Everyone Looks To The Blue

Everyone’s looking skyward, because wherever it is they’re going, the sky’s the way there.

The sky looks angry today, with bruised looking billows of scud clouds, tumbling east to west on a wintery gale that is limiting the airport to just two instead of six landing runways. Which slows the normal flight operations pace to a crawl.

Of course it’s chaos in the terminal–it’s Spring break. Snow flurries add to the festive Spring atmosphere, celebrating a freak late-season storm galloping out of Canada (can’t they keep their cold air up there where it belongs?) to poke down into the central United States and wreak havoc on a thousand travel plans.

Spring Break spawns the airport freak show like the bar in Star Wars: apparel matches the destination, not the location. Shorts and t-shirts bound to or from the beach jostle elbows with weary Joe Businessman jockeying for boarding priority, knowing the overhead space on the aircraft is tight, and also knowing that since no one wants to pay to check a bag, everyone wants to drag everything on board.

Looking to the sky outside, the biz guy prays for an on-time arrival wherever it is he’s going that he’d probably rather not be, unless it’s home. He studies the sky absently, thinking beyond today’s steel-gray sky spitting unwelcome snow pellets. Hadn’t the calendar vanquished what’s already been a miserable winter of delays and cancellations everywhere business is done? Still, he’s either wherever he’s going in his head (an exciting Power Point, maybe?) or wherever he just came from (missing family? Swearing to travel less, but the boss wants to stay home too, so . . .), or as likely, wherever he wishes he could be instead.

There’s always a group of teens or early twenties, bound in a group headed for a school team or band or church trip, confusing their “first ever” gang trip with “the first ever” trip of this kind: it’s the illusion of youth that whatever they’re doing, this is it, rather than “this is one more of those done by these” who may dress differently than the last generation but are essentially the same nonetheless. And that’s okay, that’s what they’re supposed to do. Teen boys bound and frisk like restless ponies and show off for studiously disinterested girls; loud voices, weary chaperones, harried agents–it’s all part of the mix.

Families try to carve out a space in the boarding area. Children try not to fidget, but it’s too hard and really, better to get the energy out now rather than in flight. Parents with infants are like roadies with rock stars, schlepping all manner of equipment: strollers as complex as the fold-out Apollo Lunar Rover; food-beverages-diapers-outfits-containers-bottles–the band’s here!

The younger couples in the pre-kid and recent-post-honeymoon phase watch it all and try to project themselves in the family role, but why? You can’t really try it on mentally as if it were a radical fashion departure, nor can you imagine the nostalgia with which you’ll look back on the pre-kids travel when your parenthood days come. Just enjoy the trip–and trust me, you’ll love the kids and the adventures when it’s time.

The older folks with more issues than just reservations and vacations melt into the woodwork. Mobility challenges, hearing, seeing the dang small monitors–it’s less of a lark and almost more important for them; more than from point “A” to point “B,” it’s an odyssey fraught with unforeseen obstacles.

I keep an eye out for them: let me get the information that eludes you, the service person who overlooks you, the answers you need and ways and means to get you where you’re going. Thanks for your patience; we’ll get you through this rolling tide of humanity and into the blue as soon as possible.

Me? I’m whomever you need me to be: for the elderly, I’m Charon, the Ferryman, polling your raft. I’ll take you where you need to be, even if you can’t picture the place yet yourself.

Not just the elderly, but the unaware, heading to places from which there’s no return. It’s not just age, but circumstance as well. I never forget that the journey for you may be beyond my imagination–and possibly yours too–when it comes to the changes in life marked by travel. It will mean something to you, so it’s important to me.

I’m the character at Disney, wearing the costume you want to see in order to embrace the comfort of the story that goes with it.

That’s part of the illusion (I really don’t need a hat and tie to fly the plane–and they often are ditched behind the closed flight deck door) and the story line you’ve paid for enroute. Even in my usual jeans, I still have the thousands of hours of experience and flight time that are what really matter, never mind the costume.

Most of all, I’m the watchman, the Catcher in the Rye, making sure you get where you’re going safely despite the miles high perch and the barely sub-sonic speed in our aluminum island in the sky.

Because I get it, really I do: here, time is nobody’s friend, because this is only a waypoint on the road to where memories are made.

When we finally blast off, it’s no longer the waiting–it’s the going, the doing. We’ll climb that giant staircase and perch miles high for a few hours. You can study the blue above and the dirt below in the moving tapestry of here to there.

Take your time, enjoy the sky. You’ll be “there” soon enough, and too soon back if you’re lucky. For now, just look to the blue.

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The Big 5 Conspire To Ruin Your Air Travel

Want to know who to blame for your airline hassles? Here are “The Big 5” conspiring to ruin your air travel:

1. Congress. In an ill-conceived attempt to legislate a “one-size-fits-all” solution to largely anomalous and often anecdotal reports of airline tarmac delays, Congress enacted a law effective April 29th mandating multi-million dollar fines for airlines with aircraft delayed longer than a specified time, hoping to lessen passenger delays. But the law will have the opposite effect: instead of freeing passengers from tedious hours-long delays, this bill will create indefinite delays and cancellations of flights, stranding passengers enroute and at origination airports (for an in-depth analysis of the downside of this disastrous bill, click here).

Continental Airlines CEO Jeff Smisek said his airline will be forced to cancel flights rather than risk fines in the millions for an extended tarmac delay. The ultimate impact of this unavoidable cancellation for the traveler?

You will find yourself along with hundreds of other on the stand-by list for the handful of open seats going to your destination. And there can be only a handful of seats–and they’re not going to be cheap as a walk-up fare–because of number 2 below.

2. Alfred E. Kahn.

Known as “The Father of Airline De-Regulation,” economist Alfred E. Kahn was Jimmy Carter’s Chairman of the Civil Aeronautics Board. His blueprint for airline de-regulation was based on a flawed economic model, and was as misguided as economist John Kenneth Galbraith’s assurance to Lyndon Johnson that the Viet Nam war would be short and wouldn’t affect inflation. Kahn proposed complete de-regulation of airline routes and fares, positing that the marketplace forces would drive down ticket prices and provide the American public with cheap and plentiful airline seats.

What he failed to consider in his economic model is the fact that not only is the product–an airline seat–not inexpensive to produce, it is also linked to energy costs which are both volatile and unpredictable. “Cheap airfares” for the public are incredibly expensive to produce, forcing in the progressive “unbundling” of the airline product: now passengers must pay for each component of the flight–a checked bag, food, beverage, amenities like a pillow or a hard-copy ticket–and the revenue still only marginally covers the price of the product, with the airline industry losing billions nonetheless. Consumers insisted on paying less for an airline ticket, so now

You wanted your ticket for $10 less, now you hand that over to McD's instead.

they can cough up for food and drink at airport prices between flights. Everything must yield revenue or there is no airline, and nothing with revenue potential on board can be simply given away.

Further, Kahn didn’t foresee that many airlines would use bankruptcy as an operating shield for years (thank #1 above for not amending bankruptcy laws) to gain an unfair advantage over the few airlines that didn’t. This abuse of bankruptcy law dealt a financial beating to carriers that paid their bills but still had to compete head-to-head with many who simply walked away from their debt.

3. Airline Capacity. Every airline that intends to survive the high production cost and low revenue stream has cut capacity to the bone. This is common sense: empty seats are an unrecoverable loss and waste, and airline planners have analyzed traffic and passengers in order to minimize such waste and loss. For the traveler, this means less empty seats–seats which are vital when a flight is cancelled due to #1 above, or for the more common cancellations due to weather or equipment. Used to be that the percentage of empty seats was higher, allowing the system to absorb passengers from a cancellation or delay. Such margins are a luxury of the past with airlines having to deal with out-of-control fuel prices with an ever-shrinking revenue stream.

True, Kahn’s brainchild did spawn new entrant airlines–but they don’t have a seat surplus either, or they simply go out of business.

4. Airway Infrastructure. There are only so many take-offs that are physically possible at 5pm at LaGuardia. Although Alfred Kahn’s model says the marketplace will regulate itself, if everyone wants to sell a competitive 5pm departure, it is clearly predictable that there will be massive delays, which are the rule at airports like LaGuardia and many in the northeast, as well as from airports inbound to those airports. Kahn’s leverage, unfortunately, is you, the passenger, and the delays and misconnects you will suffer as a result. But in a free market, what business can afford to not compete in the market that customers demand? And when they do, how do they deal with number 1 above? As Continental CEO Jeff Smisek promised, there will be rampant cancellations and stranded travelers as a result.

LaGuardia’s delays are emblematic of the entire national air route system: despite Kahn’s academic model, the airways are saturated at all of the commercially viable times when passenger demand dictates the competitive environment. Which leads to more delays–and in the face of congress’s newly enacted financial penalties, cancellations and misconnects for you, the passenger.

5. The Big Box Store.

The heyday of the discount “big box store” gave rise to a consumer expectation of all products and services for steep discounts. Everything from home electronics to auto parts to furniture is now sold in bulk at drastically reduced prices by wholesalers with only minimal investment in buildings and equipment.

A new aircraft, by contrast, costs upwards of $50-$100 million per aircraft, and hundreds of such aircraft are required to produce a fleet with a competitive route structure. Further, each aircraft has to earn revenue daily despite upturns and downturns in the travel market, as well as drastic fluctuations in fuel costs which follow oil prices. Face it: the cost of an airline round trip is not the same as a set of tires or a Cowboy’s football game–but the public paradoxically expects to pay less anyway (more details–click here).

Still not convinced that cheap airline travel is an absurd expectation? Ask yourself why “cheap surgical hospitals” aren’t also a consumer demand.

Does anyone really think flight at 7 miles up and the speed of a 22 caliber bullet is any less risky than surgery? Does anyone demand the cheapest bare bones surgical “product?” Is airline pricing too high? Read this and decide.

Regardless, there remains an unrealistic expectation among consumers that somehow ticket prices should fit their budget rather than the actual cost of the product. Part of that stems from the low-overhead “big box” pricing that is the norm on other big ticket items, part from Alfred Kahn’s unrealistic promise to consumers of cheap pricing on an expensive product, and part due to congressional unwillingness to address the disparity between the two.

You tell me. These “Big 5” items have changed air travel from a Nieman-Marcus experience to a K-Mart Death March. Further, the airport and airway infrastructure are badly in need of technological upgrade.

The traveling public can make changes in #1 and #5; it’s time to junk #2, and it’s time to force #1 to make the needed upgrades to #4. The airlines themselves will take care of #3 when that happens.

Until the public and congress fix this, at least now you know whom to blame for your airline woes this travel season.

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Airline Pilot: Day 2 In The Life.

[Did you miss Day One of this saga? If so, here it is if you’d like to catch up.]

The phone blasts you awake at an ungodly hour. “Huh? What?”

“Crew Tracking. Your inbound aircraft is late, so your pick-up at the hotel will be an hour later.”

Damn–you realize you’re in a hotel. Not at home. “Uh, okay. You gonna call the first officer?” No sense letting him get any more sleep than you, right? Besides, he’d be down for crew van pick-up an hour early.

“Sure, Captain.” Click. Hate wake up calls–that’s why you never request one. Two alarms, plus the cell phone. And slowly, it dawns on you what’s just happened: Crew Tracking woke you up early to tell you to sleep later.

Of course, you can’t go back to sleep. Wrong time zone, too awake. Coffee? Foraging for coffee. Darn, it’s the one-cup jobber: won’t stay warm, but take it or leave it.

Strike One: now you’re going to have to risk the coffee bath in the crew van bumping to the airport. It can’t be helped–you need your morning medication. Meanwhile, time for your bloodbath: shave.

You know a widebody captain who just retired (initials Dan H.) but swore he always took not only the hotel free stuff like soap and shampoo, but also the extra roll of toilet paper and when he was running low at home, a couple light bulbs, too. Of course, you took a beer glass from the LaGarbage hotel bar every trip because they were charging $9 per draft. Ought to get something for that price, right? And you are probably the reason why now they allow carry-outs only in a plastic cup. Shrug . . . you have a complete set of their glasses anyway.

Stick your head in the shower, wash away the cobwebs. What the . . . okay, that’s Strike Two:

It’s like you’re in a submarine that’s been hit and is going down.

Anyway, blot that drain clog out of your mind’s eye–the submarine image is better. Grab your stuff, take the key, too, in case you need to come back up for something you’ve forgotten.

Get downstairs for pick up, if your time zone math is correct. If not, and you’re an hour or two early (don’t laugh–you’ve done it), then you’ll need your key to go back upstairs, acting nonchalant (yeah, I just came down to look around . . . uh, with my bags).

It’s quiet in the van because half of the crews are from the opposite coast and so are not yet quite awake; some from the early coast are already on their phones. You and your bunch are on Central time, midway between time zones and everyone, regardless, is heading to the four points of the compass.

It’s a funny career field, isn’t it? First thing everyone does after coming to work is scatter across the country. Maybe that’s why there’s a feeling of comraderie among crews, even from other airlines. We’re all in this nomadic drifting life together, passing each other along the way.

You hate the single point security, at least for the passengers. You’re at work, and you’ve done this so many times it’s pretty well a mindless annoyance. And there are crew lines. You hate the monolithic hassle of giant security operations like DEN and PIT for the families and the elderly who are almost overwhelmed. The special crew line? Well, should we get to the gate and preflight, then wait for the passengers, or vice versa?

There’s no time for anything after the security lines, just go to work. Not making eye contact with passengers, which will normally lead to questions you can’t answer anyway ( more details? click here). There’s an exception, though–there’s always time to help the very young, and the very old.

And of course, the families shepherding both through the airport. Their travel is most important, being their first or maybe even their last flight, and they need and deserve your help just as you would hope your family would get help in a similar situation. Find your way to the gate and  here’s the payoff for you.

The jet, fueled, waiting. That goes back to the core, to the Air Force days: pointy rockets lined up on a quiet ramp, waiting to split the morning sky with the sound of  jet engines. Let’s get to work.

Preflight done, boarding, pushback; take-off.

Do that again two more times. Food? No time–cram in a quick meal eaten out of your lap.

... and keep the cracker crumbs off the radar, okay?

Same sequence, step by methodical and disciplined step, two more times through three more time zones. By the last leg, you’re pretty well worn out. But there’s no slack, no easing up: the third leg has to be just as precise as the first.

Enjoy the desert moonrise, watch the fuel flow, and a constant eye on the route and the weather. The finish line’s only a couple hours away. Never mind the time changes and hotel sleep and missed meals, bring everyone home safely. Park the jet; captain’s the last one off. Now you can relax, the rest is just a sleepwalk to the hotel. And here’s why it’s all worthwhile.

Walk around them. Head for yet another hotel, try to get some rest. The whole thing starts over again tomorrow morning.

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Stay tuned for Part 3: Going Home.

Coming soon . . .

Flight Time In Dog Years

This flight flung me back to the dog pound. Just trying to get into the cockpit, and boom: flashback to the day I divorced my dog.

There was no one left in the boarding area when I tromped down the jetbridge about ten minutes prior to scheduled departure. I’d been up in Flight Operations printing a new flight plan after a major route change to avoid the severe weather over Tennessee and Kentucky I knew we’d read about in the next morning’s headlines.

Hadn’t met the Number Four flight attendant yet, but she was planted squarely in the doorway. No “Hello, my name is,” nor opportunity for me to do the same. Rather, hands on hips, looking at me like it was my fault, she said, “The woman in 4-F wants to know if her dog got on.”

She got a couple seconds of grace time as I struggled to not say something smartassed. Like most flight attendants, she was a pro at handling people, and handled me too: “He’s in there pushing buttons,” she said, jerking a thumb at my First Officer, “so he’s busy.” But before she could ask me if I’d go down to the ramp and poke my head into the forward cargo compartment and page 4-F’s dog, I slipped past her, saying, “Yeah, ten minutes prior to pushback I have a few buttons to push too.”

That’s when the flashback smacked me in the face: the look in her eyes, having been sidestepped, was the look in my dog’s eyes as he drove away. Not really disappointed, because she wasn’t that invested in 4-F’s dog. Rather, it was a problem solving-thing, a rearrangement, the details that would get us all under way peacefully, dog or no.

Same with Gus, my ex-dog. He lived his life with that look, the notion spelled out in his eyes that like my flight attendant colleague, was all about getting on with it. Maybe because he was a pound-mutt, a Retriever-Chow mix, stoic as his Mongolian ancestors which tempered the Retriever friskiness: he was the perfect dog. Time spent in the pound gave him an ex-con’s wariness, as if a skepticism about how “the time” was going to go overruled assurances and even a prescribed sentence.

Gus, the beer drinking, baseball watching perfect dog.

But on a jet? I know every airline charges substantial fee to bring a dog on board. Since the all-important 4-F dog wasn’t in the cabin, I assumed it was probably too large and so had incurred an even larger shipping fee below decks in the cargo hold.

Clearly, this was about somebody wanting something important from their dog, not vice versa, because I’ve seen dogs crammed into the cargo hold in kennels.  Not a cool way to travel.

This trip was about the dog’s owner and so more than the welfare of the dog, the question of whether he was on board had everything to do with what the owner wanted.

That was the reason for divorcing my dog: I wanted what was best for him, not me.

Our time together started out simple: a neighbor kid fed and watered Gus when I was flying; at home, we had baseball nights alone. For a while there, I indulged his expensive taste in beer: he turned his nose up at anything but RedDog once he’d tried it. An Amstel Light for me, a couple ounces of RedDog for Gus. It got to be too much, having to buy a separate–and more expensive–beer for the dog: it was like having company all the time.

Take it or leave it, pal.

We drove everywhere in my old Blazer, the back seats down so he could walk around and fall down a lot–he never grasped centrifugal force–singing bawdy dog lyrics to old Beatles CD’s (“I wanna mount your leg . . . and when I hump you I feel happy, inside . . .”) which was all well and good while it lasted.

Then came the girlfriend. I’d had “girlfriends,” but this was and still is the one. We got married. Built a house. Had a child. And Gus got edged out bit by bit: time and baseball and beer drinking (he NEVER had to go to the bathroom and looked at me like “you whimp” when I had to by the fifth inning) gave way to a re-engineered household and lifestyle, joyous for us; for Gus, not so much. He was an outdoor dog–had to literally drag him inside in bad weather–and too rough for the new house; too big around a newborn.

But then I knew my old baseball and Beatles pal still needed–and deserved–time and attention. He was near ten by then and I knew he wasn’t, in the twilight of his dog years, going to get it from me.

I put an ad in the paper. Rejected several families after the “interview:” nope, not sending Goose into a worse situation.

Then an old broken down sedan pulled up, huffed a mighty sigh and died. The driver’s door swung open and a disheveled man stood. A scruffy looking boy climbed out of the back seat.

Through thick Spanglish, the story unfolded. His German Shepard, best friend for all of his five years, had died. They saw the ad; hoped maybe they could find the right dog; no money for adoption. They had a yard and a vacant lot, all fenced. Gus could run, would get the attention he needed.

And that was that. He drove off, not even looking back, all about the “now,” as dogs seem to be. Tomorrow doesn’t exist, yesterday doesn’t matter any more. Bye.

The flight interphone cracked to life in my headset. “Ground to cockpit,” came the Crew Chief’s voice on the ramp below. “You guys ready up there?”

And I wondered to myself: is that what you do if you’re a dog’s best friend? Keep him with you at all costs? Or send him off–or below in a cage–and continue on “there” or wherever no matter what? The cargo hold? A beater sedan?

“No,” I answered, unstrapping. My First Officer gave me a “what the hell?” look as I stepped out of the cockpit. The agent, too, looked startled. “Be right back.”

Out through the jetbridge, down the stairs to the ramp. The guidemen with their wands and day-glo vests eyed me quizzically. I ducked under the fuselage, over to the forward cargo door a ground crew woman was about to close. “Wait.”

I leaned into the chest high cargo door, letting my eyes adjust to the dim light. There.

Medium sized kennel; medium sized dog. So far so good. “Hey buddy, you okay?” I ignored the ground crew woman’s stare burning a hole in my back. Five minutes till push, I knew she was thinking, we’ve got to get moving.

Brown eyes stared back. Some kind of beagle; nice looking dog. Same Gus eyes, too: not sure where I am, or where I’m headed, but let’s get on with it. Maybe even a little bit sardonic, like Gus sitting quietly as I take the mandatory fifth inning plumbing break: you wuss.

I turned to the ramper waiting to close the door. “Okay.” Back under the fuselage, up the jetbridge stairs. I brushed past the still befuddled  gate agent and strapped back into my seat. The dog’s about the now, the getting there, hopefully to a better place. Maybe a double yard with room to run; a little boy who’ll fill up his world again.

“Okay to shut the cabin door?” the agent asked, “Everything good up here?”

Good? Well, probably not beer and baseball, or at least not RedDog. But a better world, so the trip would be okay.

“Yeah,” I answered, flipping on all six fuel boost pumps overhead and arming the engine igniters. “Let’s get on with it.”

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Halfway From Yesterday.

The world from cruise altitude seen from the flight deck is a lie: looking straight ahead, it seems as if you’re suspended motionless miles high, floating. Neither here nor there, it seems, and there’s the illusion–in reality, you’re crossing the dirt seven miles below approaching the speed of a shotgun blast.

That’s the world between here and there and really, I think it’s less obvious if you don’t spend as much time there as I do. Sure, we’re all in the same jet, but you’re between wherever–and whomever–you just left, and who and whatever it is you’re going to see. The flight just gets you between the two points.

Not me. The flight is the point, and there’s much for me to do as a result: I have a radar beam projecting 300 miles off the nose, then bouncing back to show me what’s ahead. I can plan a turn to avoid the troubled sky bearing down on a city, promising us a bumpy ride and those on the ground a nasty afternoon. Rush hour’s going to suck down there, I think to myself, dipping a wingtip gently so you’d almost not even notice in the back, but easing us south of the coming storm nonetheless. The space between your “here and there” is my crystal ball, knowing and seeing from miles above what those on the ground can’t and what would be the point? The weather’s coming anyway. Ground life has no wingtips, no motion. Roots.

We find stuff for you to do while you’re aloft in the rootless space from here to there that means little to you besides being the quickest way in between. Even the seats in the cabin all face forward, as if reinforcing that we’re all going “this way.” And the time enroute is divided by events planned mostly for that purpose: flight attendants and a serving cart will appear in the aisle and go from front to back.

Why? Because front to back, that’s how you can see “the show” or the event that’s breaking up the time because really, the event is ceremonial: two fingers of a beverage and a couple ounces of a snack, just enough to put food on your breath and create the illusion of having eaten. The cart moving back to front?

That would actually make more sense, less distracting but then, that is the point: like my ten-year-old on a car drive, there needs to be islands of distraction like the DVD player, iPod, cell phone and a stop at Sonic (Cherry Limeade!) somewhere along the way between here and there.

Which is fine when you’re ten, but I learned a valuable point from an elderly couple seated with us at dinner on our cruise. “We don’t plan ahead,” Florence told me, speaking also for her octogenarian husband Stanley, “If we are well enough and able, we just go and do.” That’s because, I realized, in the here and there of life, they are closer to the far end. The time between is all they have.

But the secret, like the illusion of flight, is that the time in between is all any of us has. Some, more than others. Some less, yet no one, ten or eighty, can really see as far ahead as I do  enroute with the magic of radar. But in a lifetime, no one gets the miles-high God’s-eye view of whatever is bearing down on a city, ready to make rush hour a nightmare for those between here and there, work and home, between work week and weekend.

And so the calendar becomes the itinerary, with weekends and vacations the waypoints in between. Weekdays are life seated in rows, the illusion of snacking on a tray table facing forward, confirming our heading ever towards the “somewhere else,” farther away from wherever we were, as fast as we can get there.

That’s the illusion of “in between,” like the view from the flight deck: floating motionless high above it all, as if “now” were a place and not an instant, rocketing forward toward Flo and Stan’s perspective like a shotgun blast. Why the hurry to get there? Moreover, what about whatever time there is in between?

Florence’s philosophy makes perfect sense on a cruise ship: it was all about the time in between embarking and getting there. Actually, “there” wasn’t really the object anyway; just a fun waypoint or two, island distractions, and in fact a bridge officer once told me there were a fleet of cruise ship like ours motoring in circles so as to be underway, even though we were practically at our next port of call. The main event was the sailing, the formal nights, the lavish food, the entertainment, the beverages, alone time together.

The journey between ports was what mattered. I’m sure the captain using the bridge  radar could even see the next island, but wanting to provide us the smoothest and longest sea experience the cruise brochure had promised, prolonged the rootless time afloat nonetheless.

The calendar is the map between yesterday and tomorrow. The speed of passage between the two is really an illusion, because no one really knows how far ahead the calendar stretches. Like Flo, I need to go and do when and while I can. Just looking at the calendar, and considering weekends and holidays and vacations, I have to admit there’s more ocean than islands.

We’ve made air travel into an endurance contest between here and there. Ditto the calendar, with barely enough space to breath, no leg room, scant time or availability of decent food and water, and the need for some distraction so as not to notice the hours waiting to “get there.”

Maybe it’s inevitable. Maybe it will always be for you about the far end of the trip. I’ll get you there, I’ll look ahead and make it smooth, and do all I can navigationally to make it as fast as possible in between.

Me? Like Flo, I’m going to try to make life more about the Cherry Limeade with Darling Bride and our sweet ten-year-old. Never mind the highway, which ain’t really going anywhere. Never mind the calendar, too, which puts us halfway from yesterday and most of the way to tomorrow. Instead, I’m going to inhabit the momentary roots of now while I can. If we spend our time wisely, maybe we can miss rush hour all together and just cruise.

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Airline Pilot: A Day in the Life

You’re going to fly the big jet today, right? Well, they won’t pay you if you don’t, so better get ready. Let’s start with Task One: closet chaos.

Whatever you pull out of there you’re only going to wear for a couple hours because you have to drag on the polyester uniform and go to work shortly. Worth breaking out a pressed shirt for such a short time? No, but you don’t want to look like a scrounge in the only free part of the day before heading for the airport, right?

Speaking of “pressed,” what about uniform shirts? Gulp–another trip to the cleaners in uniform pants and an undershirt to pick up the uniform shirts you blot out of your mind on days off? Damn, one more thing you should have done yesterday.

That’s the typical “days off” syndrome in the flying career field: once you’re home, you get to ram-dump all work considerations till “Go to Work Day” sneaks up on you again. Bet you’re going to discover on your layover a bunch of junk is missing from your suitcase that you wish you had, and which you meant to replace, but like the dry cleaned uniform polyester hell–out of sight, out of mind.

Anyway, since you have a few hours before flying and a few things you planned to do–okay, sort of said you would but now don’t feel like it but somebody’s expecting you to do it–what’s the plan?

Be diligent? Be productive before the rest of the day is eaten up with flying and work stuff? Nah!

Want to listen? Did this in four tracks. Too much fun.

Screwing off in The Man Cave seems much more important than chipping away at The Drudgery List. Hey, you’re going to be at work for the next 48 hours, right? You deserve a little time with the toys. That income tax return isn’t going anywhere and it’s not even April yet.

You’re going to look and sound great at the next gig this month, right? Anyway, don’t lose track of time:

Your flight leaves at 4:10pm, so you need to be there at 3:10, with medium traffic you need an hour and ten and add another fifteen for construction on 35 and . . .

. . .  YOU’RE LATE!

Too bad you spent so much time screwing around. Oh well. Throw the change of clothes for two days into the suitcase–everything else is still in there and never leaves the smelly bag, along with coffee packets, receipts you don’t want floating around so maids can steal your identity, free stuff you don’t need like “Crest” toothpaste in Spanish from Mexico City and a delivery menu from Ming Wok in Queens–and drag on the polyester uniform. Toss the suitcase and the kitbag into the trunk–look, there’s your hat! It lives in the trunk–and head for the employee lot.

The freeway’s a transition zone, both to and from the airport. Starched shirt too tight going in, your mind on the weather halfway across the country, at the home drome–you don’t really care how bad, just that your inbound jet isn’t late–plans for the weekend, but first you have to get through this trip. You pay attention to the sky on the way in: which direction is the prevailing wind? That’ll determine our take-off direction. Taking off south, but going north means a longer day. You wonder if anyone else pays much attention to the sky when they drive to work, other than noting if it’s blue or cloudy or whatever. The scalloped cloud bottoms look bumpy; you make a note to tell the flight attendants to stay seated after take-off.

Am I the only one running late?

From the employee lot to the terminal wastes a ton of time on the lumbering bus. Time, like the hour before pushback, you don’t get paid for but have to be there. Add that to your 12-hour work day, which will seem endless after midnight body-time when you’re still a couple hours from landing.

Now that’s a welcome sight: tons of aluminum, fueled and ready, waiting for you to kick the tires and light the fires–let’s go fly jets. Pull a bunch of paper out of the computer, including the flight plan, the special notices, technical stuff, aircraft speeds for take-off, a bunch more stuff you really don’t care about but the lawyers want to be able to say “we told you so.”

When the length of the flight plan paper equals the length of the aircraft, you're set to go.

Great. Fold this junk, which is the fine art of Airigami (derived from the word “Origami,” like “Oregano,” which is the Italian art of pizza folding) and stow it out of the way on the flight deck (picture coming up later).

Head for the office:

Meet your happy First Officer–you’re going to be locked into the aerial broom closet together for a few days, so you want everything to go smoothly. Does he look happy?

Well that’s not a bad sign, really. Anyway, let’s get on with the preflight. Stash your suitcase in back, your kitbag in the sidewell next to your seat and sit your fat ass down.

See? Everyone does it.

Time to preflight the aircraft. The First Officer goes outside to check the exterior. You make sure the departure and route of flight is set up in the navigation system. That’s the thing that’ll get you off course and in trouble if the points and route are not correct.

Well, Mr. President, look what your example has done to the youth of America.

Now you’re surrounded by a beehive: passengers boarding, catering trucks arriving and pulling old food carts off, shoving new ones on; the ground crew throwing bags on and readying the plane for pushback, the agent exhorting the passengers to sit down on the P.A., the flight attendants orchestrating the boarding melee, directing bag-stowage and seating and–here’s your job right now as captain:

Just let me know when it's time to start engines.

Actually, you’re ready. You’ve done the checklist and all of your preflight items. Passengers?

It’s the herd mentality, at least as far as the gate agent goes. “Get along, lil’ doggies . . . we gotta slam the door to show the D.O.T. that we’re an efficient airline–whether you’re on board or not.”

So, how's your trip going so far?

But you’re strapped in up front, let’s shoot the juice to the moose and turn it loose. Pushback, taxi, join the line waiting for take-off.

Heading north. Looks like an hour and a half enroute; smooth so far, turn off the seatbelt sign. Watch the sun arc low in the western sky.

Thunderstorms out west, chopping up the sunset.

Land, taxi in and the gate chaos recurs: passengers deplaning, catering, ground crew cleaning the airplane, passengers boarding; your task?

Gut bomb!

It’s the Sonic Chili Cheese Dog! The indigestion alone will keep you awake going to the west coast. That’s not all bad.

That ought to keep you going for a while. And this.

Now back to work. The jet’s just about boarded and ready. More paperwork.

Okay, let’s get this beast back into the air and head for DFW. Still have to make it to the west coast tonight. Another preflight checklist litany; pushback, taxi out, takeoff.

That’s a long sunset, isn’t it? Anyway, racing south to do the turn-around dance again with 140 more passengers waiting to go to the west coast. Same deal for you: the copilot’s outside walking around the jet, making sure all the pieces are still there. You’re in the terminal, checking the weather on the coast, your planned arrival fuel, the route of flight, the weather enroute and the actual flight plan route. Looks good? Sign it electronically, get back to your cubicle:

And the last bank of flights is now pushing back. Join join the aluminum conga line to the west side of the airport, waiting your turn to launch. A steady stream of wingtip strobe lights arc off to the west like fireflies. You start your clock, add full power, barrel down the runway then lift off and join the stream of winking lights headed west.

Leveled off at your initial cruise altitude, at this hour with less air traffic, Fort Worth Center is giving big-ass shortcuts: you’re cleared all the way to northern Utah, direct.  Fuel’s flowing correctly, engines motoring, cabin pressure holding, both electrical generators keeping our little island in the sky warm and lighted and on course.

Now the challenge? Stay alert. When Darling Bride used to fly with you, she’d come up front and marvel at what a warm, cozy little cocoon the cockpit is: the red glow of instrumentation, the purr of instrument cooling air and the view out front–looking straight ahead, it’s as if you aren’t even moving, but rather just afloat 7 miles up over the pin lights of cities below.

You can’t help wondering what’s going on down there, in the homes; the trail of headlights on the freeway, the arteries that spider to all points of the compass. The time goes slowly.

There’s the clock you started when you added take-off power. The bottom number is the elapsed time; another hour and a half to go.

This is not easy: you have to be alert and sharp for the descent and landing–18 hours after you’ve awakened, 9 hours since reporting for duty. Never mind “tired”–you’re moving across the ground at nearly 500 miles per hour. Get out the arrival procedure and get the waypoints and crossing restrictions set in your mind:

Actually, as arrivals go, this one isn’t too complicated, fortunately. Brief up the approach and get ready for runway roulette with Seattle Approach: they won’t tell you which of the five approaches you’re flying until about two minutes before you’re expected to do it. And never mind the radar monitor in Approach Control or Seattle Tower ready to nail you (big, festive fine and/or license action) for any deviation from course, altitude, speed or heading, or the 140 critics waking up in back–you are your biggest challnege: YOU want it done perfectly. Every single time in the past 17,000 flying hours, and those ahead.

Nothing to see outside anyway, because the ceiling is only about a hundred feet off of the runway. Gives you a good two to five seconds at about 160 miles per hour to make sure you’re lined up properly for landing . No problem.

There’s what matters: folks getting off the plane. Safely. Happy. They have no idea–nor should they. You do your work, fly right; it’s what you do.

“That’s a wrap,” you say, as the last passengers trail up the jetbridge and the crew gathers for the trek to the hotel. You’re the last one off the jet, by design. You lock the flight deck door, call the layover hotel for crew pick-up.

The clock’s started: in twelve hours, it all begins again; this time, to the other coast: New York City. Safely, and as smoothly as it is possible for you to make it. No problem–that’s just what you do.

Stay tuned: coming soon–Day 2.

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My Investigative Report: Omaha’s silent tragedy.

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Fly early, or be late.

Fly early, or be late. Here’s why.

First, consider aircraft and crew access. On the first few flights of the day, both the aircraft and crew are beginning their first flight of the day. That’s important to you, because it means they most likely spent the night at the airport. So when you get there, they’re already at the gate, not coming in from a distant location, subject to arrival delays due to weather.

Some important advantages you gain early in the day:

1. If on the last flight the aircraft had any mechanical discrepancies reported, mechanics have had all night to perform any required maintenance.

2. The crew, too, is fresh: their FAA mandated maximum day is just starting. No problems with crew legalities.

3. The crew is together–not the cabin crew coming in from one coast, the flight deck crew from the other. They’re all starting from this particular airport.

4. The maintenance shift has just begun, plenty of time for mechanics to complete any work before shift change. More about that later.

5. Less gate delays: the aircraft is likely ON the gate, not waiting for the gate to become available, thereby delaying their deplaning, your boarding, and the swap of cargo and baggage.

Delays due to crew manning, maintenance requirements, and gate availability are much less likely EARLY IN THE DAY.

Next, think about passenger loads, because they do affect you. Here’s a chart of planned departure times and passenger loads from Denver to Chicago on one air carrier:

Passenger Loads Denver to O’Hare 2-27-10

Flight	Departs	Arrives	Passengers	Capacity
1	0700	0914	65	148
2	0755	1008	71	148
3	0845	1100	110	148
4	0955	1215	127	148
5	1100	1300	165	172
6	1135	1345	138	148
7	1210	1430	142	148
8	1255	1520	144	148
9	1340	1605	255	237
10	1450	1720	150	148
11	1535	1755	181	178
12	1650	1917	155	148
13	1800	2005	135	148
14	1900	2110	142	148
15	1950	2205	128	148
16	2055	2305	101	148
17	2130	2350	65	148

Note that before noon, the flights aren’t quite booked full, but after noon, several are overbooked. Why?

If you’re early, particularly in a mid-continent hub like Denver, DFW or Chicago, no one has been able to fly in yet to connect: the east coast flights haven’t landed yet, and the west coast, hours behind, haven’t even begun to board and dispatch. Which means less competition for seats with standby upgrades or overbooking.

But you’re not standby, you say, right? You will be if there’s a cancellation, especially of your flight. But look at the above chart–your best bet to snag another seat is in the morning. By the afternoon, a bow wave of standby passengers will have those flights packed to the gills.

Once the connecting flights from either coast or commuter connections from outlying areas add their passengers into the hub airport passenger pool, it’s a whole different ballgame. If arrival at your destination is time critical, or if you have a down-line connection the odds are more in your favor early in the day. Later, as the day goes on and delays, cancellations and stand-by lists begin to snowball, not so much.

Here are two other crucial factors that can be largely sidestepped early in the day.

1. Weather.

Sure, there are storms in the morning sometimes. But not the ones that result from the day’s heating and convection of moisture. But even if there is bad weather in the morning, if your aircraft is on its first flight of the day, at least it’s there–and so is your crew. Later in the day, your inbound jet could have to divert because of weather, tossing you into the standby line, or inducing a large delay. Crews, too, start running up against the FAA duty limits due to diversions. Don’t gripe–the FAA limits are for your protection as well as mine: you really want me on duty more than 14 hours for your landing?

2. Maintenance shift change. Why is this important? Simple: because an FAA-certified mechanic is performing licensed procedures on any aircraft. His signature goes on the paperwork certifying the maintenance action. It’s just not workable for one mechanic to do part of the procedure, then have another finish and sign for the entire job. So, if the first flights are at 6:00 or 7:00 in the morning, add eight hours and see when lengthy maintenance actions will probably not be started because they can’t be finished within the shift and so are likely to wait for the next shift. Which means you will wait, too. And I know what you’re thinking, but no–there’s no money for mechanics’ overtime in the sea of red ink flowing from the airline industry. The job will be done right, but you’ll likely wait.

Finally, I recommend you board early. That’s because of human nature: nobody’s going to do as they’re told and put one of their hand-carried items under their seat, then maybe one in the overhead storage bin. If you board last, it’s likely to be you standing in the aisle with a bag but no place to put it.

Other passengers will avoid eye contact with you, acting as if they DIDN’T already hog all the overhead storage space–but they did. And your bag is going to have to be gate-checked, whether you want it to or not. Choose a seat near the mid-point of the cabin if you can, which means the middle boarding call:

I like those emergency exits over the wing. Not only is there more leg room,  it’s also the smoothest ride  because the center of gravity and thus the pivot point of the jet in both pitch and roll are there. No, you won’t see much on the ground because the wing is in the way, but  you also won’t be the last group called to board, and thus be stuck with nowhere to stow your hand-carried items. You also won’t have to wait for the entire aircraft to deplane before you can get off–you’ll be in the middle of the pack.

Okay, got all that? Here’s a summary: early, early, early; booking, boarding, flying. You’ll have a smoother flight with less opportunity for delays.

Good luck, and by the way, don’t look for me at the airport when you get there early: I’m not an early morning person. Since the plane won’t leave without me, I’ll take my chances later.

Lake Tahoe

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Sure, it’s always funny till someone loses an eye.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________

Haiti, Champagne–but “we are not dangerous.” Are we?

When the earthquake struck Haiti, I was about eighty miles south of the island, cutting limes. Of course, being on an enormous cruise liner meant that via satellite, the news reached our cabin as we channel surfed, me cutting limes to ward off scurvy and also for yet another round of vodka tonics before yet another late-seating formal dinner. While it occurred to My Darling Bride that there might be the possibility of a Tsunami, I was less concerned, figuring that the problem came when a giant wave couldn’t go around a fixed land mass and so just washed right over it. Seems like the ship floating on the surface would be fine, especially pointed away from the doomed island and making 24 knots in the opposite direction.

As if by on cue, Captain Giorgio Pomata came on the ship’s public address system. In labored, halting, thickly accented English, he promised there was no report or forecast of a Tsunami and ultimately, he proclaimed that “we are not dangerous.” Hearing that reassurance from the captain, it seemed that the ship’s 3,332 passengers simply returned to the wretched excess that is the hallmark of American cruising.

To that end, Princess Cruises had set up their signature “champagne fountain” in the grand atrium. The “fountain” is simply dozens and dozens of wine glasses painstakingly stacked in ever smaller tiers culminating in just one glass at the top of a pyramid so tall it took stairs and a scaffold to position Captain Pomata to pour the first glass, the topmost glass.

The "champagne fountain."

He dumped a whole bottle on the stack; it bubbled and slopped down the sides to “oohs” and “ahhs” from passengers, and likely groans from the staff who had to mop it up weekly. And although the full extent of the Haitian quake was not apparent from the early reports, still, I had the creeping feeling of discomfort at what was unfolding as a display of excess for the sake of excess on our little floating island south of the disaster site.

The point of the fountain, it became clear, was this: after the captain poured the first glass, you as a passenger could take a turn, climb the scaffold, pour some champagne on the bubbly, overflowing stack, and have your picture taken by the ship’s photographer which would be available later for $29.99. The champagne? Well, it basically just ran off and accumulated on the tarp spread below, ready for clean-up presumably by the crew who’d painstakingly set it up so we could slop perfectly good champagne all over it. We shook our heads and left the Grand Foyer for a quieter spot.

And that, then, is cruising as usual, preserved by the ethos of Captain Pomata whose authoritative words of assurance gave everyone what they needed to resume the blissful detached ease–and excess–that they’d paid for and expected upon embarking on the voyage. And the institutional import of the image began to dawn on me.

Captain Giorgio Pomata.

The captain probably couldn’t have cared less about the Champagne fountain, but most likely, despite the overlay of cruise excess, was very concerned–and responsible–for the safety of his 3,332 passengers in the wake of the enormous geological event a short distance to the north. Because he did his job and as importantly, physically and verbally (however painstakingly) provided a representation of doing so, we could all go about our voyage undaunted. Buzzkill.

Suddenly, I was back at work. And part of the job that no airline pilot can forget is both the charge of safe passage for crew and passengers, but also the representation that the whole deal–safety, comfort, security–is taken care of. The second part is easy: wear your uniform properly and act appropriately when you do.

The first part? Not so simple. First, the most obvious demand is safety. We spend a whole career training for this, working to improve, to keep our skills at the leading edge of the industry. I can only speak for my airline which like most, is dead serious about the training and competence of their pilots.

And if it wasn’t, I wouldn’t set foot in the cockpit, period. That’s guaranteed, by the way, by the operating certificate of any airline–or cruise line as well–and enforced with regular and random evaluations and observation from myriad regulatory agencies and from within the company itself.

It’s the trick that Captain Pomata gave forth so readily that’s difficult: his announcement that “we are not dangerous” was what we needed to hear. NEEDED to hear, which was sufficient, knowing that it was backed up by the years of experience, thousands of hours of training, and thousands more in practice.

In my thirty-plus years in the cockpit, I have at times landed with an engine shut down. In my career as an airline captain, I haven’t directly told the passengers, knowing that what they really wanted to know–and I could unfailingly provide–was that they “weren’t dangerous.” And they weren’t, thanks to the years and hours of experience and training I mentioned.

So what you don’t really need to know, don’t worry: I’ve got you covered. But what you don’t want to know, well, that’s more a matter of conscience.

The part that picks at the conscience, in the case of wretched excess at sea, is what I didn’t know was the agonizing tragedy unfolding  just to the north. I didn’t know because I didn’t want to know–that’s why we were at sea–and needed only to be sure all was well on our floating island.

At stake in the difference between what passengers needed to know and wanted to know was not our safety, but rather, our humanity. Beyond the remote possibility of a Tsunami, the real danger wasn’t in what we didn’t want to know, but rather, the risk of going about our vacation without a care.

The first cruise ship to dock in Haiti after the earthquake  created quite a controversy. Because what’s the balance between not knowing, not caring, or as importantly, not even wanting to know? Who’s responsible for cleaning up, whether it’s deliberately and frivolously spilled champagne, or the wreckage of a neighboring country with no infrastructure?

While many aboard that day had concerns over the Haitian dilemma, perhaps even that and the juxtaposition of festivities in our world going on regardless, many didn’t:

Ultimately, we docked and returned to the real world, and there it was, full blast from every form of news media:  the colossal tragedy and continued need for rescue. Met some really nice folks on that cruise and I wonder if they felt the same pangs upon reentering the real world on dry land and realizing the full extent of the disaster we’d so glibly sailed by. I’m sure they did.

In that regard, I’m proud that my airline was the first to return to Haiti following the quake. Not because it made “business sense,” because with damaged ground facilities and canceled passenger travel plans, it probably didn’t.

But it was sorely needed to reopen the bridge of commerce and humanity to that unfortunate country. And with each flight came tons of relief supplies and thousands of dollars in aid donated by my fellow employees. Not because they had to, but rather, because it was the right thing to do.

Which leads me back to the captain’s reassuring words. No, we were “not dangerous.” But, given the choice to know or not, to look away or not, to stand aside or not, in the face of disaster playing out in a nation cast aside by colonialism, are we “harmless?” Champagne poured and spilled aside–that’s the real question and the answer has less to do with safety and everything to do with humanity.

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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.

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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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View from above: “Where am I?”

Like life in general, flying can beat you up. But I learned a trick from one of my Air Force flying buddies who is now a captain at Fedex.  He’d endured days of long hours in the air, most at night, with schedule changes and sleep disruptions and all of the physical challenges that flight crews must surmount each trip. Eventually, he found himself suddenly half awake in a strange hotel and in the semi-conscious haze of waking, intensified by the days of sleep disruption and flight re-routing, he couldn’t for the life of him remember what city he was in. So he called the toll-free number for Crew Scheduling and asked, “where am I?”

If you’ve been on a flight crew, you’ve been there, waking up and sometimes, grasping at where in the hell, besides some hotel, somewhere, am I? But rather than giving Crew Schedule something to laugh about, I do my buddy’s next best technique, which is actually easier: I fumble through the night stand till I find the phone book. Okay, I must be in Cleveland.

This is important because I’d like to think I know where I am, though that may seem unnecessarily obvious if you wake up in your own town most of the time. But once you enter the time and space and place tumbler that is the flight crew world, you’re going to feel sheepish when, as I have done, you pull up to an airport and notice the signs announcing “Welcome to Portland” when all night you’ve had in the back of your mind that you were in Seattle.

Nobody will know but you, of course, but that rankles for a couple of reasons, which I’ll get to.

First, I have to contrast that with days I remember as a kid in upstate New York, particularly in the abomination they call winter weather, which extends well into spring. I’d spend hours bundled up but outside pursuing what might be the worthiest of endeavors for a grade school kid: poking something with a stick, hopefully something weird or dead otherwise new and fun for the pack of us roaming the snowscape.

Never mind that my little sister was in tears about having to wear a parka over her Easter dress because we were having another white Easter, because I just assumed that everyone in the world had the same brutal weather and so the misery was of no consequence–it was just life. I didn’t find out about Florida till later.

At first glance, it would seem that I’d do better today with the same mindset. Maybe life would be better if I didn’t worry about whether I was in Cleveland or Detroit either physically or mentally, and spent a little more time and attention searching for interesting things to poke with a stick. I could just resign myself to the coldness of life, same everywhere, no worries about Ponce de Leon discovering Florida and not incidentally, warmth.

But there’s exactly the problem: as an adult, you know better. You realize time’s not infinite, that there are other, warmer places. And you’re not there.

It’s the last part that we deliberately forget, or lose track of after a few days in the time and place scrambler that is flight crew life. But it’s the former that is the grievous sin: we block out better places and like me as a kid in winter, assume that’s just the way life is as the clock and calendar march on regardless. That’s what rankles.

A 2008 government “Time Use Survey” reports that the average adult spend 7.5 hours per weekday on job-related activity. After work, the average man spent 3.5 hours watching television, with women only slightly behind with 3.2 hours. Given the requisite time averages for personal maintenance such as food, hygiene, and sleep, most of the waking day is consumed with mindless, often passive “stuff.”

When you stop and really think about that, it’s much like fighting for consciousness in a strange hotel in some place you may have assumed in your head was your location. Or like my childhood self, you just assumed that where you were was where and how everyone was in their lives as well. That truth cuts to the bone because it’s truly the acknowledgment that you’ve lost touch with the reality of your place in life.  And in a real way, you have: the touchstones of meaningful place are gone and you’re adrift, not really aware of your spot in the world. Hour by hour, the day is subsumed by the mundane, by routine. It’s cold, but it’s cold everywhere, right, according to the kid in you?

Yet it would be a mistake for me–or you–to wish for more time to do as we did when we were kids, blissfully oblivious of time, poking stuff with a stick. Because according to the government  report, that’s about all we do anyway: television, sleep, eat, work, television; Cleveland, Detroit, lather, rinse, repeat. Though that’s clearly what most folks do, as I assumed in grade school, it’s not all there is to do, nor is there endless time in which to do it.

When you were ten, the voyage seemed endless. Now, I recall approaching forty and joking with an already fifty-something first officer that I’d be joining him soon in middle age. He just raised a hand and looking at the endless sky ahead, said, “you’re on your own there–not too many hundred and somethings out there.” Hmmmmm.

So just change course, right? Pretty simple? Once in the dead of winter I told a staffer at our layover hotel in Toronto that if I were her, I’d get in the car and drive south until I could stick my head out the window at sixty miles per hour and NOT die of exposure. She laughed, we laughed, but nonetheless nothing changed for either of us. Both still at work here and there, running on the hamster wheel at the usual pace.

How difficult it is, as I described, to wake up. But somehow, you must find the phone book, or call crew schedule, or find a local paper or whatever it takes to wake up and figure out, to know where you really are. And to realize that although yes, a lot of people are in the exact same place–it’s neither the only nor best, warmest place.

Because the reality is, the hours I spend and the miles I fly will someday end. It’s important to know that I spent them doing more than just poking stuff with a stick or mindlessly sleepwalking fitfully through a years-long  journey only to wake up and find that I’m not where I thought I was–or really wanted to be. When I see the sign at the end I want to say, “yep, that’s what I figured.”

I’ll head that way today by hugging my bride and kids close and really see them, see where home is, where the warm place is. Then I’m off to the airport, home again tonight. That’s really where I want to be, need to be, no matter where I might have to go in between.

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Zoom lens focused on “The Boneyard” in Tuscon, where old aircraft live out their final days.