Landing Emergency: We All Gotta Go Sometime.

At about a hundred-twenty miles from touchdown that combination of headwinds and distance remaining brought us to the best moment in any trip: the top of descent. Approach, landing and finally, home–straight ahead and a few miles down. Easy.

Everybody’s tired at the end of a flight day, so it was actually my good fortune to have it be the First Officer’s turn to land–we alternate, usually, on each flight leg–so I could watch and back him up but basically, I’d just relax.

We adjusted lights downward as the sun sank but more importantly, as we descended, the sunlight vanished like a candle blown out. My F/O looked a little greenish. “You good?” I asked, just to be sure. I used to hate it when captains asked me that when I was an F/O. But still, I needed to know.

“I was thinking I’d go to the lav,” he said, “but I’ll just wait.” Thanks for the heads-up: let me alert the media. Whatever.

He did look jaundiced, though, and it wasn’t just the failing light of the vanishing sun.

We hit the descent arc and the engines rumbled back, the nose dipped and the sigh of thicker air began to slip around the nose of the jet reassuringly. In my mind I was halfway to my car, on the way home after a couple thousand air miles. Not so fast.

As we leveled at the requisite eleven thousand feet to turn onto the downwind track, he looked over at me with eyes wide and said, “You’d better take it.”

I know my eyes narrowed; what the hell? I mean, I don’t mind landing–I’d rather do it myself anyway; easier to fly and know what you’re doing than monitor and wonder what someone else is doing. Which is why I’m the world’s worst airline passenger.

“I gotta go so bad, it’s going to be all I can do to NOT do it right here,” he said, knowing that there was neither time nor fuel for a trip to the lav now. We were in the traffic pattern, flight attendants strapped in, so none available to be bathroom monitor in the cockpit per regulations while he stepped out to the can. You should have gone before we left the house. Or altitude, In this case.

Seriously? One look into his deer-in-the-headlights eyeballs and I knew he wasn’t kidding.

“Okay,” I said, “no worries. I’ve got it. You just try to relax,” and not explode in that seat next to me, please god, “we’ll be on the deck really quick.” He was concentrating, tense, willing himself not to blow up; halfway bent forward.

“Tell you what,” I offered. “Once we land, we’ll just clear the runway, I’ll tell the tower we need to hold our position for a minute for a systems check–”

He looked over hopefully, gritting his teeth.

“Then you stroll back real casually while I make a PA about a slight gate delay, please remain seated, blah-blah-blah. Nobody’ll ever know.”

Like the first gust of a thunderstorm, an ill wind washed over me and I’d have grabbed an oxygen mask, but I knew that would be pretty inconvenient on a landing that would be mostly solo. He nodded, seeping.

Mercifully, Approach Control turned us inbound quickly and cleared us visually to land. Good deal, dirty up: more flaps (I’ll get ’em), throw out the gear.

That reassuring of the main gear falling into the slipstream, the nosegear door below us opening; three good thunks–but only two green lights on the landing gear.

“Well,” I sighed resignedly, “tell ’em we’re going around.” Meaning we’d have to break off the approach and enter the downwind again. He looked at me in horror, cheeks clenched. “No way!”

“We have to,” I said matter-of-factly, raising the gear and resetting the flaps to fifteen. Lava dome or no, I had to have verification of three safely down and locked landing gear before I committed a hundred sixty-five souls on board figuring to landing.

He slammed his head back against the headrest, sweating and riding way high in the saddle. Hold it tight, amigo; just damn well hold it.

On downwind, I read the checklist aloud and accomplished the pre-landing portion even as I swapped out gear bulbs on the offending indicator. On final: three green. We touched down smartly on the outboard runway, and barely cleared when straps flew and his seat ratcheted back against the stops, armrests flying back. I set the brakes and told the tower we needed to hold there for a moment; they approved it, bored, no conception of the lava dome about to burst in the cockpit.

I was trying to make a casual PA: “Well, folks . . . a little ramp delay ahead of us, so . . .”

The cockpit door banged open and he flew out, wild-eyed, undoing his the belt on his pants as he went.

“. . . we’re going to be here for a moment or two . . .”

The lav door shut so hard it rebounded open, then slammed shut again. He was doing the kind of “jump off a cliff” yell you’d expect from a suicide or anyone watching Game 6 of the last World Series when the Rangers exploded, only slightly muted by the flimsy lav door. It sounded like a Three Stooges-style rumpus with what I assumed were the thuds of elbows and knees clobbering the walls as a safe delivery posture was assumed. There was the muffled sound of a balky chainsaw refusing to start despite multiple pulls, then tendrils from another seething toxic gas cloud spread like an oil spill, alerting First Class as to what the “ramp delay” was really about. Several horribly choked cycles of the vacuum-flush from the lav eliminated any further doubt.

He returned to the cockpit, rumpled, relieved, both literally and figuratively; a new man. “That worked out well,” he said, staring straight ahead, “and just in the nick of time.”

“Not sure you fooled anybody,” I offered casually, releasing the parking brakes.

He shrugged. “Yeah, well. We all gotta go sometime.”

Yeah, I guess we all do.

Airline Analyst Holly Hegeman Live

What does the future hold for the airline business?

Join JetHead Live with airline analyst and writer Holly Hegeman:

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Meteorologist and Pilot James Aydelott:

Weather, flying–and more.

Thursday Now, and Chaos Reins.

It’s only Thursday in the sense of a time-segment before days off: could be any named day of the week. But in the flight crew world, the calendar slips days like gears, the only important condition being that the drive train works, turns, moves: flies.

And it’s Thursday in the sense of past-mid work week tired; thousands of miles gone like pages turned, but the final chapter yet to be written, never mind the epilogue: you’re responsible for how the story turns out; lots of folks will be reading over your shoulder, commenting eventually. On time? Bumpy ride?

Nobody reads between the lines anyway–fuel burn, altitude, routing, navigation; pay no attention to the man behind that curtain. Just as well, though, because surgery is easier for the surgeon if the patient is completely out of the conscious realm. Leave the driving to us.

The day, like the trip, has broken in half and the better part of the light and heat slipped over the horizon, fickle as tomorrow, leaving dusk like a sigh that slowly dies, restless, then dark.

Freak! Coward. Regardless, gone is the day and with it, distance and depth, at least ahead and below. Still in hand, though, the reins of chaos: 50,000 pounds of thrust and 3,000 psi of hydraulics moving ailerons and rudders on demand. The sea is dark and the reins tight and make no mistake: we’re cruising the fire in the dark.

We’re on the downside of a northern arc when the eastbound fireflies cross our nose; below, mostly, having just left the west coast headed east. We’re lighter, waypoints beyond and a few thousand feet above their path, surfing the jetstream east. The burst of wingtip strobes, pinpoints, then the permanent geometry of running lights–green passes nearest on the starboard wingtip slicing along eastbound; the captain’s side, the red tip, harder to spot but like ships running through the fog, you know which way they’re headed by the configuration of lights.

And in their cockpit, a temple of dark silence like yours, someone’s manning the fires, someone’s got the reins, both beat back the chaos only inches away of a -50 degrees freeze-dry you in seconds outside air temp too cold to even form ice; the 500 mile per hour gale that would shred the conglomeration of bodies and bones and stuff and wires and metal over three states if the reins slip loose; the air half again as thin as the top of Everest, turning you blue before you could lose consciousness a heartbeat later.

Steady, a steady hand, a steady head watching the geometry of time, distance and altitude shrink–hold the reins, adjust accordingly. It’s a step-down of epic proportions, energy paid out, energy dissipated on a gradual, bone-saving scale. Got to serve the numbers to keep the geometry safe, flat and eventually, at a complete stop. And it’s only Thursday, pace yourself: another attempt at hotel sleep, food; watering like any draft horse needs because there’s another flight day tomorrow.

Cheat sheet: you know the ballet, but it doesn’t hurt have a thumbnail sketch. The orchestra strikes a chord an octave lower each measure, carefully slower, hold it, to the final note. Rest.

Taxi in, Thursday nearly done. Folks are now where they’d planned to be, never mind the reins, the chaos, the fireflies, the jetstream. That’s your world. That’s the flight crew world, where tomorrow at last the clock strikes Friday–and home.

This week, on Jethead Live:

We go one-on-one with airline analyst

Holly Hegeman

concerning the future of air travel . . .

Wednesday!

Don’t miss

Wolfpack Flight Revisited

Thirty plus years together flying in the Air Force and the airlines,

the Wolfpack Flight looks back–and forward:

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Airline Workers Burned.

Burned–not just figuratively: literally.

And while the feeling might be among those not close to the fire, “who cares,” the answer is simple, once you too start feeling the flames. And you will: the way of American business today is to break up the furniture and burn it to heat the house.

Still you might say, “not in my business” to which I’d reply, “maybe not for now.” But you will notice the wildfire consuming the airline business the next time you decide to go somewhere by air. And eventually, if those in big business who control yours decide it’s financially expedient in the short term to cash you out, your very own comfy chair, desk, pension and future will provide the heat to warm the place long after you’re out in the cold.

The Dallas Morning News reports that the combined post-bankruptcy Delta-Northwest combination, over 30,000 airline jobs went up in smoke; the post-bankruptcy Continental-United merger torched an equal number; USAir through bankruptcy burned up another 20,000, and American Airlines just forced into bankruptcy will of necessity claim thousands more faces ghostly to those who don’t  know them, even more ghostly to those who do.

But not you, not now, right? No, now it’s this guy, and whether you know it or not, he is you–not that you’d recognize it or admit it, for now:

He’s the Citizen Kane who has been handling your bags for all of the years you’ve been flying. He’s the muscle behind the launch of your jet to wherever you’re going, then he goes home to a family like yours. He’s been doing this for twenty-some years–but not any more: he’s been cashed out, broken up and thrown on the fire to heat the house. There are hordes waiting to smash your bags for minimum wage–so who needs him?

Airlines have no choice but to invest billions in new aircraft, then try to make ends meet with a cost structure skewed by oil prices, the wild card held hostage by both oil speculators and petroleum producing nations, many of whom despise the American way of life–including the cheap airfares connecting the length and breadth of our far-flung nation, a promise made to you by your congress as if it were a sacred entitlement no matter whose job or pension it costs to deliver the savings to you. Who do you think will pay that price for you?

I know who. She’s the one who would save your butt over her own when the real fires start burning:

Many started with me back in the 80s, flying now to support families and to pay mortgages and to have life on the earth like everyone else. Thousands of those dreams and lives went up in smoke through bankruptcy court to heat the chilling business that hangs and dies on the price of a barrel of oil. And month after month, that fluctuation extinguishes not only the hopes and dreams of folks like her–but also the bottom line of the airline that you love to vilify for charging a fraction of what it costs to buy an NFL or NBA playoff ticket. Getting you there, however, must be bargain basement pricing, right? I mean, it’s your right, right?

And don’t forget this guy; well, then again I guess you’d better:

He’s the knuckle-buster I depend on to tell me the jet’s ready, fixed, 100%. And when he says it, I know it’s true. Because he’s the same mechanic who migrated with me from tough, lean years in the military, or the civilian A&P ranks, who like me has put in the thousands of hours of sweat equity taming these giant beasts of metal and fuel and fire and a thousand high-tech components wiring it into a flyable tonnage the size of a freight train at shotgun speed–with your ass strapped aboard. But, his craft can be duplicated–though his lineage certainly cannot be–somewhere a thousand miles off shore for a third of the price. So he goes up in smoke too.

And finally, come on up to the pointy end.

Who’s going to fly your jet? Me, I’m here for the duration: USAF experience worldwide, 26+ years at my airline, 21+ as captain, but here’s the catch: who in the next generation of pilots who witness my nearly 27 years of pension go up in smoke like a “strike-anywhere” match as it just did is going to dedicate his life to your cheap air travel? Who will spend the $80,000+ on flight ratings, or the years of military indentured servitude to aspire to the dead end, $20,000 a year entry level that the job boils down to, just to linger in slow-death overtime as no one can afford to leave once their pension is erased?

Airline analyst Michael Boyd predicted that if this trend continues, airline pilots of the future will be the five year, “I was a ski bum/bartender in Aspen then got a real job” type turnovers, despite the weather, the terrain, the technology, and the challenges of piloting your airline flight.

Because who else with a lick of sense would perform a life and death drama daily for peanuts and an unsure future, branded by the vision of 100,000 airline pilots before them stripped of a future, cut loose with a retirement reduced to nothing?

I don’t know who, but that’s who’ll fly your jets. And I don’t know who in their right minds would choose the monumental and unrecoverable price tag that fuels the “burn ’em up and keep it cheap” model endorsed by your blind eye congress and ultimately by, well, you.

And that’s what you’ll get. Breaking up the furniture to heat the house, regardless of what’s left, never mind habitability or who would have thought, survivability, down the road?

Meanwhile, no worries for now, bon voyage and just warm yourself at the bonfire . . . for as long as it lasts.

Crosswind Landing Video and Critique

Join 2 veteran airline captains critiquing crosswind landings on this remarkable video.

First, start the audio below and it will tell you when to start the video:

(iMac/iPhone users might need to download the audio separately.

Suggestion: let the YouTube video buffer for a minute or two before you start it so it won’t stop on you in the middle.

Next week:

JetHead Live talks with a pair of Air Traffic Controllers about all things pertaining to airspace use.

Tending the Fire in the Sky

Words are only painted fire; a look is the fire itself. –Mark Twain

F_N =( \dot{m}_{air} + \dot{m}_f) V_{j} – \dot{m}_{air} V

That’s the violence hanging in the air, waiting for you to torch it off. Starts simple, starts at a cold standstill. Tons of metal locked inert, waiting. Fill ‘er up.

Then:

\dot{m}_{air}     is the rate of flow of air through the engine
\dot{m}_f     is the rate of flow of fuel entering the engine
V_j\;     is the speed of the jet (the exhaust plume) and is assumed to be less than sonic velocity
V\;     is the true airspeed of the aircraft
(\dot{m}_{air} + \dot{m}_f) V_j     represents the nozzle gross thrust
\dot{m}_{air} V     represents the ram drag of the intake

Say what? All I know is the magic incantation of “Starting Engines Checklist,” the ragged rush of high pressure air channeled by a flick of my wrist into the right engine starter. The brute force of hot air at 45 PSI drives the rotor blades like Niagra Falls spins the turbines that light half of the east coast.

Fuel lever up, wing spar and engine shut-off valves snap open and dual high-pressure pumps ram jet fuel through lines metered by a bank of computers in the lower deck below your feet: spray nozzles, burner cans and a whomping thud as the pressure builds and the dragon breathes a ring of blue fire, a scorching gale at 700 degrees and a hundred miles an hour that would knock a dumptruck sideways. Seen it myself.

Now we’re cooking, smoothly whirling a blowtorch driven series of rotors, compressors and turbines idling at 30,000 rpm and 400 degrees centigrade. You’re saddled up, strapped on–never felt better than to have a fistful of thrust to move you and the metal at mach speed, whenever you say so.

And there are those who live with the aggregation of interlocking numbers, the formulas and structures of chemical reactions that gather in your right hand and though everyone riding the cliche in back thinks you’re that guy–you sure ain’t.

It’s never been about the fifty-headed abacus of numerical relationships that while you have to acknowledge put the beast together, forged of alloys and bonded of thousand degree welds and strung with heartstrings of titanium and vessels coursing with combustibles of unspeakable explosive energy, channeled just feet from where you sit in a controlled explosion that will continue for hours–you aren’t even thinking about ground stuff, things that don’t move–because when it’s all in play, we move like lightning.

That’s the real stuff–don’t give a damn about the paperwork or the tons of pulp and blather to make everyone riding the fire not notice that they are.

But they are.

And every flinch of an engine indication, the jet’s EKG synthesized on a bank of CRTs before you, and every nuance of the fuel burn and the hand-in-hand air nautical miles per pound of fuel, every bit of that is the pulse you feel and notice with the slightest shift, tending the fires.

Everything in the sky once you’re there is paid in the currency of fuel. Every air mile is a consumable and there’s only so much on board. Don’t know so much distance and altitude as I do minutes of fuel.  Don’t really care.

It’s that glass blue flame, the thousands of degrees and the 450 miles per hour cooling and feeding the twin blazes that gulp the air then blast it out the other end with fifteen times as much force. It’s out tons of steel and fuel and bone and flesh arched overhead and flung across the sky, dragging the twin white vapor wakes that testify to the tremendous engineering wonder holding us up like it was easy. And it won’t stop till I say so.

Some say the world will end in fire, some say in ice. –Robert Frost

I have my own idea.

Boeing Instructor Captain Mark Rubin

He’s amassed over 20,000 hours in the Boeing 727, 737, 757, 767, 777.

JetHead Live goes one-on-one with

Boeing Instructor Captain Mark Rubin

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Your Pet On My Jet

While most veterinarians don’t recommend shipping your pet by air for a lot of good reasons, it can be done safely if you plan carefully and, like you must for your own travel, plan well ahead of time.

When it comes to airlines and pet owners, there are basically two options: fly with your pet in the cabin, or have your pet put aboard in the cargo hold. On this latter option, there’s another choice: pet shippers, professionals who are in the business of shipping pets and will actually come to your door, help prep and consult on (or provide) an adequate shipping container.

But no matter which way you choose to transport your pet, you should know that there are actually regulations covering such transportation by both the United States Department of Agriculture (USDA) and the International Air Transport Association (IATA), and statistics regarding animal mishaps can be found on the Air Travel Consumer Report published monthly by the Department of Transportation (DOT). The DOT also publishes some guidelines for shipping pets that you should review.

Still wanting to fly your pet somewhere? Fine–according to the DOT, over two million pets and other animals are shipped by air annually, so, it can and is done often and successfully.

The best summary of “must-do” items I’ve seen comes from the guidelines for shipping pets linked above. Once you’ve ensured that your animal’s condition, shipping container and travel arrangements meet those basic standards, let’s look at the operational aspect: the airport and the flight.

While some airlines stop shipping animals in the coldest and hottest months of the year, many ship year round. But that should be a warning to you: some airlines believe that the extremes of temperature on the ramp that normally is acceptable for cargo might be too harsh for pets. Can you ship during a more temperate season? Can you change plans if the temperature is extremely hot or cold on your travel day?

Because your pet in a kennel will be subject to hot or cold temps on the airport ramp during both the cargo loading and unloading process, which can easily be up to a half hour each way. The flight line and the ramp are hostile environments: extreme noise (hearing protection required for humans–and many pets have even more sensitive hearing) and harsh temperatures. Now, our cargo guys at American Airlines (and I assume most airlines) really are sensitive to pet shipments, trying to minimize the trauma for the animals. Nonetheless, there’s little that can be done about the extremes of temperature and noise that are the facts of life on the flight line.

So, to minimize ramp exposure, try to book a nonstop flight. That will eliminate a mid-trip necessity for the pet and carrier to be offloaded from one jet and trucked across the flight line to another. In the case of both an origination flight and a connecting flight, a delayed inbound flight can mean a long sit on a cargo vehicle on the ramp–a nonstop flight  eliminates one long round of exposure to heat, cold and noise on the ramp.

And here’s a myth that we can put to rest: no, the cargo compartment is not unpressurized. If it were, everything in your luggage that is even in a mildly liquid state would ooze all over the place at altitude. The cargo compartment is within the pressurized hull of the jet and further, it is also temperature controlled.

But here is a hazard that is below-decks on a modern jet that isn’t in the passenger cabin: fire suppression chemicals. That is, is smoke is detected in any cargo compartment, there is a cargo fire suppression system that discharges “snuff” chemicals–that is, fire retardants that eliminate the oxidants required to support combustion–as well as breathing. Just so you know.

Again, for shipping your pet as cargo, review the DOT guidelines for shipping pets linked above and be aware of the important considerations required on behalf of your pet.

Good dog--in the carrier, not out.

Now, for option two, carrying your pet on board.  Of course, there are government regulations covering that too, and they’re for the benefit of the pets, the pet owners, but as importantly, for those seated around passengers carrying pets. And let’s make an important distinction: pets versus service animals. The latter are covered by a separate set of regulations–which don’t necessarily apply to ordinary pets.

If you’re planning to travel with a pet aboard a jet, know which regulations apply to you–including the limitations–because I can tell you this: the flight crew not only knows what they are, they are charged by the FAA with assuring compliance. Let me highlight some of the more important stipulations here:

• Your pet container must be small enough to fit underneath the seat without blocking any person’s path to the main aisle of the airplane.
• Your pet container must be stowed properly before the last passenger entry door to the airplane is closed in order for the airplane to leave the gate.
• Your pet container must remain properly stowed the entire time the airplane is moving on the airport surface, and for take off and landing.
• You must follow flight attendant instructions regarding the proper stowage of your pet container.

I can’t stress that last point strongly enough, because failure to comply with that last point puts a passenger into the category of non-compliance with the lawful instructions of a crewmember, which is a Federal offense we as flight crew members do not take lightly.

Why do I even bring that up?

Because other passengers on your flight may be sensitive to allergens associated with your pet–and they have rights too, specified by even more government regulations. As a result, each airline will have their own specific rules for passengers carrying pets which might be even more restrictive than the government regulations. For example, Delta Airlines regulations are more restrictive than the government regulations, requiring that your pet remain in the pet carrier for the entire time it is aboard the aircraft. And most airline policies are similar to that.

Why do I even bring that up?

Because many people have allergic reactions provoked by exposure to your pet. For instance, the above pictured happy guy went head to head with Alex van Halen on a recent flight over the aging rocker’s carried-aboard pet. And basically, Al Roker was right: there is no requirement for any other passenger to endure ill effects from another passenger’s pet on board an aircraft.

Why do I even bring that up?

Because inevitably, there are passengers carrying pets that insist on removing the pets from their carriers in flight despite the airline policies and Federal regulations governing the carriage of pets aboard passenger airlines. Don’t do it–for the sake of others, and for your own sake–because there are serious physical liabilities for others on board, and major legal consequences for pet owners who claim an exemption from the rules they agreed to upon boarding the flight. Sure, your pet is the cutest pet on the planet–in your eyes. But when on board an aircraft, yours are not the only eyes involved and regardless of your pet’s loveableness, they and you must comply with all government and airline directives.

So that’s it: you know have the big picture and as importantly, the associated federal regulations governing the carriage of pets on commercial aircraft. Read carefully, plan accordingly and if you do travel with your pet, enjoy your flight.

Coming Wednesday:

He’s amassed over 20,000 pilot hours in the Boeing 707, 727, 737, 757, 767 and 777: we go live

with Boeing Instructor Captain Mark Rubin.

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Airline Flying 101: Anatomy of a Landing.

So, where does the planning for landing actually begin? In cruise? Near the top of descent?

Nope.

It’s first thing in the morning, as soon as the alarm goes off–you’re thinking about the weather at your destination. That’s the deal: you know the jet, you know your own skills, you can count on your First Officer’s skill level–that’s a given at American Airlines–so what’s the wild card? The weather.

Having said that, let’s clarify this: we really don’t care about the weather–we care about the change. That is, the trend: what is progressing, and how fast?

The weather report is a snapshot, too soon to be history. And the forecast is a guess, really no better than your own–if you can detect the trend and the rate of change. Now, it’s true that pre-flight planning is based on both the snapshot and the prediction–but as a pilot, the only thing that really matters is how the weather is changing. Because real life in flight–unlike plans–is all about change, and so is weather: it’s never static.

So we’re pulling up the destination weather at regular intervals, but not to decide what we’re going to do when we get there. Rather, it’s to compare how the weather changes during the enroute time in order to understand what the weather is doing–how it’s changing, therefore how the air mass we’ll need to navigate is actually behaving.

Because it’s not like “the good old days:”

Halfway across the Pacific Ocean, fill ‘er up again against the possibility of bad weather in Korea. Weather data was harder to come by and so there was little or no way to get a string of accurate weather data comparisons in order to plot the changes and the trends.

When hours and thousands of miles later we did get close enough to Japan to pick up weather data for Korea, decision time: bad weather? Glad we have the extra gas. Good weather? Dump the extra USAF issued gas in the Sea of Japan and land in Seoul lightweight.

Those days are long gone.

And in the airline world, we have other things to tend to enroute anyway.

Well yeah, there’s that: dinner, maybe a sundae to deal with too. But more importantly, it’s time to line up the static facts for landing so as to have them firm in your mind in order to play them against the weather change when you’re finally on approach.

First, aircraft weight. You can predict the enroute burn pretty well, add that to the zero fuel weight and you’ve got the basis for your approach speed. Now, determine the worst case landing distance by taking the weight to the correct chart to determine the best case landing distance.

Then, determine the corrections for degrading factors: runway surface (wet, icy) and winds (tailwind and crosswind). Take the runway headings of the likeliest approaches and determine the wind angles and the tailwind penalties for for each. Now, get those azimuth ranges (deviation from centerline) set in your head and the landing distance incremental additive for each (for example, runway 4, the tailwind starts over 130 degrees  or 310 degrees) so two things you need in your head: what’s the distance per knot, and based on the landing distance (worst and best case) what’s the max number of tailwind knots you can take. Ditto the crosswind.

And what’s your plan if any limit gets even close? Got that all in your hip pocket? Good. Tell the other guy.

I hate the word “brief,” which every aviator uses when they really mean “verbal walk through.” But that’s what you do a hundred miles out, a verbal walk through. By then, the field conditions are about what you can expect for landing because you’re about 30 minutes out.

So your verbal walk-through includes the approach procedure, plus the numbers (weights, stopping distances, penalties and runway options) and what you plan to do. Also, it’s good common sense to ask the other guy to do all the calculations separately and compare.

Now you both have the plan in your hip pocket, you both are following the plan rather than making it up as you go, and both confusion and ambiguity are reduced on approach.

Now, just get the small details firmed up in your head: wet runway? Windy? Firm touchdown? Speed additives for various contingencies? Brake settings? Know what you’re going to do–and tell the other guy.

So there you have it. Plot the weather trends in your head from wake-up to final approach. Know the static factors such as gross weight, stopping distance, wind angles and tailwind values plus the incremental corrections, flap settings and approach speeds, then play them against the dynamic factors such as winds, temperature, precipitations, runway length (prepare for a last second runway change!) and surface conditions.

The landing plan is one big, complex balloon animal: you squeeze one part, another part will balloon out. We know the static parts, the limits and just how far we can squeeze in all cases–if we do our work ahead of time. And we always do.

So there you have it. You’re ready for the fun part, landing the jet. Enjoy.

Coming on Wednesday:

What’s it like to ride 4 million pounds of explosives into space?

My one on one interview with astronaut Mike Mullane.

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