Captain New, Captain You.

First trip of a new month, settling into the cockpit. You’ve flown with this guy before, but after so many years and so many flights, it’s hard to recall exactly when.

The obligatory small talk as you plug in comm connectors and visually scan switch positions, watching the clock, setting the pace for what needs to happen and when.

“Is this your trip all month?” you ask. Next will be where do you live, any kids . . .

He’s got a smile trying to bust loose. “First part of the month,” he says. “Then I go to captain school.”

Now you’re smiling too. “Congrats, amigo,” you say. “I think I’m going to start calling you captain right now. Has a nice ring to it–and you might as well get used to it.”

You let that ride, let him have his moment of pride. And if he’s smart, a moment of well-justified trepidation. Of course, until he actually qualifies and then in the real world sweats bullets in real time at 500 knots with options shrinking . . .

If anyone ever knew ahead of time, they’d walk away, wouldn’t they?

Your smile stays, wishing in your heart the best for him and for the thousands who’ll rely on him once he takes a seat in the “buck stops here” position.

He deserves that, he’s waited twenty years for that fourth stripe. And never mind that he’ll have to earn it, fight for it actually, to prove to instructors, evaluators and the FAA that he deserves it.

Try to think back . . . twenty some years ago, you’re a happy-go-lucky (okay, maybe too much so) DC-10 First Officer, cruising around, loving the senior First Officer schedule–then you get the notice: “You will report to captain upgrade ground school on August 15th . . .”

Ahh, how the world changed in an instant: finally at long last, you reach the top, recognized for who you are and how you fly.

Well, not so fast.

It’s a gauntlet of classes, exams and certifications. Systems to understand, procedures to master and more than anything else, a mindset to claim: what the hell are we doing and why? And if it doesn’t contribute to the safe carriage of our passengers, to the successful, competent and correct touchdown and taxi in for your $60 million dollar jet and the souls on board–you’re the guy to raise the bullshit flag, to stop the freight train and make it work like you want it to, like it’s supposed to. No one else can or will.

If only he knew; if only you’d known.

Hours of study, memorize those litanies, understand the systems behind the procedures; cough up the spectrum of limit numbers on demand: temperatures, pressures (climb? cruise? max?); fuel limits; climb, icing, stopping–more: electrical bypasses; backups, legality and oh god, stay on the right side of the battalion of lawyers looking for your survivors’ assets if you falter.

Remember the checkride? Double-teamed by two Check Airman, but so what? Bring it on: a great first officer on my right, moving from the engineer’s panel to his first window seat, both of us studying, drilling, practicing in the simulator for engine fires and failures and hydraulic leaks and electrical fires and god-knows-what–bring it on.

Then the coup-de-gras: double engine failure, land it safely, ace. And you do.

Smart on their part, as you learn later when after years and over 5,000 captain hours you become the evaluator, the Check Airman, for other pilots upgrading to captain and First Officer: burn it into their minds–you can handle anything and everything. Because they’ll have to; and they’ll know that they can when they must.

And the proud, ultimate moment after engine shutdown on a flight with a hundred forty passengers on board and an FAA evaluator in the jumpseat. New captain candidate wrung out, put through his paces, scrutinized and graded. You as Check Airman in the right seat, acting as copilot but still pilot-in-command for the new guy’s FAA check. The FAA guy gives you a nod (you never lost a captain, ever) and you know.

You ask the FAA evaluator, “Critique?” Usually, if we’ve all done our jobs right–and I never lost a captain–there are some minor critique items. Then he leaves. The silence is big as we gather our flight gear.

“I only have one thing for you,” I say. “You wear these now,” I tell him, handing over the captain’s wings literally and figuratively forged in fire. And from then on, they’re his to wear and earn again every day.

And after years as captain and thousands of hours and more hurdles of selection, training and evaluations, a few of those new captains will become instructors and evaluators themselves–like you did. Passing on the lessons, looking for the awareness, the competence, and the willingness in those who want captains wings to earn the right to wear them. And we all aspire to exactly that–but not everyone makes it.

“Well captain,” I say, back to the present, “how about we run that Before Starting Engines Checklist? Let’s get outta town.” I know he’s pleased at the sound of that “Captain” title, as well he should be.

And soon, if he works very hard and does well, he’ll find out exactly why.

Why I Couldn’t Be An Airline Pilot.

When I was a teenager, like all of my close friends I decided I was going to be an airline pilot. But somewhere along the way between our teenage years and the reality of adulthood, one by one my friends all let go of the dream and wandered off to do other things with their lives.

The standard refrain I hear from them–and most guys when they find out I’m an airline pilot–is this: “I was going to be a pilot, but . . .” The “but” ranges from physical deficiencies to fate to a million reasons–all beyond their control–why that never happened.

Which got me to thinking. There are a lot of good reasons why I couldn’t be an airline pilot either. Here they are:

1. I hate mechanical stuff. Always have. In fact, during those same teen years my Saturday mission was to sneak out of the house before my dad could grab me and put me to work as tool caddy for his day long under-the-hood misadventures. Dad decided my brothers and I needed to do the cliche stuff like work on cars in order to grow up “like normal guys.” In my opinion, that was a waste of a perfectly good Saturday afternoon.

“Get over here,” he’d growl, and you were busted. “This will only take forty minutes and you can go do whatever afterward.” Never forty, maybe four hours and forty minutes, then your day was shot. Dammit. So I’d be the reluctant tool lackey as Dad hunkered waist deep in the yawning engine compartment on the Chevy 396 with a four-barrel carb that with the air filter off, looked like a toilet flushing the way it guzzled gas (that was cool) even at idle.

He’d say “Gimme the 3/8 inch box wrench” and I’d hand him pliers, on purpose, thinking the next time he’d remember how pissed off that made him and perhaps he’d select a more competent tool monkey–like either of my brothers. Nope. So besides cursing whatever procedure that despite the tome-sized shop manual just wasn’t working, or never mind three trips to the auto parts store (another special hell) ranting about parts that didn’t fit, he’d have me to blast for being an idiot (What? A screw driver is not a socket wrench?) sous chef under the hood.

So now, flying a complex, state-of-the-art (some are only weeks old–they still have that “new jet” smell) aircraft, when something goes wrong under the hood, I call an expert and let them fix it.

But I fly with a lot of guys who like my dad have wiring diagrams, flow charts, Lamm schematics–they like to get under the hood, yacking with the mechanics. “Shows 28 volt three-phase; now if you lose one phase . . .” blah blah blah is all I’m hearing. Just let me know when it’s fixed. Unlike my dad, they don’t want me handing them wrenches and like his Chevy Caprice, I don’t want to know how it works or even why it works–just let me know when it’s working again. I can fly the hell out of it for sure but the rest is all just details eating up my afternoon. Fix it, I’ll fly it, end of story.

2. I’d prefer to be invisible in uniform. Seriously: I don’t want to play the “this is your captain speaking” Disney character. Darling Bride and I used to fly together as crew, and people would of course see us in our uniforms–her flight attendant polyester hell, my pilot suit–and they’d seem to be watching us like zoo animals to see what we’d do.

So I don’t relish any of the showtime beyond the sanctuary of the bolted shut cockpit door. Walking through the terminal, it’s like encountering a pack of stray dogs: don’t make eye contact; just go about your business in an unobtrusive, non-threatening way and they’ll leave you alone.

Somebody else is going to have to do the playacting for the public; I’m not good answering questions about the bathroom, yucking it up about flying, or hearing about how (this is standard) “we dropped a thousand feet straight down” on some other flight. Doing the pilot thing as a pilot in the air–that is my only concern. Don’t worry about a thing, it’s taken care of–just keep your seat belt fastened and like Lewis CK says, “You watch a movie, take a dump and you’re in LA.” Just don’t expect a show before or after.

3. I really don’t get along with pilots. That goes with the “invisible” thing above: don’t play the role, don’t relish the identity. No cheesy aviators sunglasses, no 1980s-vintage mustache, no vanity plate like “JetJock” or bumper sticker that says, “My other car is a Boeing-737” or god forbid, this:

This is actually a sticker on sale at the Crew Outfitters store at DFW Airport. Which means some douchebag pilot thought it was a “cute idea,” (what the hell is “giggity giggity?”) and enough are actually buying the sticker to make it worthwhile. Wonder why I want to be invisible?

And in the cockpit, I do not want to take turns parroting whatever talk radio host is the hero of the week, don’t need to analyze the stock market that none of us ever really has any real expertise in, and I definitely don’t want to hear about the merits of home schooling (why is it that some many pilots’ wives are browbeaten into this?) as THE way to raise the only decent kids in the world after “the balloon goes up.” Have a weapons cache ready? A shack in Montana? Just keep it to yourself. Want to talk about sports? Fine: how the heck did Sabathia hit the Yankees for $25 million a year when he looks like he ate everything on the Dairy Queen menu every day since the All-Star break?

Nice gut.

See, I can be sociable. But beyond sports talk, I’m completely avoiding discussion of The Big Three: politics, religion and god forbid, pilot contract talks. Other than conversation related to actually flying the jet, I’m a big fan of what Archie Bunker used to call “A little bit of shut up around here.”

So there you have it: like most guys, there are a lot of good reasons why I couldn’t be an airline pilot, or at least not one like you’d see on TV or in the movies with the cliches and stereotypes. But when the weather’s crap and your pink butt is in the back of the plane heading for the runway at 150 miles per hour, I will guarantee you a safe landing. I’ve got over thirty years of experience and practice doing exactly that.

But afterward, it’s best for all concerned if I just slip out the door unnoticed before anyone can corral me into spending my time off being somebody I’m clearly not. If only my dad had figured that out so many Saturdays ago.

Riding Rockets: Beyond “The Right Stuff” to The Real Stuff.

Years ago, Tom Wolf gave us The Right Stuff, an outsider’s fictionalized view of the early NASA astronaut world. Today Mike Mullane blows that to pieces with the real stuff: Riding Rockets, a white hot, insider’s first person view of life and death as a shuttle astronaut.

Like the author’s life, the story is an unlikely, relentlessly driven paradox of impossible factors that leaves the reader exhausted but fulfilled, terrorized while simultaneously enchanted, disgusted yet amused and ultimately, completely amazed. Mullane the aviator reminds me of a similarly high octane squadron mate of mine who went full-throttle against all obstacles. He’d demonstrate his wrath at even the normal delay associated with crossing a runway by doing so when cleared with a kick of afterburner.

Mike Mullane has led his whole professional life in afterburner and the book unfolds accordingly, so strap in tight and hang on: the high-arcing trajectory ranges from the bureaucratic depths of “AsCan” (“Astronaut Candidate,” impossible not to read as “ass can” in your head) drudgery, through the abject terror of the controlled explosion that was a shuttle launch, to the soaring euphoria of the orbital view and every-ninety-minute glorious sunrises offered in spectacular detail. The writing makes the experience visceral and gut-wrenching: you’re not reading; you’re riding rockets.

And therein lies yet another major paradox of this book: in Mullane NASA finally—albeit unknowingly—launched a poet into orbit. When Apollo astronaut Pete Conrad was asked what it was like to walk on the moon, he reportedly answered, “It was great—I really enjoyed it.” Period.

By contrast, Mullane boosts the reader into a loftier orbit: Riding Rockets doesn’t describe or tell; you don’t read or hear—rather, the reader lives the painstakingly and beautifully constructed engineer-meets-aesthete (finally!) prose. The reader inhabits every dimension of the astronaut experience in firsthand, nuanced but no-nonsense and often poignant detail.

And yet paradoxically, there’s no denying the subtext of political and sexist incorrectness that was the Neanderthal mother tongue of those of us who were military aviators in the last century. But even that’s nothing but cringe-worthy authenticity—the more provocative political incorrectness is in Mullane sharing the bald-faced truth of the politics, pettiness and even foolishness of NASA management in life or death issues of safety, risk management, practicality and common sense that resulted in pointless deaths that nearly dismantled the space shuttle program. Strictly political NASA stunts like putting non-professional astronauts—including congressmen, even icon John Glenn—aboard to the detriment of safety, morale, professionalism and ultimately, risk, exposes the NASA management innards as malignant, dysfunctional and only marginally competent to run a complex space vehicle year after year.

Which raises the ultimate and heretofore largely unexamined astronaut conundrum, as the reader lives out the blurred borders between commitment, dedication and obsession: the driving force wasn’t the astronauts’ fear that they could very well lose their lives in a shuttle launch; rather, it was their fear that they couldn’t live their lives if they didn’t. That, plus the inside look at the families’ launch and pre-launch hell, is a sobering, heartrending experience that the reader—if not every American citizen—should take to heart when looking back on the men, women and families of the space shuttle.

Maybe Mullane does too good a job of letting the reader rummage around  inside his head. You can’t help but recall the Melville classic he claims—probably correctly—that no one has ever read. Nonetheless, one painful fact of “Moby Dick” is that the first hundred pages teach you how to read the last three hundred. Looking for the whale tale in Riding Rockets, a wonderfully layered and nuanced narrative, you discern ultimately the sincere and higher truth behind the crude, abrasive exterior of bravado and testosterone-driven veneer that covers a thoughtful, values-driven core of humanity nonetheless.

So in Mullane’s focus on one of his “TFNG” colleague’s untimely death in a shuttle tragedy and the years leading up to it, the reader is torn—probably deliberately, by the author–over reading between the lines . . . or not. And yet, living out his experience, you can’t possess even a modicum of decency without strictly honoring the narrative for what it is: a moving tribute to a fallen comrade; no less—and no more.

From the desert southwest to West Point to Europe, space, the White House and back–that’s the exhausting, rewarding, provocative and inspiring journey that is Riding Rockets. In the end, you arrive with Mullhane at a priceless retrospective pinnacle, rich with emotion and understanding of the epic undertaking that was the space shuttle,  generously shared by a deft, driven, talented (finally!) writer with “the right stuff” who delivers the real stuff.

At long last. A must read for all space program followers; a should-read for everyone else.

Mullane, Mike. Riding Rockets: The Outrageous Tales of a Space Shuttle Astronaut, New York: Scribner, 2006.

For more information on Astronaut Mike Mullane, click here.

Coming next in a few days: back into the left seat—

The truth about airline ticket prices.

I can explain the truth about airline ticket prices in just two words:

Jerry Jones.

Stay with me, please. And go one step further, considering also “The Death Star,” as local sports commentators have dubbed Jerry Jones’ new billion-dollar stadium in Arlington.

Put these two images together and consider one very important economic indicator: the FCI, or “Fan Cost Index.”  The FCI formula takes a representative look at what a family of four could expect to spend at a football game this year. The FCI comprises the prices of four average-price “general” tickets, two small draft beers, four small soft drinks, four regular-size hot dogs, parking for one car, two game programs and two least-expensive, adult-size adjustable caps.

According to a  recent survey, Jerry Jones and his new stadium have had a major impact on NFL ticket prices. According to a late-2009 “Team Marketing Report:”

“Tickets to National Football League games climbed a bit for the 2009 season, thanks to a pricey new stadium in Arlington, Texas. The average ticket to a NFL game rose 3.9 percent to $74.99, according to Team Marketing Report’s exclusive survey, but with 21 teams either keeping prices the same or lowering them, the main push behind the percentage increase came from Cowboys Stadium, Jerry Jones’ $1.2 billion football palace. [italics mine]

"YTBSM."

The average ticket to a Cowboys game costs $159.65, a new record for the Fan Cost Index survey, which has been around since 1991.
The Cowboys knocked the New England Patriots off their perch as the priciest ticket in pro sports. The Patriots kept their price the same
at $117.84.”

So, if the average family would like to take in a Dallas Cowboys football game, the price tag would be $758.00 per game. Does it make you feel any better that the $50 parking fee is included? Probably not.

A snack bar price list at "Jerry World."

Or that this bloated price tag buys the family a brief, one time visit to the below average Dallas Cowboys football team? Here are some average guys inside The Death Star with that analysis:

To summarize, for the outlay of $758 your average family gets approximately 3 hours of average to below average football, plus the experience of being in the new stadium. Hold that thought, please.

Around the same time as this report on NFL ticket prices was published, my Mom called with a question about airline ticket prices.

She and my dad were planning a trip from San Francisco to Chicago soon and she was wondering if the round-trip airfare, $199, sounded reasonable. My answer? No, Mom, that’s not reasonable at all.

I base my answer on my newly devised DHI, or Driving Hell Index. The DHI looks at total miles, divided by miles per gallon of the transportation mode (a mid-sized car), times an average fuel price of $3.59/gallon (AAA statistic 1-30-10), plus a standard cost factor of $129 (AARP rate at Hampton Inn) for each 500 miles, assuming an overnight stay per segment, plus a lowball $30 per day per person for food. Finally, I add in at least $50 a day–which is going to be low in their case–for the remorse factor: “we should have flown, what were we thinking?”

Anyway, if you total these factors for the 3,000 mile San Francisco-Chicago round trip ($566 for gas, $774 for 6 hotel nights, $180 for food, and $300 for regret) the total cost to drive would be  $1,870.

So no, that $199 round-trip fare isn’t reasonable–it’s ridiculously low.

How does this connect with Jerry Jones and The Death Star? Simple: in this modern era where three hours of mediocre football is valued at $758–and the stadium has been full all season–a 3,000 mile round trip from one coast to Chicago for less than half of that price is an astoundingly good value.

That in a nutshell is the revolution in airline ticket prices. What I can’t explain is why no one notices and in fact, why most complain about “high air fares.”

Because in a recent “Consumer Watch,” air travel analyst Terry Trippler conducted a random survey of schedules and airfares comparing ticket prices of today with those from 25 years ago for 27 different cities. When 1982 prices are adjusted for inflation, Trippler found that today’s prices are actually lower.

In 1982 there were three roundtrip flights from Boston to Los Angeles, with the lowest fare costing $298. Adjusted for inflation, that ticket should cost $635 today, but Trippler found that, not only are there nine roundtrip flights instead of three, the lowest fare was just $199.

Flying from New York to Miami? In the eighties there were 21 flights, with the lowest fare costing $188. That same ticket should cost $400 in 2007, but Trippler found that the lowest fare was actually $158 and there are now 25 nonstop flights.

How in the wide, wide world of sports is a $758 dollar afternoon outing reasonable, while a $199 round trip fare is considered “high?” Meanwhile, Jerry Jones has become a billionaire collecting the family fun budget of 108,000 people at a whack, and the US airline industry lost over $2 BILLION last year.

That is the stark raving reality of airline ticket prices and sadly, when you consider NFL football and air travel, the truth. If after mulling this over, you still want to complain about airline ticket prices or attend a Cowboys home game, I think I know why.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________

Yup, some guy left his “wedding suit” on the airport shuttle. At departure time, he was looking for help. But he’d have to go back through security, claim the suit from the van driver who was miles away at the time, then brought it through security (no one can or should bring ANYTHING, including a “wedding suit,” through security for anyone else) and re-boarded. Not a chance of that happening in two minutes or less–and we were the last flight out of Tulsa for the day. Oops–guess somebody’s buying a new suit. Great way to start a marriage, right?

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