed to hear–we’re refueled and refiled with Air Traffic Control. As soon as we’re released by tower, we’re in the black night and headed south to DFW at 280 knots.

Would be flying faster, but 280 is the best turbulence penetration speed and though the ride’s not overly bumpy, the latticework of cloud to cloud lightning straight ahead promises roughness. We’re making a beeline for one of the four arrival corner posts for DFW at 10,000 feet.

Things will happen fast on a 70 mile flight, and the First Officer is flying: he’s sharp, and that allows you as captain to oversee all of the preparation, the checklists, the navigation and most importantly, the radar. Approaching midnight, we’re now 12 hours into our pilot duty day, but regardless, there is still the same roster of tasks to be accomplished–and they don’t care how tired you are, they must be accomplished correctly.

Getting a good look at the current radar sweep and things look ugly. The cells have broken up and are scattered like mercury all over the place. The DFW airport arrival information is automated: weather, winds, runway–all printed out from the on-board data link printer. The DFW info says landing south–so you set up frequencies, courses and descent altitudes in both sides of the Flight Management System, as well as both pilot panels. While he flies, you brief the approach.

Have to swing wide around storms–request a descent to get below scud blow-off you can’t see on radar, but which you detect because it’s blocking the pattern of ground lights you know should be Denton. As soon as we begin descent, the master caution light glares in front of your face, along with a pressurization clue. A quick glance at the pressurization control panel above the F/Os head shows we’re holding cabin pressure fine, it’s just that we never reached the programmed cruise altitude and the computer is confused.

“Off schedule descent,” you say, punching off the warning light. Reset the cruise altitude to 5,000, which is lower than where you are, to let the computer recalculate and catch up.

“Radar vectors to 35 Center,” says the air traffic controller. Dammit–we set everything up for a south landing per the DFW info.

“ATIS says DFW landing south,” you say, making sure there’s absolutely none of the annoyance you feel in your voice.

Pause, wherein you can imagine the controller saying to someone the ATIS is wrong. “I’ll check on that, but plan north.

Redo the courses, rebrief for the F/O, reinsert the proper approach in the FMS and extend the centerline for intercept. Complete the checklist down to configuration, validate the Heads Up Display Data. Staring at the lights of The Ballpark in Arlington miles south, doing the math on descent rates versus final turn altitude based on a left turn thereabouts. Looking good.

A loud snap as the autothrottles kick off. “I’ve got them back on,” you say, reaching up to reinstate the system. F/O nods, concentrating on flying.

Now ask yourself why they tripped off. No failures annunciated–they wouldn’t have reinstated with an internal failure. And it’s not that choppy. Has to have been a power interruption. Glance up–sure enough, there it is.

The left generator bus source is gone. Is it the generator or the bus that’s failed? Regardless, we’re flying with only one electrical source–the right generator. Not good.

First instinct is to start the Auxiliary Power Unit (APU), a small jet engine in the tail that can provide electrical power and pressurization air–but wait.

If the fault is in the left electrical bus, adding the APU generator could either cause a fire, or take down the APU generator. Be patient.

Although you know the right generator has assumed the power load–so the bus must be okay–why take chances?

“We’ve lost the left generator,” you say, reaching for the Quick Response Handbook. “I’ll take care of it. “F/O nods.

The procedure confirms what you deduced. Within a couple minutes, you have the APU running and power restored. Follow the QRH procedure exactly; better to have two electrical sources–if you’re down to one, if it fails, it’s going to get dark and ugly: flying with limited instruments and systems on 30 minutes of battery back up. In the weather, at night. We can do it–but would rather not.

Left base turn from an angling downwind. Mike’s doing a good job–he sees the bad angle and is slowing and calls for dirtying up with flaps and gear. The runway’s coming into view on my side. Good altitude and speed; the intercept of glideslope and course will be fine.

Tower calls the winds “130 at 18.”

Dammit. The limit is 15. With the 50 degree offset, we’re close. Legal, but you don’t like flirting with limits. Even on a long runway.

“Continue,” you say to Mike’s inquiring look–he’s done the math too. But you’re just about decided to abandon the approach. But no need to rush anything. Rushing is never good.

“I’ll rebug you to 40” you say, changing configuration as required by the tailwind, “and brakes 3.” He nods.

At a thousand feet, it’s clear that the tailwind is unstable and variable–you can tell from our ground speed versus the airspeed.

No good. “Let ‘s take it around,” you say. He nods, adds power–the descent stops.

“Here comes flaps 15,” you recite the litany for him,”positive rate, gear coming up. Missed approach altitude set.”

“American 245 is on the go,” you tell the tower.

“Fly runway heading, maintain two thousand,” says the tower.

Fine; nearly there–reset the throttles from N1 to speed, reset both FMC from climb to capture. Reset both course windows and MDA–because we’re going to land south. Reprogram the FMS for the 17s.

“I’m going to teardrop you out to the east, then bring you around for a final to the south,” says the controller. “Can you do that?”

Eyeballing the radar: nastiness to the northeast, but there’s some room.

“Give us five miles,” you answer. No need to rush–make this correct, hit every step. F/O nods. “Then turn us back in.”

Slowing, getting dirty. Left sweeping turn.

“Do you see the runway?” asks tower. You do–you give a thumbs up to Mike. He nods.

“Affirmative,” you answer.

“Cleared visual approach, cleared to land, 17 Right.”

Confirm the Right runway freqs, MDA and courses set. “I’ll bug you back up to 30,” you say, changing configuration again: don’t need a whole lot of drag without the tailwind and with a possible wind shear. Mike nods.

Glideslope is rough. You’re on a hair trigger to go around again–there’s plenty of fuel to hold or go north to Oklahoma City or south to Austin. Be alert, be patient.

Increasing wind; good sign–but it has to stay within controllable limits. Mike’s doing a fine job wrestling the jet onto glidepath. The Boeing is a steady machine–an MD80 would be a bucking bronco in this.

Below 500 feet–you’re call: it’s stable enough, we’re good. If Mike wants to go-around, we sure will, but we’re good.

Over the threshhold, Mike puts it down; speedbrakes deploy, he yanks in full reverse, the jet slows.

“Nice job,” you say, taking over as we slow to 80 knots.

After landing checklists, taxi in. Careful, do the job right all the way to the chocks. Engine shutdown.

Passengers deplaning, our shutdown checklists complete. You’re writing up the left generator in the maintenance logbook, a mechanic is already on the jetbridge waiting.

“You can take off, Mike,” you say, “I’ll finish up here.” Meaning you’ll do the final “after all passengers have deplaned” checklist items to power down the aircraft. That’s a courtesy you do–you’re the captain, you leave last. He did a great job tonight–respect that.

We fist bump, he leaves.

You finish up: packs off, recirc fans off, cockpit power off. Grab your bags. Slip out of the gate area past the 160 passengers who have no idea what transpired between Wichita Falls and their safe landing a few minutes ago. Nor should they–that’s what they pay you for.

Fresh air feels good, outside waiting for the employee bus to the parking lot. Nearly 1am, got to get home and get some rest–flying again tomorrow.

Summer Storms, Airline Flight, and YOU as Captain.

Well that’s going to be trouble, your air sense tells you as you wing westbound.

Because you have to turn around and come back once you reach LAX–and this stuff, you can feel it: it’s growing. In a few hours, it will stand between you and “homeplate”–DFW for you–and it will be your job to thread the needle between, above and around the towering wall of what will be full-blown thunderheads by the time you return.

But the weather-guessers say the storms will stay south and west of the Jethroplex, right?

Yeah, my ass. Sorry–been fooled before. Now, we deal with gut feel and radar. Forecasts? Farther out than a couple hours–pretty well useless. Keep flying.

LAX, first stop: got to have a cup of the strong Brioce Bakery coffee. Kind of crave it flying to LAX. Westbound passengers happily herding off; First Officer about his business on the ramp, catering, cleaners. You?

Stout cup of Brioce and radar, your best friend. Which helps you set up your next best friend: jet fuel.

But here’s where your air sense–and 17,000 flight hours–comes in: the storms forming up and marching west to east aren’t really a front passage. Rather, they’re a boundary collision that the cold front is barely strong enough to move. Those storms will stagnate wherever they form–my best guess–so there’s not going to be a quick close-then-open, 40-50 minutes of holding.

Hedge your bets: approach from the northwest in fact, route north over Albuquerque and see if you can beat the frontal passage, or be positioned to slip in immediately after. Plus, from behind the squall, all of your divert options will have a clear path. So in this case, northern route, an hour of holding fuel, see how it plays out.

The first round of bad news comes up on the data link printer in Arizona: “0300 DFW tempo 1ovc tstm lgtctcctg 34012g25 29.77 prsfr.”

Duh: “airport expecting one hundred overcast around 10pm in thunderstorms lightning cloud to cloud, cloud to ground; winds from the north gusting to 25, surface pressure falling rapidly.”

Trouble in front of the front. Cross the Rio Grunge eastbound, nice tailwind rocketing the aluminum tube across the ground at 500+ miles per hour.

My F/O is smart, sharp, quick. A good asset in forming a plan, then a backup, then another. I like options. I choose my words carefully: “Hey, you want any coffee? I’m buying?”

I like the way Angela makes coffee, the old-fashioned DC-10 technique: a splash of club soda on the bottom of the pot before brewing–eases the acidity, gives a smooth flavor. Hell, no rush here–I hate redoing stuff. The radar picture won’t be too well defined until about 300 miles out, even better at 160. Have a cup of Boeing brew and relax.

Okay, now we’ve got something to work with. Did I mention how much I love the 737-800 radar? It has its own GPS system, always plotting where it is–and it knows the terrain everywhere it finds itself and miracle: it screens out ground clutter–and does its own tilt for each range. What you see is what’s there–how cool and smart is that?

This picture is looking southeast. The blob over HIKAY is the nasty storm cell headed for the airport. As I figured, we’ll either beat it, or the airport will close–and it did as we approached 100 miles out. We expected that.

The good news is that we’re assigned a holding pattern over Wichita Falls. Sheppard has a couple of long runways and jet fuel available. Once we’re established in holding at 33,000 feet–a good altitude for fuel economy–I call the Sheppard tower on another radio: how late are you open tonight? How late is the fueler open?

Eleven o’clock for the tower, all night for the fueler. It’s just after 10pm. We’ve got fuel for 40, maybe 50 minutes of holding, then we need about 4,000 pounds to fly north to Oklahoma City.

But we’re right on top of Wichita falls/Sheppard. I can see it–perfect weather. No additional fuel for the divert–we just spiral down.F/O concurs. We start setting up navaids, approaches.

Our holding racetrack--right over an excellent divert spot.

DFW approach updates the airport re-opening projection: midnight.

The mass exodus begins from various holding stacks because no one has that much loiter fuel. Most on the north side are heading for Oklahoma City.  “Put Wichita Falls on request,” I tell the F/O, as we continue all divert prep and logistics with our dispatcher in Fort Worth.

We exit the holding stack northbound with a descent clearance, all of the divert notifications and nav system reprogramming done, approach briefed–we’re way ahead. The winking lights of two jets above us in the pattern suggest what I’d be thinking if I were them: “Smart bastards–first into Sheppard, first for fuel, first out.”

Yup.

Sheppard Approach: “Plan runway 33 center.”

Me: “Unable.” The center runway is 150 feet wide; our wingspan is around 130. The left runway is 300 feet wide–but the Air Force is using it for night traffic patterns in my ex-girlfriend:

Tough darts, wingnuts: when it was me in the Air Force flying the White Rocket, I’d have said tell the civilians to get lost–we’re busy here. Now, with 160 passengers and a crew of 7 on board, I think differently.

I’m doing the math, checking the descent rate and speed and distance–it’s all coming together nicely, “in the slot” as we say. Over the threshhold, follow the HUD cues projected before me on the glass; little narrow-gauge skid marks from smaller jets slide under the nose, then touchdown.

Clear the runway, set the brakes for a minute–whip out my cell phone and call the fueler, “Landmark Aviation.”

“How much fuel do you need,” asks a friendly voice. We have 5,800 pounds on board, I’d wag 3,000-4,000 to get to DFW, 3,000-4,000 more for delays. Plus some more thousands for peace of mind and the unexpected, two factors that usually don’t work well together.

“We need 12,000.”

“No problem, taxi on down.”

Tight maneuvering on narrow taxiways and a small transient ramp, but slowly, carefully, watching the wingtips–we park. I see the lights of two other airliners approaching from the south. Hah! The fuel truck is already here.

First Officer is outside, doing the exterior inspection. I’m on the phone with dispatch for a clearance plan, on the radio with tower for a proposed launch window, then with DFW approach for an expected route, then the phone again for current DFW weather.

My fuel guess is pretty good: dispatch wants us to have 15,000 pounds of fuel–we have 17,500. I love jet fuel.

Me signing for six tons of jet fuel.

Behind us, a Super-80 waits, an Airbus waiting behind him. I chat with the MD-80 captain in the quaint Wichita Falls terminal–he needs to have flight plan faxed to him; we printed ours on our on-board data link printer. I considered for a moment suggesting the dispatch send his to our jet, but I’m not even sure that’s possible. And we’re ready to blast off.

Supposedly, the terminal folks are on their way back and they’ll fire up the FAX machine for him and his 140 passengers. Too bad you ain’t on the Boeing, I thought but didn’t say.

Carefully, point by point, we check our route, then our performance data. Never mind that it’s nearly midnight, 11 hours into our workday–every single detail will be checked. I will see and he will crosscheck every number put into the performance system.

We start engines, a ground man pulls the chocks and salutes: clear to go.

I have a better idea. We sit with brakes parked and accomplish all pre-takeoff checklists so that I don’t have divided attention taxiing out over the mini-sized taxiways.

Tower clears us for take-off. One last check of numbers–the runway, the rotate speed, the weight, the power setting, all check out. Stand up the throttles, all exterior lights on, punch the take-off power button on the throttles and she leaps forward with a growl.

Off the nose, black sky, more storms; cloud to cloud and cloud to ground lightning weaving a brilliant latticework to the south, where we’re going. Dead ahead, more spot decisions, plans, backups, numbers, radar and ultimately, maybe a cup of coffee to go for the drive home once we navigate the weather gauntlet.

But nothing’s set in stone; we’ll just see what’s what when we get to DFW. The coffee and DFW will just have to wait, but I’m patient, and careful. All in good time–despite all pressures to the contrary, all passenger and crew urgency, fatigue; I tune it all out. Every step carefully, thoughtfully–that’s what summer flying is all about.

Quite a light show in the DFW terminal area, and the hurdles spring up one by one, then in droves. Weird, but I kind of like the challenge. But that’s another story.

Summer Air Travel: 3 Things You Need To Know.

You’re traveling by air this summer? Good. But there are a few things you should know and be sure of BEFORE you get to the airport. And, of course, some shortcuts and time-savers and more things you should be aware of once you get to the airport to avoid an ugly surprise on check-in.

Because it’s not enough to just show up on time any more. In fact, without attending to the things I list below, you’re really gambling with your trip and whatever you’d planned at your destination. Airlines typically have higher load factors in the summer, which means fewer seats available on every jet, and this summer has started with record-breaking crowds vying for seats.

Combine that with tight customer service staffing and you have the makings of a travel headache–which is preventable. Read on.

1. Get your seat. Yes, I know: you booked your flight. That’s not the same thing as having a seat. Made your reservation on-line? Be sure there is a specific seat listed–and check again 48 hours prior to departure. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been at the gate, trying to look inconspicuous, as an agent tries to explain to a passenger that no, they don’t have a seat assignment–and the flight is overbooked. Often, when reservations are made way in advance, there’s isn’t a specific seat listed–or between “way in advance” and the day of travel, the seat assignment disappears. To prevent that: print your boarding pass at home with the seat assignment–don’t wait until airport check-in. If you don’t see a seat assignment on your on-line boarding pass–get on-line and reserve a seat, even if you have to call the airline’s toll free number to do so.

2. Know your status. That is, are you protected from cancellations or delays? If you have a deadline at your destination–say, a time sensitive event (wedding, graduation, business meeting, etc) or follow-on reservations (a resort or cruise booking, or flight on another carrier), what  protection do you have in the event of a delay or cancellation?

Be aware that most airlines offer compensation or modified travel in the event of situations within their control (say, flight cancellations or mechanical delays), but most people don’t seem to know that airlines and federal regulations do not stipulate any accommodation for weather-related delays or cancellations. Thunderstorms at a major hub, in summer–what are the chances? Pretty darn good, unfortunately. And along with rain, hail, and damaging winds, storms usually bring delays, cancellations and misconnects.

Are you prepared to sleep on the floor of the terminal if weather delays you inbound and the last flight of the day to your destination has already departed? Don’t plan tight connections–or in my opinion, any connections to the last flight of the day, for exactly that reason. But if you must, be prepared to find an airport hotel on your own or, sleep in the terminal. Ugh.

One further note about “knowing your status,” and this is important: did you buy your ticket from an online source other than the airline itself? If so, read the “conditions of carriage” before you agree to the purchase of a ticket: many of the larger online travel sites sell bargain basement seats–but they are for a specific flight, with no recourse if you miss the flight. In other words, the deeply discounted seat does not come with any airline follow-on obligation–that’s how the online site got the cheap pricetag they sold you on. But again, if you misconnect for any reason, your travel is over.

No “stand-by” on the next flight or travel at another time or date. You agreed to buy a particular seat on a particular day and if you’re not in that seat when the plane departs, you have no further recourse with the airline–and good luck with the online agency you booked your travel through.

In both of these cases: trip insurance. It’s not that expensive and may be your only way to protect yourself from large out-of-pocket expenses due to missed bookings and events at your destination, or overnight delays enroute.

3. Damage control: when things start to go haywire due to delays, weather, cancellations or diversions, you need to act immediately. Before you leave home, do two simple things to ensure that you’re first in line when it comes to salvaging your travel plans.

First, sign up for whatever notification app your airline offers. Not only will this automatic function give you an immediate heads-up on your assigned gate and departure time via text message or email, many major airlines will also notify you of a cancellation or significant departure or arrival delay long before the delay appears on monitors in the terminal.

Why is that important? The advanced notice will allow you to find the next available flight to your destination and then pursue a confirmed seat before your fellow passengers even know there’s a reason to change. First come, first served when it comes to accommodating passengers from a cancelled flight.

Which brings us to the second must-do: pre-program the airline’s re-booking number into your phone for quick access. The re-booking number is NOT the same as the reservations or flight information phone numbers. Find it on your airline’s website or call their toll-free number and ask for it, then keep it handy on your trip. The alternative to calling the re-booking number is to stand in a long line of irritated passengers waiting for a few agents to fix things one at a time. Skip that–get on the re-booking line at the first sign of trouble.

Want to play Superman? Turn your cell phone on as soon as allowed after landing. You’ll be notified by text or email of any cancellation on your itinerary–then you can call the re-booking number on taxi-in and start damage control to save your trip. Same goes for the hours before your origination–keep listening for the text alert regarding your flight. Even if things go well, you’ll want to know what gate you’re scheduled to depart from. In all cases, have your reservation info handy for re-booking–an agent on the phone or face-to-face can access your itinerary instantly if you can provide the record identifier (usually a series of letters and/or numbers) on first contact.

It’s going to be a busy summer for air travel this year, with record crowds and limited customer service options in the case of weather-related delays. But these three simple steps will put you well ahead of the crowd all rushing to rebook flights or deal with a delay. Secure your seat, know your options, stay informed and be ready to rebook.

Number one above–seat assignment–is even more crucial if you’re traveling with others and want or need to sit together. Number two, know your passenger status and your options. And finally, line up your damage control options and beat the rush to re-book or make changes as the situation develops.

Once you’re on board and we’re off the gate, your work is done and I’ll take care of the rest of the flight. And as I say after every welcoming P.A., “Sit back, relax, and enjoy the flight.”

Flight of Opposites

Chris Manno | June 16, 2011 at 10:11 am | Categories: Uncategorized | URL: http://wp.me/pMIKO-1hm

Weightless, a thousand moving metal, plastic and composite parts plus a ton of jet fuel all plunging earthward in perfect formation miles above west Texas. Again.

In that split second of suspense between the vertical and the plunge, in the last breath of a climb atop all the little BBs of thrust; a moment’s daydream and too late; let it fall.

The top of an arc–was this a Cuban Eight or a Clover Leaf I was doing?–and in a heartbeat of wandering thoughts, too late: we ain’t flying any more.

Own it. Afterburner? Salvage the maneuver? Nah–just own it. Fall. Salvage is usually ugly, often bone crushing with pullout G-forces. Relax, ride it. A sky moment, where you let the big blue reveal what happens next.

Been there, done that, without the airplane.

Spinning, inverted–shouldn’t you be looking at the ground? Relax; own it–you’re three thousand feet above the ground, there’s an altimeter on your reserve chute if you want to waste your free fall trying to read it–so just own the moment, be in the sky without questions or answers. You’ll eventually get into a chute-opening posture. Savor the weightlessness illusion of terminal velocity for a second or two more.

Such a relief from the cramped jump plane. Never the first in, which is last out, because kneeling hunched over a reserve chute on the sheet metal floor with straps and crap cutting off blood flow to the extremities any longer than is necessary isn’t optimum. Nor is the last in, at the door, first out: yeah, we’ll drop a test streamer first to see what the wind’s doing, but I’d rather watch the first jumper as a human guinea pig and see what it’s actually doing to the ant hanging from the canopy. Plus I don’t want to be by the door–if you snag a rip cord on something, which isn’t unthinkable in the cramped Cessna, you’re going out the door immediately because an open chute can take the whole plane down.

Out, finally; wind blast, tumble, hold–own it. Be in the sky moment, let it happen, notice it happening. A cushion of air, it feels like, a hundred mile an hour head wind. But not really–it’s you moving against the air, but funny how Copernicus and the whole “Earth revolving around the sun” thing doesn’t seem real as the Earth rushes up to meet you. Same end result though, no matter how you look at it.

And that’s the world of opposites that defines flight.

On the flip side, there’s nothing but concentration, detail, and performance in big jet flight. Every action is undergirded with interlocking layers of care. Details swim before my eyes like the ghostly green numbers projected on the glass in front of my face by the Heads Up Display: speed, altitude, energy, heading, lift, thrust, course, pitch, bank–all in an integrated ballet.

Unspoken but verified is the weight, the center of gravity, the temperature, the wind, the runway length. Everything matters, everything builds upon everything else–you sort it out, see to the details.

How different from falling out the yawning door of a noisy jump plane into the rushing slipstream and the hand of the wind on the downward plunge. Or the top of a delicate arc, inverted, watching the horizon replace the blue, then the dirt below rushing to meet you.

And that’s the opposite of what’s going on in back.

There it seems everyone’s not flying. Rather, it’s all about what they’re not doing: not driving for hours, not yet “there” but tolerably suspended between now and then. It’s all newspapers and iPads and headphones and movies and every animation and distraction except for flying, which back here is more the unraveling of time rather than the revelation of flight.

Which is fine.

For me nonetheless, it’s still the thousand moving parts and burning jet fuel and forward speed till the magic moment when hands and feet connected to tons of aluminum, blood and bone pull back and like a promise kept, the Earth falls away.

Then land or sea, it’s all the same because we’re sailing over it instead of creeping across it. Life shrinks back to arm’s length of miles and miles below and details and blemishes five way to the widest scope and limitless horizon. From where I sit, looking forward, it’s more like floating than moving, but the tapestry below inches by just the same.

And surface challenges vanish with the imperfections below. Towering thunderstorms raking and pummeling the dirt? No problem–seven miles up, we’ll fly over the trouble below.

Trouble out west: a spark flew, a fire caught, half a state on fire below draping the underscape with a finger-like plume.

A thousand acres in flames, but it looks more like a crushed-out cigarette from the sky box. And the ultimate ruggedness of rocky wilderness looks like just so much rough-cut, snow-capped diamond sculpture easing by below.

And of course, we’re not alone. But if we’re both on course, we’re nose to nose, so you won’t see this from the back. But we nod to each other, aware of the closing speed of over 1,000 mph, opposites in course and altitude.

Where you’re headed and where you’re from is all reversed nose to nose. Flying casually, intuitively then and diligently, perfectly now–it’s all about time and life, about how we go more than where and when we get there.

But one thing never changes, then or now, airplane or no: they sky’s a fine place to spend your life.

The Eye And The Sky.

So I’ve got at least two nurses and a hospital orderly pinning me down for a technician holding a gi-normous needle–the likes of which you’d expect a vet to use to put down a quarter horse–so the medical guy can put it straight through my five-year-old eye.

Sure, he says it goes into a vein in my arm and I won’t feel a thing, but I’ve been screaming my head off from the examining room to the lab just in case–because I don’t believe him. And you just know everything’s going to go haywire and oops, sorry about the needle in your eye and it hurts like hell, doesn’t it?

And that’s the look I see in this business-suited guy’s eyes, standing before the gate counter as I drag a ten yard flight plan out of the computer, asking me, “Will the flight be smooth?”

Which is as sensible as me five years before the needle-in-the-eye incident as a newborn asking the O.B. who held me upside down by the ankles, still covered in the packing material, “So, will my life be smooth?”

Now, how to answer that? “Well I’d have to say that around the Ohio Valley/Rust Belt which on the timeline is about your teen years, things could get ugly.” Because we have a coast-to-coast sea of roiling air miles ahead and yes, the teenage years may be bumpy, expect a little declining baldness near the middle-aged Great Plains of your life and God knows you can’t even dream of the desert spread of yawning cracked scorched earth mesas and desolation which lies before the emerald paradise coast, then the endless blue above and below and beyond. You know you really shouldn’t have asked. Newborns can’t, five-year-olds don’t; thirty-somethings shouldn’t but that’s the downside of holding the needle for a living.

Because in the great yawning maw of the sky and life and the dreamy arc of flight–ain’t no smooth rides. But how do you tell someone, convince a person, that the needle isn’t going to stick in his eye? Still, though, life’s going to get downright bumpy enroute but just hang on.

Because I’ve done this flight thing a couple times only poking what I intended; I’ve checked out the weather, the jet, the jet’s performance–relax. And expect a bump or two, but don’t make the fat nurse sit on you.

Twenty-five thousand feet, puffy clouds above and below and the red dirt pancake of West Texas sprawled wide as the eye can see.  Aloft in the “two thousand pound dog whistle” jet trainer, Air Force Flight School, filling my oxygen mask with sweat; my helmet chafing, ejection seat cinching me tight.

“Want to spin to the bottom?”

Means ‘do you want to pull those nose up, chop the power on both jet engines till we stall, then kick the rudder till she falls out of the sky in a flat spin like helicopter rotor blade broken loose and plummeting straight down for five miles?’

Which doesn’t seem like a good idea to do in a jet. But it’s part of the syllabus: you need to learn how to do this, to get out of this before you fat-splat onto Prairie-dise below. Because you’re going to fly solo once you master it–or you’re going to wash out if you can’t.

“Yup,” I lie, “Ready. Let’s do it.”

And all the needles in the world hover over your eye–not your vein–and nurses threaten but you’ve already tightened the web of straps cinching you to the ejection seat like a shrink-wrapped burrito. You didn’t ask the instructor pilot if it was going to be smooth because that’s as big a failure as the newborn seeking assurance for the O.B.. Guts, faith; just live it, dammit.

Because at that point, every bit of life is about flying–whatever the cost. Stick the needle in my eye; rip the wings off, shear the rotor, smack my ass like a newborn; I don’t care: I’d rather be dead than not fly.

Which is in itself a birth into the sky. And from there, the smart fearlessness is the journey of life–don’t ask because you really don’t want to know the answer, really: don’t need answers.

The dreaded spin? I had it all wrong. Slowly at first, then faster, then a blur but the point is this: it felt like I was stable and the jet was firm and stable but the world itself was spinning around me. Not me. Eyes fine. Relief. Confidence. Do it.

Ignore the blur, take the right steps: slam the stick forward; opposite rudder, power on, recover from the dive. And from that moment on, own the sky. No matter what.

Don’t know what Joe Biz did in the back when the rumbling started and the wings shook. I know I was at that time and for the entire transcon flight engaged with the radar and fuel flow and navigation and a thousand performance parameters including not sticking a needle in my own eye: I’m in the pointy end, remember? First on the scene, if you get my drift. I’ll spin us down, me down, every damn time–and recover before we hit the dirt. Trust me. Trust you.

Joe Biz, I feel your pain: as a five year old, I remember when they finally did stick the needle into my arm, it really didn’t hurt. But I had to keep the howling up to save face. A half breath and the dreaded moment’s past–but until it is, the second lingers like your very last heartbeat.

But once you get into the sky, you’re on your way–and everything’s better. It just is.

Your Kids On An Airliner, Flying Alone? Do It Right.

Little big man standing by the gate, already gone.

Mom’s there, the pain of the thousand miles about to shove themselves between her and the boy draws her eyes into a squint that you know damn well is there for a reason. But he’s already gone, his eyes set elsewhere, the leaving now a mere formality etched in stone beyond his reach or doing. The flight migration of the solo kids: coast to coast, north to south, the sad winds of divorce carry kids aloft.

It’s year round but especially heavy around Memorial Day. Holidays? Summer? Solomon: two halves of one is still less than a whole. But it’s all we got–decreed; so chin up, little nomad.

Way too familiar, and I’m too foolish to pretend I don’t notice. Last minute, before boarding myself and stepping into the cockpit, staying out of everyone’s hair until about ten minutes prior to push, I do what I can. Mom’s there, bereft, dying a little inside, not even hiding her pain. What can I do?

I’ll get to that. But more importantly, what can you do if you’re the parent sending off your child?

According to the Department of Transportation, more than seventy thousand minors will fly unaccompanied this year. Big Fact Two, according to Parenting Magazine, is that parental preparation will make all the difference for those children who do fly solo this year.

There, the authorities have spoken. Now, hear me, the guy standing on the bridge on both ends of the voyage.

First, parents: ante up. All major airlines now have programs to care for kids who fly “Unaccompanied,” or “UM:” Unaccompanied Minor.” They are not not free. But they are essential. Your child will be logged in to the system, your credentials and those of whomever is on the other end will be verified. So whoever picks up your child will be positively identified by official documentation: driver’s license, passport or government issued ID. I watch it every week: our flight attendants will walk your child out and verify that they are delivered to the correct person.

Mid flight? You say you’ve booked them on a thru-flight, meaning no aircraft change enroute? GMAB! I can’t tell you how many times my flight sequence from one coast to the other, same flight number, supposedly same aircraft, gets changed. “Take all of your belongings of the plane,” the agent will say on the P.A., “and proceed from this terminal to the new gate in the other terminal.”

Saved $100 bucks on the U.M. fee, did you, because “TravelSuperDuper.com” promised you a stop but no aircraft change? Don’t even think about it. Because no, the flight attendants won’t take care of the switch because they might not even be scheduled on that next flight. Want to see if your little one can navigate a major airport? Pay the fee.

What you get it this: signatures and verification will follow your child every step of the way. Do I know how many kids are flying alone on my jet? No. Do I know how many officially designated Unaccompanied Minors are on my flight? You bet I do–just as with any special or hazardous cargo or armed individuals, I know who and where they are. And I take it one step further, as I do with armed passengers: I don’t care what I’m “supposed” to be doing, I’ll take the time during boarding to meet eye to eye, say, hello, and tell an Unaccompanied, or “UM” as we call them, by name “we’re glad you’re here. It’s going to be a good flight and if you need anything, you let us know.”

Important to me, hope it is to them. Regardless, when we have the UM vouchers, now my crew knows who they are and where they’re sitting. And someone will hand-carry them to where they need to be.

But even more practical, in my experience, is that the UM process allows you to accompany your child through security and to their boarding gate, as well as permitting someone you designate (have their driver’s license number or other government issued ID info when you check in) meet them at their arrival gate.

Second, send them on board calorized. That is, make sure they’ve eaten recently or have with them some snacks they can manage. Yes, there’s “buy on board” food on many flights–but the transaction is cashless: credit card only. Make sure they have water when they board too–get it on the secure side of the airport because you can’t take it through security.

Pack them sensibly: make sure their bag that they take on board is manageable for them. Don’t count on someone else handling their bag, and make it one that can fit under the seat in front of them, as little ones won’t have much luck with the overhead bins. Anything else you need to send with them–check it at the ticket counter.

Do this: Google “airlines” and “unaccompanied minors,” and be sure to read the airline of your choice’s procedures, plus the many decent parenting articles with tips on UM travel–like this big one I’m going to give you: say your good-byes at home. That’s what the kids are leaving, and that’s where they’ll return. The airport is part of the journey–don’t make it part of the good-bye. Be matter of fact from that point and it will be easier for you and your child.

And finally, show up. I mean on the receiving end, and I mean on time. Flashback, Christmas Eve, a west coast destination, late evening. Our little trooper is standing by the ticket agent as the crew deplanes. The agent has her paperwork, waiting for a late parent. On Christmas Eve. Twenty minutes after our arrival. And we were late.

My crew is tired. Our van is at the curb waiting to take us to the hotel–but nobody’s leaving our little UM. We wait. We hate the parent who didn’t leave two hours early and camp out so as to meet our child at the gate. Be there, whatever it takes.

Back to our departure. Mom ready to crater, her son already on my jet. I approached her from behind.

“We’ll take good care of him. It’ll be all right.” I’m lying. It’s the heart fractured into a thousand shards of smoked glass, hers, that will never be all right ever again. He’ll be okay–the kids usually are once they’re under way. They do their leaving before pushback; the parents are left on the death watch in the terminal. And kids on some level perceive that–so like I said, good-byes are best said at home.

“Look,” I offered, “you want me to call you when we get there? To let you know everything’s fine?’

She put her number into my phone, in tears. I walked onto my jet fighting mine. Parents everywhere get to do this, as some court decreed, over and over till the kids are old enough to decide travel and visitation details for themselves. It’ll never be easy–but make it the best it can be: set them up to be cared for enroute.

I texted the woman after we arrived, watching her little guy walk away with his “other family,” and I imagine she breathed a little easier. Not sure, but I know I did.

What’s it gonna be, wing nut?

Step inside my head for a moment.

Both jet engines are cooking slowly, efficiently, and you’re riding a cool blue flame in the thinnest reaches of the atmosphere, surfing the jet stream flinging you across the night sky with an extra hundred knots across the ground.

Love speed, love tailwinds and smooth night skies and clear radars and huge-mongous ground speed and parsimonious fuel flow of high by-pass fanjets breathing easy in the stratosphere. Can’t get enough of that, or keep it long enough.

Which is part of the deal. The weather three hundred miles ahead and eight miles below is crap, and that’s right where you’re headed. Not a surprise, so you started the balance sheet a thousand miles ago, before lighting the fires and launching off: destination forecast = extra fuel and an alternate airfield. But there’s a catch: extra fuel means extra weight. Your late arrival will put you beyond the landing cutoff time for the “long runway,” which itself is only 6,900 feet–short by any jet transport standard.

So you’ll need to plan to stop the jet on the short runway, the only one open. It’s less than a mile long, which ain’t much to stop 70 tons of pig iron literally flying at 234 feet per second on touchdown. Unchecked, that speed would eat up the 5,204 foot slab and put you into the lagoon in 21.367 seconds.

Hobson’s Choice: more fuel makes for more weight makes for a tough stop, but allows more flight time for contingencies. Thinking of the lagoon, stopping wins over loitering.

Bring in just enough fuel to set up a rational, stable approach, missed approach if need be, then rational, stable goat-rope divert to Dulles with the big-ass runways only 20 miles away. No more, no less fuel than that.

More accounting: landing distance chart shows at our weight, we need 5,000 feet of runway in order to stay off of CNN Breaking News. That leaves 200 feet to spare. At our touchdown speed, that’s about 1.5 seconds, but don’t exaggerate: by the time we’ve slowed some, you’ll have at least 3, maybe 5 seconds to contemplate your Facebook profile picture splashed all over the news.

Secret knowledge; runway 33 at Washington Reagan has a special high-friction coating to aid in stopping. Do you care? Hell no. That’s just one of those bad temptations whispering in your ear to “try it, it’ll be fine” when what really catches your attention after 17,000 flight hours is a different voice:

Don’t be an idiot! Trust no one, rely on no forecast or report or tech study; be conservative, be safe, realize there’s something out there you don’t know know that you’ll damn well wish you had later.

That’s my silent partner, that’s air sense, that’s “salt,” as my compadre Randy Sohn, legendary pilot who is one of only a handful of pilots in the nation who holds an open ATP from the FAA: he’s certified to fly any and every aircraft in the world. Hallelujah and amen–I believe!

First Officer has salt too. On descent, he asks, “You don’t mind if I’m on a hair-trigger to say ‘go-around’  if anything doesn’t look good on the approach, do you?”

“Heck no–more than happy to have you do that and if you do, put clearance on request to Dulles right then.”

Strapping in, starting descent, seat the cabin crew because the radar looks problematic and–they’re a Dallas-based crew, they’ll get it–you tell them “hang on, she’s gonna buck.” Which means grab a buttload of jumpseat and stay there.

Excellent First Officer has the data link printout of the DCA weather. Which you don’t trust and besides, it’s twenty minutes old already.

Cheat: I tell the First Officer as we turn downwind at 8,000 feet, “I’ll be off the primary radio for a minute.” On one of the others, I call the tower. “What are your winds currently?” I need to know, because we can tolerate ZERO tailwind on the short runway. I have the direct crosswind heading in mind; anything greater means we go off to Dulles. Of course, tower says direct cross.

Store that away. Trust no one.

Back with the F/O. We pre-briefed both approaches to both runways, in the slight chance we could beg our way onto the long one. If not, we’re also set up for the non-precision which is the only option (how dumb is that for a major airport?) on the short runway. F/O suggests we could burn off some fuel and have an easier stop.

I think about that for a moment. No, that would commit us to that runway without a rational divert option, which I believe we need to hold in reserve as I don’t have a warm fuzzy about the short runway: is it dry? Really dry? If we were to blow a tire and lose 25-30% of our braking effectiveness, could we stop anyway, “super friction” or no?

“Can you guys turn in from there?” asks Approach Control, “Or do you want a turn south to descend?”

Hah. “We want a turn south.” Remember, a stable, rational approach, not a screaming descent to the black hole visual.

Turn back inbound low and slow, just the way we need to be. Intermittent clouds–they’re pushing the visual limits, but it’s marginally acceptable. I see the river.

“Want me to call it?” asks the F/O. That means I’m responsible from that point on to descend and land visually. “Yes, call it.”

We’re cleared visual. I aim for the George Washington Bridge, crossing at the specified altitude, then it’s a free for all: plan a wide swing out then line up on the runway.

Goddam black hole. I’ve got the runway–it’s that big black spot. I don’t like aiming at a “big black spot,” especially a short one.

Speed’s right on, sink rate good. Switch to tower frequency, cleared to land. Tower wind report goes bad; doing the math, angle of deviation and rate: that’s a possible 2 to 5 knot tailwind.

Gray area: might it die down? Might it be different at the approach end? Might I be able to sneak under the normal approach path and claim a few hundred extra feet of runway? Might the friction additive make the difference? Black hole growing closer at 221 feet per second. Can you do it? You know you can, you can fly anything.

The question hangs in the air for a heartbeat: what’s it gonna be, wing nut?

Eff the ifs and mights. My air sense says this is not necessarily wrong–but absolutely not right enough for me to do it.

F/O correctly says, “That’s a no go.”

“Tell him we want clearance to Dulles.” Done.

Huge hassle to reconfigure, new altitude, new clearance, coordinate divert, avoid the Washington restricted airspace; reprogram the flight management system, brief the Dulles approach after securing the weather and a clearance and Job One: stay in control.

Twenty two minutes later, we’re on the ground safely at Dulles.

About 20 or thirty of the 160 warm pink bodies deplaning in one piece glare at me, mad about being 20 miles west of the lagoon I wouldn’t risk plunging into. The next day, after landing at Washington Reagan, an airport supervisor is in the cockpit before the engines have stopped spinning to read me the riot act: the divert cost $50,000; 45 kids misconnected to Honolulu; and then the prize, “did you think about asking to land south?”

Right, night VFR, a constant stream of jets inbound, just enough fuel for an approach and a divert if needed and we’ll ask to land against traffic.

The easy part of the job is the flying, Randy would always say. It’s the thinking you’d better get right. We did, enough said.

Nice job keeping everyone dry and the $50 million dollar jet out of the lagoon . . . good headwork on the critical decisions . . . nicely done divert. That’s what I hear in my head; it’s what I’d already told my First Officer.

Because no matter what an angry supervisor or glaring passengers might be “thinking”–I’d do it again, will do it again, exactly the same way: smart, conservative, safe. Yeah, that’s how it’s gonna be–every last time.

Waiting to pull out of the alley in LAX.

San Clemente Island off the southern Cal coast.

Pebble Beach

Edwards Air Force Base and the Space Shuttle runway.

Night Flight: Turning the Darkness Upside Down.

There’s a breathless moment of lightness exactly when the ground falls away, a heartbeat between earth and the sky when you belong to neither yet both at once till that held breath resolves itself into flight.

Free, climbing, darkness: night flight is always magic. Fledgling days, the “Night Tube,” a fifty mile circle around the red dirt pancake that is West Texas at ten thousand feet, solo in a sleek jet. Afloat, footless, nimble–forbidden to fly inverted solo at night, strictly PROHIBITED; a slow roll nonetheless, upside down, no earth, no sky, no gravity, but a kaleidoscope of pinpoint colors above and below. Laugh. Do it again, linger inverted, own the Sin of Intent: if you’ve already done it you’re going to hell anyway, so what’s a couple more slow aileron pirouettes in the face of eternity? Besides, whatever mischief gravity attempts, afterburner will fix.

Blackness deep as all time above and below. Constellated stars corralled ahead like a nose print on glass and you’re reading your own EKG: airspeed, angle of attack, altitude, vertical velocity, heading, flight path vector, energy on the wing; an alphabet soup swimming in ghostly green, the hieroglyphics of gravity banished by entree to the night sky. Lazy me, so lazy it takes an effort to glance at the engine instruments–can’t they be incorporated into the ghostly Heads Up Display, the oracle of flight projected before me?

The glance confirms what I already know from the feel of the throttles and the sound of the engines, through my feet on the rudders and my hands on the yoke: no sour notes in that symphony, although it never hurts to confirm with the symbology stacked neatly on the CRTs. Nothing needs to be said, what matters more is what’s done–a constant angle climb, course intercept, play that magenta line off into the blackness below the blackness.

That’s the ocean below the night sky, invisible black but cold and deep nonetheless. We arc above the sea floor, riding the air piled atop the silent cold depth of black water. Savor the island effect, because that what we are, in the sky, above the earth regardless of water or land. We generate our own heat and light so the 165 peeps in back don’t notice the difference between sky and water and land and night–but I do.

And here’s the beauty of overwater flight: not so many lights below–the occasional lonely ship or spindly oil rig–but a scattering of jewels above. Roll again, a Night Tube of time and light and dark and space, ocean and ground and sky–not supposed to, not allowed to invert the “now” with “then,” but what the hell. Embrace the Sin of Intent–once you start, why not see it through? You’re going to pay for it eventually anyway, so make it worthwhile. And there are constellations in everyone’s own night sky, aren’t there?

Because the night sky is a shaggy black dog, shaking off and flinging droplets of lights across the dome as far as you can see. Who’s to say where they land and like tea leaves, what they show? Mark Orion, constant friend, akimbo over your shoulder, partner in a thousand air miles and those at sea too. Who decided that a thousand years ago, a chant repeated over a millenium to never forget, to make sense of the dark like that? What lines your night sky with light, and you know it does, if you look?

I don’t care if it’s been a thousand years–somebody sees Cassiopeia in the sky vault of jewels, remembered for all time.  What did she do that we should mark her now? And who else?

In the cold black below, in the inverted time and place, there’s Stormin’ Norman: bold, boxy guy, a fighter, a drinker, flying buddy, drinking buddy with a laugh big as the sky; flew into the Philippine Sea that night and broke into a thousand little pieces that fluttered to the sea floor, never to be seen again.

Except in this night, in the thinnest air suspended between then and now, above and below, the deep and aloft. Roll again, what the hell.

Yes, Fone-Tone, brother in  The Years of Fire and Tribulation, stony-tall as Gibralter, deep as the Mariannas, fighter jock to the bone; four-ship low-level, NORDO, rejoin, ground scar in the Arizona desert, forever a ground scar; some scars you don’t want to heal or forget because once the map’s lost, where’s the treasure?

And Lloyd? How could you? How could it be you, a hundred cat-shots, and this? There’s a place, a reason, find it or not but it’s etched in the sky like the fire of a galaxy a light year ago, but still glimmering.

More. There are more, will be more. So much to see, but you don’t want to see too much–the galaxy finds a spot for every spark eventually. Canvas unframed, you can see without looking, and the end is always the same. You know, in your own life, your own sky, damn well what I’m talking about.

Like the Dipper to your back, the ghostly characters before you reveal that. South, lower, slower. Right side up and back inside, to the “now” demanding the reconciliation of your 600 miles per hour across the ground and your miles high above it.

Like an endless sigh, to the earth again, to the light. Huge wheels, concrete, everything slows–for now. Which really isn’t so long, is it?

Hotlanta

NW A-320, a thousand feet above.

Boomer sunset.

Airline Semantics

You’ve heard this over the P.A. on board a jet before, and it’s the airline version of  Tom Sawyer coaxing Huck Finn to whitewash the picket fence: “This is for your comfort and safety–and the safety of those around you.”

Translated? Eat your vegetables. Only like Mom used to do, coax you into thinking you thought of it yourself so you’ll actually do what’s best for you. So when you hear that phrase after any instruction on-board, like “fasten your seatbelt” or “stow your electronic devices,” do it.

Because what will follow is the airline version of Mom’s standard, “This is going to hurt me more than it’s going to hurt you.” Which is as untrue as when she said it: you’re going to get arrested, which will actually hurt you more than anyone else. Because you’re talking federal charges, which is neither negligible or inexpensive.

I know, by the time you’ve navigated the security and check-in gauntlets with their byzantine requirements and instructions and finally settled into your seat on board, you’re ready to have your own way at last, right?

Sorry, but you still have to work within constraints and if necessary, read between the lines so we can all stay cordial.

And there are other clearly embedded messages waiting for you at the airport, although I can’t really figure out why they’re dressed up as anything other than plain English. Some of them, I still don’t get–like this:

“The equipment for this flight is out of service.”

Huh? What’s wrong with “aircraft” and “broken,” respectively? Is it like the hotel industry’s 13th floor taboo–no one wants to stay there because of bad luck–that spills over into flying: sure don’t want to say the “a” word (“aircraft” or “airplane”) because flying is scary?

Does anyone ask what “equipment” you drive? And to me, driving is MUCH scarier than flying. But no one asked me about either one, actually.

My favorite "equipment."

Still, it seems like a bit of airline puffery to say “equipment ” to passengers when what you really mean is simply, “aircraft.” Between pilots, sure, we use the term “equipment” to distinguish between aircraft types, as in “is this scheduled for a 767-200 or -300?” Or, “What equipment is Joe Bunda on?” “He moved to the 75.”

Bad enough that we schedule “equipment” rather than aircraft, but the euphemisms don’t end there. Apparently “equipment” doesn’t “fly,” it operates. As in “Flight 22 will now operate out of gate 15.” Can we not even just “depart” rather than “operate,” if “flying” is too scary?

Now hold on before you sling around the jargon you just learned. Even knowing the correct term, don’t ask the dumb question:

See what I mean? It’s a linguistic mine field there at the airport and if you don’t want to seem like a dolt, it’s best to say as little as possible. But here are a couple other subtle distinctions if you want to sound at least like you go to the airport more than twice a year.

First, we “load” bags but we “board” passengers. Right? I mean everyone complains about air travel being a cattle car experience, so why not clean up the perception a little: you will board the aircraft. At your destination, you will “deplane,” not “de-board” as I often hear after a pregnant pause grasping for words.

Do you really need to be "loaded" onto the plane?

Finally, one last bit of terminology. If we meet and I’m out of uniform, I will likely not even mention what I do for a living. That’s not because I’m anti-social, it’s more because I don’t really want to hear a story about how someone’s last flight allegedly “fell thousands of feet straight down” or more typically, had the pilot “abort the landing” and shoot straight up or blah-blah-blah and no, I don’t know what the fare to Cleveland is.

So at best you’ll get a cover story. But if in uniform I accidentally make eye contact and you feel an interrogation is in order, let me say up front that I don’t do any “runs.” Those are for skiers and milkmen. Besides the fact that I usually can’t even remember where I was the night before (some hotel somewhere?) or haven’t even looked at the trip I’m flying next week (think about that the night before), pilots and flight attendants don’t do “runs.” Okay?

Hmmmm, I sound a little cranky today. Must be because in an hour, seems I’ll be dragging on the polyester and operating the equipment between Dulles and LAX once they load the passengers.

But in real life, I get to fly a great jet across the country yet again, seeing the best views from the sky and loving every minute of it as I always have, while keeping my 160 peeps and crew of six safe and happy and taking them where they wanted to go today.

Now, which sounds like more fun to you?

Welcome to my world.

I used to post these on Facebook–but I closed my account last week. From now on, they’ll be right here if you care to look at them.

LAX at sunset, waiting for the alley to clear so we can park.

The Colorado River divides California from Arizona.

Beak to beak at LAX.

The city by the bay.

Weekdays flying the Boeing, weekends flying the Stratocaster Blacktop with my band, "NightFlight."

The Trouble With Angels

Always so careful, so step-by-step methodical on the ground. That’s the dues you pay to find the angels–trouble that they are in the end.

At sea level, it’s like you don’t want to get spotted, apprehended as a fraud: you are this airline captain thing?  Aren’t they like steely-eyed cliche marketing stuff? And you–where are your aviator glasses? You’ve never had a pair (they’re annoyingly fish-eyed) or a big pilot watch (Darling Bride gave me a subtle smooth Longines tank that reminds me of the drunken cruise stop in Barabados where we bought it) and you aren’t a Republican?

No matter, there are plenty of pilots who like playing the role, which is a good thing because it means you don’t have to. I just don’t do “pilot theater.”

The airport is a troubled hive, buzzing with creatures waiting to fly off to the four corners of everywhere but here. Make your way through the busy swarm, touch the bases: just need a jet, a decent fuel load–period. I’ll handle the rest: route, departure, cruise altitudes, and The Edge.

The what? The Edge is what I know independent of the charts, stats and observations about the flight: air sense tells me if that fuel load’s sufficient, having dealt with the altitude hold down or mountain wave or speed restrictions or any number of wild cards thrown down to make your fuel load inadequate, your paperwork obsolete and your boilerplate plan garbage fodder. That’s the cumulative instinct born of many thousands of hours in the air watching the corners draw in: how’d you get into this situation, and how the hell are you getting out?

The answer is simple: stay out of trouble in the first place. Duh.

“Hey, this is Chris, the captain to Montreal. How about throwing an extra 1,500 pounds of fuel onto that release?” Which is an order rather than a request–but why not couch it in “nicety?” We’re still on terra firma; different rules apply when gravity is in effect. Plus, I appreciate all the folks who work behind the scenes to abet my escape. They make it all happen–I don’t ever overlook that.

It’s still a great feeling to step on board and turn left, into the cockpit, into the sanctuary: the whirring of cooling fans, a mini-sized Times Square of lights and lettering glowing with a message, all of it related to your launch. And it’s not just that, really, it’s actually more of the fact that you get to shift your attention from the ground to the sky: what’s going on up there? Winds? Departure corridor? Weather? traffic? More in the sky than the ground–let go of that gravity stuff. Say goodbye to the dirt, hello to the sky.

An army of cleaners swarms over the cabin interior. The cabin crew is boarding, stowing their bags then checking their workspace: emergency equipment, catering stuff. The First Officer is dragging his gear into the cockpit, then pulling on a safety vest to go outside and pre-flight, before coming inside to set up the cockpit. They’re all really busy, so why don’t you make yourself scarce? Good idea.

Bing! Time’s up: we should be sufficiently close to launch so you can step on-board, finish the last pre-flight checklists, verify the route (VERY important); then the challenge and response–and the blink check: you sweep your eyes over all of the panels (yaw damper on, pressurization auto . . .) making sure for yourself that everything’s the way you want to know it must be when you’re rolling down the concrete with your eyes on the centerline stripe being gobbled up at a hundred-fifty miles per hour.

Exterior door warning lights wink out one by one as the last bags are thrown into the cargo compartments. Feels like a symphony warm-up, while the ushers urge everyone to their seats before the curtain–don’t want to be late.

The jet’s alive and breathing now, the auxiliary power unit–a small jet engine in the tail section–now pumping out high pressure air and generating our own electricity. I add the hum of hydraulic pumps to the mix and with a thud, 3,000 psi of hydraulic fluid snaps the flight controls to attention. Now my arms are 130 feet long, with sleek wingtips, my feet on the rudders swing the three story tall tail. Places everyone, we’re near curtain time.

Pull that jetbridge and set us free . . .

Life goes slo-mo: take it all in, piece by piece. Last check of the weather and the barometric pressure (rising or falling?) the winds (gusts, shear, direction). Challenge and response checklist like a deacon and a cantor, back and forth, rethinking the world: we’re dividing attention between “to do” and “done.” Simplify, like bees from the hive–all essential focus on flight.

There are numbers in my head, shifting and verifying sums I WILL see before we take off: planned weight, then the actual weight, the combination of which determines pay for angels: how many thousands of feet can we put between us and the dirt? What will the wing support? How much muscle can we get from the two straining horses slung under the wings?

This ain’t just walking around in Vegas and yanking a handle to see what numbers come up–I’m lining them up in my head one by one, verifying them visually. The taxi is a trundle, like walking up steps to a shrine on your knees, and that’s good: buying the angels, which is how we used to refer to altitude in the Air Force, must be a sealed transaction, paid up front–or you will fall from the sky.

“Angels twenty-five,” a radar controller would snap at us over some dark and deep god forsaken ocean, “you have a pair of fighters inbound at your six, angels twenty-five.” Size it up; altitude above you–angels above–absolutely worthless. Angels below are energy.

What a laugh. Now we’re taking a friendly load of tin-packed bees to angels forty-one, and they don’t know or care about the what or why. Which is fine–that’s why I’m here, comfortably invisible behind the bolted and locked (I love that) door.

The litany of preflight sanctifies the same binary on taxi-out: done, to do; done–numbers aswarm not only in my head, but before my eyes.

I see through the jet and it sees through me, numbers spun out by dozens of computers talking to satellites and data linked, but mostly through the complex on-board analytic comparators. We’re a team: I sort it out, toss in The Edge, send back signals and control inputs.

And all the talk ends with the exchange of clearances, lastly “cleared for take-off.”

Then it’s all power and noise–two things that attracted me to jets in the first place–and the brute force hurtling the tons of bone and blood and steel down the concrete with the energy of a freight train. That’s the price to claim the angels–kinetic energy that will need to be dealt with, but later.

I can feel the wing ready to fly, know it will fly, but just keep the nose tracking the runway centerline till the automated voice calls out “V-1.” Good–too fast to stop, committed to flight. Good or bad, that’s where I’d rather be anyway. The earth drops away.

The jet’s more graceful now, smoother too with the wheels off the deck. And now I have the arc of the wing, a dip and a turn, plus the climbing of the nose to keep ahead of the howling duet under the wings.

The background music in my head is the melody of time and fuel and speed and altitude–the mix never ends, the harmony must prevail–no off notes, not a beat missed; we climb, then stretch out and slice an arc across the sky, trailing a white tail that points away, shows where we’ve been, promises where we’re going.

We own the angels, for now. Climbing up means stepping down, eventually. But for now we just fly, the rest is just details, and for later. Now is the sky and we can worry about the dirt only when and as much as we have to, when the time comes.