The Flight of The Fatass.

Couldn’t come at a worse time, when each cent spent on fuel strains the budget of every major airline. The fact is, a direct operating cost airlines cannot avoid is fuel usage, which is directly linked to the aircraft’s gross weight. Suddenly, there’s this:

That’s right: double-fudge brownie sundaes–in flight. Which brings us back to the jet’s take-off and climb gross weight. Seriously gross, in some cases.

Back in my Diesel-10 days, I flew with a giant of a captain who shall remain nameless but his initials are Big John. He must have tipped the scales close to three hundred pounds, and I admit, as a First Officer doing the flight control check, I’d purposely pull the yoke back far enough to jiggle his big gut (he’d say, “Whatcha tryin’ to do, boy, loop it?”) hanging over his lap belt.

The big mystery early in the month we flew together was why did Big John excuse himself from the cockpit at the top of descent point, for at least fifteen minutes? That’s right before we get really busy with descent and approach.

Mystery solved on our first layover: the “galley wench” (that’s the flight attendant who served below decks in the DC-10 lower lobe galley) said he was downstairs with her, hoovering any uneaten food from passenger meals that were left over.

Maybe that comes from the grand tradition of fat sea captains who had to keep themselves well-marbled to survive months bobbing around on a hostile ocean. You never know when you’re going to have to spend two seasons and an eternity of reruns on an uncharted desert isle.

You never know just how long a three hour tour is going to be, right? We were doing a lot of trans-oceanic stuff in the ten, so maybe John was planning to be the only guy surviving in a life raft.

Regardless, Big John was just one of a growing number–literally growing–pilots who over the span of a career, drove up the fuel burn of the airline as his career dragged on.

Why? Go back to the top of the page and face the brownie sundae–my weakness. Okay, I’ll come clean: I’m six feet tall and weight 182 pounds (today anyway), have finished nine of the 26.2 mile marathons, blah, blah, blah.  Point is, I do take part in the aerial hog call pretty regularly. A tour, you say? You’d like a tour? Prepare yourself.

First, there’s the big guns that announce themselves with a “ding” on the flight interphone: “Hey, we’ve got [insert uber-caloric dessert here] in back if you all want some.” Or, it just comes already on your crew meal. Either way, there’s this:

A dense chocolate cake-like pie. Sure, just eat a bite or two, right? You’ll run it off on the layover, right (in Toronto in January? YOU’RE LYING)? You missed lunch too, see, and this is okay therefore, mangia, right?.

Then there’s this:

Coming out of several Florida airline catering kitchens–it’s really decent Key Lime pie. Somebody actually recognized that Key Lime’s are just like any other limes–added for the citrus flavor for the pie, not the color–and it looks and tastes authentic. Probably about 800 calories, too.

I really like this meringue-ish type lemon pie too:

It’s kind of densely creamy with just the right amount of tartness. And another 900 calories, probably. Sometimes the dessert just looks so innocent sitting there on your tray, small and innocuous, looking up, suggesting hey–eat me.

But word gets out when the inflight menu changes: hey–the cheese cake’s back. Burp. And sure, the salad’s always a sensible choice . . .

. . . as long as you don’t chase down it with another fat bomb:

I’m less vulnerable to the cake, which often is dry enough to suck all of the moisture out of your already parched (from the 2% cabin humidity) body.

That and the hermetically sealed bread item could absorb a fuel spill of considerable magnitude. So I find those non-confectionary things easy to avoid. But then there’s the catering out of Mexico:

Always some type of pastry dessert that face it–you’re going to try some of it. And when you do, you’re stuffing all 900 calories into your pie hole.

So, you might well ask, why not just bring your own food? Right? Yeah, like that’s any better, like anyone could be trusted to manage that. Here’s just a couple of bad choices in that regard.

This is The World’s Most Dangerous Pastrami, slapped together lovingly (“Ey–we don’t got all day here, whaddya want?“) in the employee deli in La Garbage Airport, Flushing (is it just me or are these terms all appropriately suggestive?) New York.

Or The Long Haul Meathead Sandwich, good for at least two thousand miles:

But tofu’s healthy, right? Shut up:

Here’s the Blow Your Head Off spicy tofu, an O’Hare exclusive I can’t resist. The heartburn alone will keep you awake for at least a thousand miles, which is kind of the point.

Regardless of whether you bring your own food, the galley ovens are just on the other side of the cockpit door. When the aroma of freshly baked cookies finds it’s way forward, who are you kidding?

You’re eating them. yes, you can defend yourself from any smells . . .

But you’re not gonna avoid cookies, are you? And never mind in flight, what about the junk you bump into hanging out before the flight? Like the old faves stationed around the nation, waiting:

It’s the best breakfast burrito in the nation, waiting for you at a little shop in the Albuquerque airport. Perfect salsa, will light your hair on fire. And in the Portland Airport, “Good Dog Bad Dog,” with sausages you are going to eat no matter what.

Need a closer look? There’s a video look at “Good Dog-Bad Dog” on the bottom of this page. Go there, try one–you’ll be hooked, too. And speaking of dogs, back to basics in the Oklahoma City Airport–Sonic, headquartered in OKC, offers you the essential foot-long chili-cheese-onion dog right across from the gate for your convenience:

This is all leading to a very scary conclusion, fellow fliers: we are destroying the ozone needlessly because of the bulk–literally, the bulk–of those who must be hefted off the ground and into the stratosphere with the fossil fuel burn increase required to haul their fat asses airborne.

Don’t get too smug, either, if you’re not a big butt pilot–we’re only two of 165 butts on my airplane. Yeah, we notice–

The suitcase will fit under the seat–but what about fitting in the seat? Anyway, that’s what’s driving up fuel costs, along with the constant mayhem in the middle east, hurricane rumors near the Gulf, a flu outbreak at a refinery in Jersey–whatever. Those are things Al Gore says we can’t control. Eating in flight is quite another thing.

But actually, it doesn’t look like Big Al’s skipping any meals either. So let’s just forget it–this is The Land of Plenty, to fly across it is going to take plenty of fuel because of all of the plentious butts on board.

Flying is a tough business, in my experience. You deserve a trip to “Good Dog–Bad Dog” in order for fortify yourself for the journey. So click on the video below and enjoy an up close and personal visit to the place.

Me, I’m heading out for yet another long run. I’m personally too cowardly to follow in Big John’s gigantic footsteps–his heart exploded on a layover and he keeled over dead, face down in his angel hair Carabonara.

Bon appetit!

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Jethead Goes to School

Canada’s future is certainly bright, judging by the students in Miss Giulia’s sixth grade class at St. Monica Catholic School in Ottawa. What an articulate and considerate group they are, and they were gracious enough to share with me some questions about airline flying after studying the basics of flight earlier in the school year.

What do kids wonder about when it comes to flight? What did they discover in Miss Giulia’s classroom that sparked further questions about flight?

I asked–and they answered. Here’s a selection of their questions and my answers, with my heartfelt thanks to Miss Giulia and the entire class for generously sharing their time and ideas. In fact, they asked so many good questions that in order to answer them all, I’ll make “JetHead Goes to School” a series reappearing now and again with new questions and their answers.

1. Frank: “What’s it like flying near thunderstorms?”

That’s a good question. If you stay upwind of the storms, usually there’s no effect, although lightning has been known to reach ten miles from a cell to another cloud—or an aircraft. Hail, too, can blow out of the top and travel for miles. So it’s best to keep a healthy distance.

Sometimes you have to pick your way through the storms, finding gaps. Usually we do that with radar to be sure we stay clear. Here’s what a radar picture of storms looks like:

Green areas are rain, yellow indicates heavy rain, red means dangerously dense rain, and purple means turbulence. The pink line is our projected flight path, which I would alter to the right based on the radar picture. Here’s where the radar is located on an airplane–it’s always in the nose cone, facing forward:

The rules are, we need to stay at least ten miles from any thunderstorm. Radar helps us do that, especially at night when the storms are difficult to see. Here’s a picture I took as we flew by a storm pretty close:

It was actually taken late at night, but the lightning lit the sky as if it was daytime. Here’s a video of some storms in flight I made into a promo for my band (that’s my lead guitar, actually):

Definitely a good idea to steer clear of thunderstorms, don’t you think?

2. Anna R.: “Why is it so important to take ice and snow off the wings?”

The airfoil has to be clean and smooth to produce lift. Ice or snow or even frost disrupts the airflow on the wing and reduces the lift produced by the wing.

Here you can see snow and ice that’s accumulated on a wing root (the place where the wing joins the fuselage). All of that is considered contamination and must be removed to allow smooth airflow.

Any contaminant ruins the smooth flow over the wing. In flight, the leading edge of the wing—that’s the forward edge—is heated internally with air ducted from the engines that is at about 500 degrees. No snow or ice can accumulate there. You probably never noticed, but we also have to check the jet engine intakes for snow and ice. Chunks of ice can break off and get sucked into the engine, damaging the components that are spinning at 30,000 RPM or more.

On the ground before a flight, trucks with de-icing fluid and crews in booms blast the ice and snow off the aircraft and apply a coat of “anti-icing fluid,” a chemical mix that inhibits ice formation on the wings. Here’s a picture out one of my side windows of the de-ice crew in Montreal getting ready to spray de-ice fluid on my jet this morning in Montreal.

We usually de-ice near the take-off runway because the de-icing fluid loses its effectiveness over time. We have charts that are based on the type of precipitation falling at the time that shows us how long the de-ice fluid will protect the wings, so we make a good effort to be ready for take-off right away after de-icing.

Want to see more cool pictures of the effects of a snowstorm on aircraft? I’ve added a short video montage to the bottom of this page, after the last question and answer. Enjoy!

3. Brayden: “Have you ever had a flat tire and had to fix it? How long does it take to change a tire?”

Never a flat tire on an airplane, but we have had to have tires changed. Aircraft tires on a big jet are much thicker and heavier than those on your car. Car tires are usually inflated to 30-35 pounds of pressure per square inch, but our aircraft tires are inflated to 200 pounds of pressure.

We check the landing gear and tires before every flight and if there’s a worn out spot or maybe a nick from the hard use our tires get (remember, the jet weighs 60 to 80 tons and touches down at 150 miles per hour or so), the ground crew changes the tire. They jack up the plane smoothly and only a little bit so you wouldn’t even notice from the passenger cabin, then they swap tires for a new one. Then we’re on our way!

4.  Alberto: How many female pilots are there in American Airlines?

Not sure, but I’d guess around 200 out of a total of 8,000 American Airlines pilots are female. My experience flying with them has been very positive. My guess is that since airline flying is a male dominated field by sheer number alone, they’ve really had to prove themselves all along the way. So I’d say they are as a group actually better than most male pilots who never had to “prove themselves” in the same way. Many, too, are like me, former military pilots, so we have the exact same experience and background. Here’s a picture of my friend and colleague Cindy who is an excellent pilot.

As with any major endeavor, the pilot career field is difficult to get into and stay successful in year after year. There are constant checks and exams we have to pass, not to mention twice a year physical exams. But also like any major endeavor, anyone, male or female, can succeed if they set their mind to it and do the work required.

5. Nicolas: “How did your experience with the Air Force help you as an airline pilot?”

My Air Force training was an immense help to me for many reasons. First, it’s the best training in the world, and the cost is something no one could afford on their own—estimated at $1.7 million per pilot. I got to fly the best equipment, newest technology and from the very start, flew worldwide throughout Europe, Asia and the Pacific. That kind of experience you can only get through the military.

Since most (although not all) airline pilots are ex-military pilots, we share a common denominator in our flying training, as well as the culture of safety, training and flying. Now when I step onto the flight deck and meet a First Officer for the first time, if he’s ex-military, I immediately know we’re of the same background and philosophy. That makes flying as a crewmember much easier. So, the experience and training that comes with being an Air Force pilot is a major asset as an airline pilot. Nonetheless, I have to add that some of the best pilots I know, pilots who are my favorite to fly with, are pilots who have a purely civilian flying background.

That’s all the space we have for this week, but check back regularly for more Q&A that will become an ongoing series, “JetHead Goes to School.” Again my sincere thanks to the children of St. Monica’s school and their most conscientious and caring teacher, Miss Giulia.

And here’s the video of the great blizzard of 2011 that certainly slowed down flight operations at Chicago’s O’Hare Airport. Enjoy!

Mach Speed Tumbleweed

A battle rages in silence. You don’t want to get involved–but you are, you realize slowly.

Exactly where is it 5am?

You don’t want to know.

No, I do. The sinking feeling. It’s not home, is it?

Told you you didn’t want to know.

Damn. Reno?

No, that was last night.

Montreal?

The night before.

Palm Beach. Not home. Home got away–again.

How many miles from here to home? Not distance–I get that–flown, I mean? How many more? Flight hours like matchsticks: light ’em off one by one, watch them burn down, then out. Slowly, in the glow, you get it: midway through a four day. Just what you didn’t want to wake to. But do.

So, that was last night: late, always, bone tired too from hotel sleep somewhere else.

That’s here, middle of the night here, before you messed it up. Spartan. Antiseptic. Do not disturb. A trail of clothes from the door to the bed–worry about everything else tomorrow.

Sleep, and it’s that dream again: you can find the gate, find the plane, but there’s no door from the gate to the plane. Which is the way home, of course. No way home–just the waiting place, halls of marked time and any old place.

Gertrude Stein nailed it: “there’s no there there,” in that space between places, the waiting–the island between going and getting there. Or getting home. There’s the irony: for those who make their living going, and carrying others who are on the way too, the idyll would be staying, not going, being home. No door.

So wake up then. Going to need goggles and a snorkel to wade through this one. Not the stuff you’ll think about later–the weather, the jet, the fuel. Rather, another day not home.

Good dog–you’re ready to swim in the deep blue.  People will ask you questions, like “What’s it like to be a trained dog working in the blue every day?” Or maybe they’ll have something equally inane more for each other than for you, like “we’ll let him on” or “we need him” as you try to slip by them going to the office. Funny stuff, right? More likely, though, they have to go to the bathroom; they want to share that with you, assuming you have a constant awareness of toilets and locations, like you do with bailout airfields and low fuel contingencies in flight, right? Funny stuff.

Just put all the pieces back together; everything back into the suitcase like the crammed heap that sprang out twelve hours ago. Kind of like behind the scenes Disney: Mickey puts on his fiberglass head with the permanent smile–then out he goes. Down to the lobby, out to the curb: vantastic! Off to whatever aeropuerto in whatever city.

Just get me to the gig. Snake through the masses herding across the wide-open plains, grazing, mooing; hoofbeats at a shuffle.

The ants go marching out again, hurrah. Step around, mind the Mickey head. Wind your way through; heft the bags, schlep the bags, onward to the gate. Show your ID: yeah, it’s Mickey. Let him on board.

Nothing purtier than precious metal, all eighty tons of her:

She’s your big ol’ dance partner, every song, every leg, and just like you: all about the getting there–but not staying. Folks trundle off, more trundle on; makes no difference. We do our same dance steps, carefully and deliberately without art. Over and over–same old song. You know the words:

We say Mass for the Earth, the litany of escape–then we leave, but everyone still in their pews, seatbelts on and tray tables stowed. Then the aluminum conga line–every-buddy-CON-ga– to the runway. This:

In this:

Into the blue, the higher the better: the sky is denim, comfy as jeans. Good for hanging out, soft, simple, warm, comfortable. The good feel when you put them on.

Unpressed and rumpled–doesn’t matter; a little faded, all the better. That’s cruising, ain’t it? It’s like Saturday against your skin. That’s the jailbreak from the suitcase–off with the polyester, and Mickey’s head; jeans, amen.

Soft and comfy as the sky and nearly as distant: nobody knows you without the Mickey head on, and that’s the best. You’re a ghost, anywhere, everywhere–somewhere where no one knows you, and in the middle of the night you won’t remember where anyway.

You just know what it’s not–home; and where it’s not–HOME. And just close your eyes because soon enough, once again: another passage. Sleep.

“. . . life is a watch or a vision

Between a sleep and a sleep.”

–Algernon Swinburne

Silver Wings Then other Things: Part 4.

This is the final installment of a 4 part series putting you in the captain’s seat of an airliner.

Want to start at the beginning? Click here.

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It’s the top of descent. You just kind of get the feel, just know we’re getting to that point, if you’ve been engaged in the flight, where the natural rhythm of things is to start descent.

Used to have different cues that signaled the top of descent point before we had the precision of dual Inertial and multiple GPS systems tied to multiple flight guidance computers figuring descent rates and distances down to a gnat’s ass. One that was nearly infallible:

No, they didn’t call up front and suggest descent. They went into the First Class lav near the cockpit and unleashed a cloud of hairspray and fu-fu to get ready to look great in the terminal between flights. They always somehow just knew it was about time to touch up the war paint and big hair–which was our clue up front that “hey, must be time to start down.”

 

"Uh, Center, we're ready for descent."

The descent is fairly standard, an exercise in Euclidian geometry (want more details? click here) that takes into account altitude, distance, speed and fuel flow. But the approach and landing planning started before take-off.

Driving in to the airport, I have in mind the basics of the destination airport (or airports, on most days). At this point in my flying career, there are few airports in our domestic route system that I haven’t already landed a jet on, so I go back over what I know: airport altitude, terrain, runway length, runway surface approach types, traffic conflicts and a few other details.

I like to use Mexico City as an extreme example, because it shows that there’s really no “one size fits all” with those factors above: MEX has a 12,000 runway, but the airport elevation is 7,300 feet. So despite the long runway length,  aircraft performance and maneuverability are reduced by the high pressure altitude–not a good thing when flying slow and dirty as you must to land–the higher true airspeeds at altitude have you touching down with a hell of a ground speed, making this long runway a challenge for stopping nonetheless.

And that’s on a runway that is neither crowned nor grooved, which means any rain will likely pool and stand, screwing your brake effectiveness, and the mix of moisture and reverted rubber, which you know from experience seldom gets cleaned off south of the border, will make stopping a real challenge.

Meanwhile, Santa Ana “Orange County” Airport is at sea level, with a crowned and grooved runway–but it’s only 5,700 feet long. As a comparison, the take-off runway at DFW is 13,000 feet long. Stopping the jet at Orange County is as dicey as it is at Mexico City.

Most airports fall somewhere in between, but runway length and airport pressure altitude aren’t the only factors to consider. The wild cards are always the weather and the runway surface condition: all 13,000 feet at DFW are about as useful as the 5,700 at SNA if the runway is slick from rain, sleet, snow, or ice. There’s no free ride on landing.

Plus, add this, would-be Captain: you don’t know what you don’t know.

There are those who think because a runway is long, clean and dry that stopping can or should be a leisurely affair: some copilots have actually pre-briefed “I’m going to use minimum braking or reverse and let it roll.”

The hell you say.

No matter what runway you land on, there is a certain landing distance required due to the kinetic energy the brakes must absorb to stop the tons of metal, fuel, bones and blood still thundering forward at flying speed. Whether that distance is 3,000 feet or 8,000 feet, it makes the most sense to take care of the kinetic energy right away.  Once it’s absorbed and the jet decelerated, you can do whatever you want with the runway remaining.

Remember the basic lesson of flight, and the number one item listed as useless to a pilot:

“Runway behind you!” It’s useless, wasted, history, toast. If you’re still rolling without braking properly, you’re toast if anything goes wrong after touchdown.

And there ain’t no ‘splaining it to the FAA after you don’t stop on the runway.

Same goes for the knuckleheads who float a thousand feet or so down the runway fishing for a smooth landing: heretics!

Here is what God has told us about landings:

No floating, easing it down. On speed–neither too fast (more kinetic energy) nor too slow (high nose angle, possible tail strike) and within the zone Moses above is stressing–even though aircraft were for him still a couple thousand years down the road.

Look, can we speak frankly as pilots here? Who the heck cares what the passengers say as they deplane? They have no idea what a good landing is and even if they did, from where they’re sitting, they really have no way to tell if you’re on speed and at the right point. I’ve seen them get off saying, “Good landing” when I know the actual landing was too far down the runway and not on speed.

Forget about them and their ignorance–you have a job to do: on speed, at the correct touchdown point and sometimes, firmly: if the runway is wet, we don’t flirt with hydroplaning. I don’t give a damn if to the passengers it feels like everyone in China just jumped off a chair–we plant it, stop it and taxi to the gate.

Okay, time out: are you easily bored? If so, skip down to below the math (I really hate math too). If not, read on.

Engineering data shows that hydroplaning is most likely at the speed that is 9 times the square root of the tire pressure. Our main tires are at around 205 PSI. So, 9 x 14.32 = 128.88 knots as the primary hydroplane zone.

So the smart money gets the plane slowed below that speed as soon as practicable, because whatever runway there is behind you is no help to you, and whatever runway there is ahead may have an added hydroplaning factor you could have avoided: a puddle, a slick of reverted rubber; whatever: stop now, play smooth pilot later.

That formula works for your car, too: 9 x 6 = 54 mph as your primary liability to hydroplaning–and like in a jet, don’t give up: once you get through that speed zone via smooth deceleration, you will get control back. Too many people on the highway and on the runway think that once hydroplaning starts–that’s it. Stay with it, you will slow and regain control. And that is today’s

Okay, we’re back. So God gave Moses this to help him:

Autobrakes: the greatest advancement in commercial aircraft since flight attendants gave up on big hair (breathe easy on top-of-descent). The “RTO” setting is for “Rejected Take Off,” or abort. We’ve talked about that recently. You don’t subscribe? That’s a shame.

Then the 1,2 and 3 settings provide graduated brake application depending on stopping distance. Then there’s “MAX,” which is an acronym for “Holy Shit.” I use “Holy Shit” on the ultra short runway, or the ultra-long like Toronto in a blizzard when the  tower says, “Cleared to land, you’re the first, it’s mostly plowed, let us know how the braking is.” Remember, there’s no “one size fits all.”

At any point, you can take over braking manually simply by pressing on the rudder pedals. But especially if you’re using differential rudder, it’s best to leave them on as they’re not prone to apply asymmetric braking as would be likely if you were pushing one rudder pedal more than the other for crosswind crab control. I usually override the autobrakes slowing through 100 knots as we near runway high-speed turn-off speed (80 knots). And if you use  the “Holy Shit” setting, you’ll need to add power to taxi off the runway. That’s a good thing.

Now, you’re fifteen miles out, maybe 5,000 feet high (okay, more math: a three degree glide slope allows a civilized descent rate of 700 to 1,000 feet per minute depending on the ground speed, so three times the altitude is a good distance to begin descent). Slow to below 200 so you can “throw all the shit out,” as one of my SWA pilot buddies says, referring to the gear and flaps. The flaps have a bunch of limiting speeds, and 190 is below most of ’em. Makes it simple.

If you’re the lucky guy in the left seat of a 737-800, you don’t even need to look inside from this point on, except to verify gear and flap positions before landing.

Now it’s a matter of guiding the jet down the glide path, touching down in the correct touchdown zone, then braking smartly and efficiently. Got it?

Enough blabber–want to watch it all come together?

This video was passed to me by a friend of mine a few years ago. He was killed last Spring in an ATV accident, but his memory lives on with those who knew him in the Air Force and afterward. The video was not shot from the aircraft type that I fly, but it’s an airport I’m very familiar with, and it has many of the complications we just talked about. A tip on the video: if an ad pops up, just click on the “x” in the right corner to get rid of it. And if you click on the triangle above and just right of the “360p,” you can choose a higher video quality.

Now, take all of the factors we’ve just gone over into consideration, then turn the approach and landing into a symphony. Please remain seated till the aircraft comes to a complete stop, and thanks for flying with us today.

Coming Soon:

What do the sixth graders of Miss Giulia’s class in Ottawa want to know about flying?

Cool stuff! Stay tuned . . .

Silver Wings Then Other Things: Part 3

This is Part 3 of the series putting you in the captain’s seat.

Want to start at the beginning? Click here.

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I love the smell of jet fuel in the morning.

Okay, maybe right before noon–I don’t bid early flights and since I’ve been here over 25 years, I don’t have to do the buttcrack of dawn flights anymore. But it all leads to the same place: ready for take-off.

And whether that’s your first solo or your most recent take-off line-up, it’s the best part of the world ever: nose pointed down the line, strapped in tight, slight bend at the knees so as to have easy rudder throw in either direction, holding brake pressure on top of the rudder pedals, waiting for release.

Calm. All the engine instruments are flat-lined like a comatose patient, breathing; heartbeat but not much else. Idle RPM on both the giant fan and the turbine.

These new jet engines are mechanical and technological marvels, gi-normous Swiss watch-like machines: tolerances to the thousandth of an inch, spinning at 30-50,000 RPM for hours, tirelessly, core temps averaging blast furnace heat all the while. Each engine weighs over two tons, but puts out 27,000 pounds of thrust, so with both at full power, you have 26 tons of thrust at your fingertips for take-off or whenever you need it.

The pair of CFM-56 engines will gulp down nearly a thousand gallons of jet fuel between take-off and level off, but the marvel is, even heavy-weight we’ll climb to 38,000 feet in about fifteen minutes.  That’s also attributable to the Boeing wing: they were wise enough to increase the size of the wing as they stretched the airframe. Not so with Douglas jets like the DC-9–they just added length to the fuselage and kept the original wing.

I like the feel of the fat, swept and cambered-up Boeing wing, which as a result of the lengthening has a lighter wing-loading than the stretched Douglas.

It just feels more stable and reliable both in the low-speed regime and almost more importantly, at altitude. So on take-off, there’s just a confidence you can bank on with the Boeing: it has power and lift to spare.

“Cleared for take-off” are the words you’re waiting for. Once you gang-bar the exterior lights, the First officer will call, “Before take-off checklist complete.”

You stand the throttles up and immediately, the CRT displaying engine instruments springs to life. The computers below the flight deck measure the throttle position and project where the RPM of both the giant fan and the subsequent rotors will be in a matter of seconds. They stabilize at 40%, then the actual rotor speed catches up as the engines snarl to life. Satisfied at 40%, I punch the take-off power button on the throttles and they move to the position that the engine computers say matches the temperature and the other parameters we programmed and will produce the thrust we’re expecting. I double check that they are within 2% of what I expect, then turn my eyes to the runway stretched out ahead.

It’s best to cast your eyes way down the runway so as to have a good peripheral awareness: engine failures will be most obvious from the initial yaw, plus, directional control at over a hundred miles per hour is best judged with a long view.

Now I’m steering with the rudder pedals, trying to just nudge the nosewheel–stay off the centerline lights with their annoying thumping–until between forty and seventy knots when the forty-foot tall rudder takes a good enough bite of the air to become effective at aerodynamic control.

“Eighty knots,” is the first callout, and it comes fast at take-off power. That’s the abort dividing line: up till eighty, I can consider aborting for various systems problems. After eighty, the abort response is different and because of the kinetic energy built up in our 70-ton freight train, stopping is much more critical a maneuver with serious consequences in terms of brake energy.

Plus, it’s not wise to try to arbitrate at over a hundred miles per hour whether a system indication stems from a failure that would affect our ability to stop: brakes, anti-skid, hydraulics, electrics.

That’s why I’m relieved when the aircraft announces “V1.” That means we’re beyond abort speed–and I’m thinking only of flying, even on just one engine if need be.

Almost immediately, the First Officer calls,”Rotate” and I ease the yoke back gently. Have to let the 737 fly off  and get some tail clearance from the pavement before smoothly rotating the nose up to take-off pitch, which is shown in my heads-up display (HUD). Off we go.

When I see vertical velocity climbing in the HUD, plus increasing radio altitude numbers, I simultaneously give the hand signal  (flat open right palm moving up) and say, “Positive rate–gear up.” The hand signal is in case my voice is blocked by radio chatter or other extraneous noise.

The HUD’s also showing me the energy building on the wing, plus the speed trend. Call for the flaps up before the limit speed, engage vertical navigation (“V-Nav”) at 2500 feet. Track the departure outbound, centering up the radial. I sneak peaks down from the HUD to the Nav display so as to anticipate the turns ahead. Roll into the turns easy–the 737 flies really tight and responsive–and carve out a smooth arc.

First milestone: ten thousand feet. Roll in some nose-down trim so as to accelerate beyond the 10,000′ limit of 250 knots. A quick check to be sure that the cabin is climbing and that fuel is flowing properly: above 10,000′ we can burn center tank fuel if we didn’t on take-off or if there was less than 5,000 pounds at take-off; less than 3,000 pounds now and you reach up and open the fuel crossfeed manifold and turn off the aft fuel boost pump.

Eyes back on the road. Trim. Smoothness. Coffee.

Before you know it, the chronometer says around 18 minutes elapsed time and the altimeter reads 40,000 feet. Trim it up, level and smooth, trim out any yaw, engage the number 1 autopilot. Check the fuel burn, the fuel flow and the quantity. Cabin pressure stable at the correct differential value. Nav tracking properly. Cool: we’re cruising.

So now, here’s you:

No, not just punching the time clock–counting fuel flow, measuring miles remaining against fuel and miles per minute. Print the uplink of the destination weather. Was your forecast correct? No, you didn’t do the weather forecast–you predicted what fuel you’d need on arrival for the approach in use. Kind of glad to have a little extra in the hip pocket, right? Conservative fuel planning.

Note the climb point and more importantly, the gross weight where that can occur. Pay attention; note when it arrives early and use it: tailwinds or headwinds shift the point, but track the weight.

Now it’s time for the P.A. Nobody cares or pays attention–especially the flight attendants who will ask “what’s our ETA” even though you just announced it. Whatever. It’s always partly cloudy, make up a temperature, read off the latest ETA, “glad to have you flying with us today; for now, sit back, relax” blah-blah blah, get ready for the approach.

Uplinked destination weather.

You know the arrival winds. You got the uplinked current weather and terminal information. Set up the approach in the course windows and frequency selectors. Yes, it can change while you’re enroute, but now is the time to set up the approach and get it straight in your head.

There’s the art in what you do: translate this schematic into three dimensional movement in pitch, bank and roll. Each approach has its own peculiarities–so start thinking it through now.

Meanwhile, however, just a constant flow of navigation, fuel flow and performance considerations. Keeping a fuel and navigation log, constant contact with Air Traffic Control:

That and maybe some of the catering from First Class provisioned as “Crew meals.”

The best catering of breads and desserts is out of Mexico and Canada, I think. But at any rate, it’s probably good to stay “calorized”  as a survival tool: time changes, sleep disruptions, long hours, extremes of climate and especially the prolonged hours in a low-humidity cabin–it all takes a toll, physically. And flight crews work in that realm week after week. At least you can buttress your health with the caloric energy you need. It’s not always available between flights.

Manage the fuel. Weather radar and traffic watch. Ride and wind reports, both from other aircraft and uplinked from our Ops center. navigation–course modifications, shortcuts, direct clearances, higher altitudes when we’ve burned off enough fuel.

So it goes for hours on end.

The nav systems are plotting a descent already. They have drawn an imaginary line from altitude to our destination and I can see constantly the angle and the rate of descent changing as we draw nearer. I’m going to induce the descent–with ATC clearance, of course–a little early, maybe fifteen miles or so depending on winds, to make the descent a little flatter and more comfortable in the cabin. Besides, the automation doesn’t account for ATC restrictions added to those already published. Let’s get ahead of the game.

HEFOE Check: Hydraulics, electrics, fuel, oxygen, engines; periodic checks, the mantra from the Air Force days–nostalgic, but appropriate still in an airliner at the top of descent. Which, I’ve decided in my mental picture of the descent angles, distances, speeds and times, is now.

“Tell them we’d like lower,” I say to the First Officer. He nods, instinctively aware that it’s about time to start our descent. This is where passengers in the cabin notice the slight decrease in engine noise and a bit of a nose-down tilt.

The shoulder harness come back on in the cockpit; headsets replace overhead speakers and boom mikes take over from the hand mikes. Approach plates are reviewed on more time; crossing altitudes and speeds, intercepts and radials. This is the fun part: translate the myriad of plotted out instructions into a graceful series of maneuvers culminating with a safe touchdown, then dissipating the kinetic energy of sixty tons thundering down the runway at about one hundred and sixty miles an hour, bringing the whole remarkable aircraft to walking speed, then to a gentle stop at the gate. Piece of cake.

Next week, Part 4: the approach and landing.

Silver Wings, Then Other Things: Part 2.

This is part 2 of a multi-part series putting you in the captain’s seat. Want to start with Part 1? Click here.

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Flight plan? Got it. Fuel load? Fine. Take-off data? Got that too. The ten-yard-long printout of notices and info and weather affecting our flight and route? Folded accordian style. Cup of McDonald’s coffee, black? In the cupholder by your right knee.

Something about that: a simple pleasure, that black coffee, plus an opportunity to make a donation to the Ronald McDonald House at the counter every time. I like the idea of doing something good for kids every time I pass by McD’s in the airport.

But also, in “the bubble,” it’s a cool luxury: taxiing out, steering with feet on the rudder pedals, minimal and exact responses to the required challenge-and-response checklist read by the First Officer–and sipping my coffee. The jet feels loaded up; weighty. You can feel the 112 feet of wing out there, the 40 foot tall rudder buffeted by gusts. Definitely an airship lumbering on the ground. Radios and official responses; taxi clearances and I say “okay” as soon as they’re given so my F/O knows I heard and understand.

Other than that and the radio chatter, silence. Because I don’t want anything on the Cockpit Voice Recorder (CVR) except for official, flight-related verbiage. There’s too much that could get screwed up, too much that needs to be checked before take-off to allow a layer of distraction. Plus, it’s the official policy: “sterile cockpit” below 10,000 feet. That is, no non-flight related talk, period. Saves the bubble, the concentration, for important stuff.

Sterile Cockpit.

Because here’s the problem with advanced flight automation: an input error, left undetected, can have disastrous consequences. A keystroke error can lead to faulty flight guidance commands, from the basics of pitch and bank to the routing errors. The only hedge against the hazard is diligent checking of all input. We did the route check at the gate, remember? Now we verify that the data-linked upload and our own inputs are valid: gross weight, center of gravity, fuel weight, take-off and abort speeds, climb speeds, every number associated with performance. That’s as we’re rolling, and as I’m ensuring we don’t violate anyone’s taxiway or runway space, steering with my feet–sipping my coffee, of course.

Ready for your eye test? "Give way to an RJ on Charlie, then taxi east on Bravo, short of Charlie 3."

Several numbers you must see, every time, before take-off–it’s not enough to have the First Officer read them aloud (“We planned 155,000 pounds, we’re actually 156,500 pounds . . .”). I will physically view the data-linked final weight numbers, I’ve already written the planned weight on my side panel clipboard as a reference, and I HAVE to see the correct number on the Control Display Unit screen. And at the same time, not taxi into the dirt or worse, any other jet. Not so easy at night.

But no worries–if it gets too hectic, timeout: “Let’s hold on the checklist here till we’re stopped.” Ever wonder why there’s a delay before take-off? While other jets are coming and going? Often, this is why. After leaving the gate, I’m completely detached from schedule constraints–we’ll get airborne as soon as all checks are thoroughly and correctly performed. As I tell F/Os when the tendency to rush starts to rear its ugly head, “We don’t get paid to rush. And if anything goes wrong as a result of rushing, no one’s going to be there to bail your ass out.”

Here’s where I like the silence, the bubble: no extraneous concerns beyond this flight. A departure path clear of weather and traffic. Verified speeds and weights in the flight guidance system, so the pitch and bank commands will be valid. But if they’re not, a mental review of what I know are the limits: greater than nine degrees of pitch up will drag the tail on the runway. Doesn’t matter what the flight guidance commands, my hands will not exceed a limit.

Waiting. Quick mental review of high-speed abort items: fire, failure, fear or shear. That is, after 80 knots, only an engine fire or failure, or my split-second judgment that I “fear” the aircraft is structurally not airworthy, or a detected windshear will cause me to abort the take-off before max abort speed, and after that–we’re flying with whatever we have.

I have options a hundred miles down the road, but also for liftoff: best single-engine climb angle, if we need it; left downwind to land south if we do. McChord 20 miles south with lots of runway. Fire and failure litanies. Mt. Ranier, all 14,410 feet of her, and where she is at all times.

Got it? 165 others are assuming that you do–so you’d better.

“American 116, line up and wait.” The tower’s direction. Real quiet now. Last minute runway checklist items. Ease in the power–there may be smaller jets behind us. Swing wide, line up on the center stripe; hold the brakes. Fire, failure, fear or shear. Minimum safe altitude. Engine failure profile. Initial level off altitude. No other thoughts. And no worries–this is gonna be fun.

Departure path is clear. “American 1116, cleared for take-off, runway one-six, wind one-five-zero at ten.”

“Rolling on one-six, American 1116.” All exterior lights on.  Another swig of java–we’ll get back to it on climb out–stand the throttles up; gages spring forward, then toggle take-off power on the autothrottles, hack the elapsed time button on the chronometer.

Both engines growl to take-off power–love that feel as they bite the air, compress it, mix in jet fuel and burn it, shoving us forward. Fifteen hundred miles to DFW–let’s get airborne.

Next Post: Part 3, enroute, and the landing.

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Silver Wings, Then Other Things: Part 1.

It always starts with the wings.

They go on the shirt first–don’t ask me why, tradition, superstition. Maybe it’s just transition: the next thing that goes into the left breast pocket is the laminated pix of the family. It’s the “leaving behind”–the part I hate about flying–but then not really, because they’re there all the time, both figuratively and literally next to my heart. Hate the leaving behind, but also embrace it: you leave concerns on the ground, not as a palliative, but rather because you have other things that need to be 100% in the forefront of your mind.

Picked that handy habit up from skydiving in college: you acknowledge what might be a little unsettling–you will deliberately step into nothingness 2,000 feet up, tumble like a rag doll (be patient) till you regain control, plunging straight down–because you need to be completely focused on what matters in the air. Acknowledge it, then leave it on the ground where it belongs.

Same deal now. Clear your mind because you can’t have a lot of drag on your attention when you’re hurtling through the sky. Epaulets next–need to throw those in the wash, they’re getting dirty from the shoulder straps resting on them in the cockpit–then we’re good to go.

Leaving is always such a downer for me. I like my life, home, family–“the road” as a crewmember is solitude, anonymous hotel rooms; airports, waiting, then periods of intense concentration on details you’ve done a million times, but they have to be done perfectly each time.

A recent ATSA study showed that over one third of all airline accidents occur in the take-off phase of flight, even though that phase accounts for less than 10% of an aircraft’s flight time. What that means is beyond the aircraft being at the lowest end of its performance regime in speed and maneuverability, mistakes in calculations and automation input errors of those performance numbers becomes an immediately dangerous situation as you try to lift off. So the painstaking crosschecks before take-off must be thoroughly painstaking each and every time, no matter what the hour or how tired you are.

Driving to the airport, you can and should actually pay attention to the sky: south wind, they’re landing south; that’ll be a different clearance and since we’re going north today, an extra few minutes. Those are fair weather clouds, must be high pressure; hope it holds through tomorrow. See? Your head’s in the game, you’ve left home–because you have to.

I stay in a bubble from then on, a little withdrawn by choice. Not engaged in anything social, although yeah, I can be glad to see an old friend or say hello. But I like the bubble of isolation so I can save the peace as a backdrop for the work that is to come.

Now comes the first of a bunch of decisions. The route today–why this one? Seems kind of north-ish for our destination. Look further: winds aloft, rides, turbulence. But how old is this wind data? I have a hunch it’s out of date at this late hour–there’s seniority, I don’t do the early morning stuff–and there’s a good chance that the higher altitudes have settled down. Still, I’ll take the additional fuel and if we can cruise higher, we’ll be fat at the destination. Because in my little pilot brain, the only time you can have too much fuel is when you’re on fire.

Flight Operations, below the DFW terminal.

Happy with the route? The fuel load? If not, a simple call to Flight Dispatch and it’s done. Check out the weather radar, first in Ops, but then right before stepping onto the plane on the iPhone app, “My Radar:” you can see the entire route of flight and the radar image of whatever’s going to be in your way.

Pushback’s in an hour–let’s not be too hasty here. No need to get on board and sit. The First Officer’s already there, doing the exterior preflight, then he’ll be doing the cockpit set-up. Better to stay out of the way, and to preserve the bubble as long as possible: just flight-related stuff now.

Lot’s of folks have been busy while you’re doing your preflight ritual. The cabin is usually a wreck from the inbound passengers, plus all of the catering has to be removed, then the new flight catering put into both galleys.

And there’s the periodic maintenance of the jet that needs to be done: required systems checks, some top off of oil and hydraulic fluid if noted by the inbound crew.

Time for a last call home to Darling Bride. She knows the drill, having been a flight attendant for 12 years: yes, you get to ‘travel,” woo-hoo, but it’s not like vacation travel. It’s more like being restricted: you don’t have your stuff, can’t do just what you want, and road slop–whatever you can forage at restaurants and the like–is the diet for three days.

Get that McDonald’s coffee now. That’s right, I like McD’s java, and now it’s a ritual. Sure, the number one flight attendant will make coffee if I ask when I board. But why board asking for stuff? Eighteen First Class passengers will be asking for stuff soon enough. Speaking of the number one, remember the first name. The number one takes care of the flight deck; the least you can do is say “please” and “thank you, [first name].” And maybe a cartoon on the flight info sheet.

Show your ID to the gate agents; “Yes, I’m the captain, let me know if I can help you with anything,” then board, squeezing past the passengers, one of whom will say something inane like “We’ll let you by, we need you” (gee thanks) or the like, but preserve the bubble, say nothing–except maybe “excuse me.”

Set up the “nest:” comm cords and headset plugged in, audio channels (flight interphone and PA only till taxi out), adjust the rudder pedals, then the seat height.

Your "cubicle."

Now the painstaking part: glass to paper. That is, the copilot will read off of “the glass” (the display unit for the nav system) all of the route points for the departure, enroute and arrival. They’ve been data-linked to the aircraft, now he’ll read off what the aircraft has and I’ll compare it to the paper flight plan, plus the ATC clearance which has also been sent to us via data link. Verify that it all matches up.

Ditto the performance numbers in the flight management computers: correct gross weight, center of gravity, temperatures, power selection, bleed configuration, cargo, passenger and  fuel weights. Did you read the ATSB article I linked above? It tells of a 747 crew in the middle east recently who input the gross weight as 300-and-some thousand when the “3” was supposed to have been a “5,” meaning the aircraft actually weighed 200,000 more than it was set up for–and no one in the cockpit noticed the typo. They all died.

Painstaking, tedious–every time, exactly correct. Do you “get” the bubble now? In the Air Force, most folks gave up trying to “chat” with me during pre-flight, for the same reason.

Then as now, as before jumping out of an airplane–leave all the chit-chat behind. There’s other stuff to think about and no clutter is better. As a buddy of mine said when we were brand new captains, “This ain’t a popularity contest.”

Preflight complete, catering off the aircraft, passengers seated, bags stowed, flight attendants ready and finally, the agent pokes her head in the flight deck doorway. “All set, Captain? Okay to close the door?” Me; “Yes ma’am, and thanks.” Ker-THUNK–that’s the entry door closing. Then “cabin ready,one-sixty, four flight attendants” from the number one. They want to be sure in an emergency evacuation you know how many of your crew to account for. That’s your job–accounting for everyone at all times: 160 passengers, 6 crew. Whump–that’s the armor-plated cockpit door sealed shut. “Souls on board,” which is the standard emergency info: 166.

Ah, now we’re on our own–just the way I like it. Full jet, full fuel load, ready to fly. My favorite time in the work day: the good part’s dead ahead: let’s go fly.

Coming next: Part 2, the take-off and more.

The jetbridge is gone, and we're on our own--at last.

Going Down: What’s Up With Airliner Descents?

Feeling less than comfortable, even downright disturbed with all of the sensations of descending in an airliner? Wonder what all the noise, pitch, turning and weirdness is about? Step inside my head for an inside look at what goes on and why.

Here’s where it all starts:

No, seriously–you’re in my head, remember? That’s the “Jethead” thing. And this is where “descent” starts for me: running the half-mile in high school. Stay with me.

I’m a high school sophomore, hiding in the locker room with the other half-milers who like me, have already finished our heats.

We have to hide because Coach just discovered that one of our two-milers has no-showed for his heat, so someone will be pressed into service. Can’t forfeit those points!

“Cougar Manno, report to the starting line,” blares the loudspeaker in the locker room. Damn.

No, my name’s not “Cougar.” It’s just that after nearly two years on the team, Coach Smith–who also sees me every day in geometry which he teaches–still doesn’t even know my first name. We’re the “Del Campo Cougars–” that’s good enough, make him run the two-mile.

Here’s Coach’s mug shot:

Okay, this is Pythagoras (take that, Coach Smith) but this is where we get back to flying and what my sophomoric high school years have to do with it. And Pythagoras is key.

And here's the Del Campo track from a jet I was flying, after so many years and laps watching jets above, swearing I'd fly one too--if I could pass geometry.

Say we’re approaching our destination in an airliner. We’re at cruise altitude. Our destination is ahead by a certain number of miles, we’re a certain number of miles up. Picture starting to form yet?

You can see that we’re going to have to slant our flight path downward and cover the distance to the destination at an angle, right? Two important points on that.

First, because Coach Smith taught that our flight path from altitude to destination is the hypotenuse of this triangle–it is longer than both other distances, right? This, if you care to consider it, is why “air miles” are different from “ground miles:” you fly a hypotenuse up and down from altitude, making the straight line distance between two points longer by two hypotenuses–hypoteni?–whatever, you get it, right?

Second, clearly the nose-down angle is going to need to be steeper if we’re closer to our destination than if we’re farther back, where we can make a very shallow descent. And here’s just a little more math to figure the “where” and “when” of a descent:

You have a certain amount of altitude to lose–for example, ten thousand feet–for a restriction. You have a certain amount of time between now and the crossing point. Index the two–a certain number of feet in a certain number of minutes–and you have the required descent rate in feet per minute. If I have ten thousand feet to lose in five minutes, I need a rate of 2,000 feet per minute.

If only it were that simple.

Okay, sometimes it is, and that’s what you perceive as a smooth descent. But other times, Air Traffic Control has specific requirements regarding how soon you’re allowed to descend. They add restrictions, too: cross a certain point at a particular altitude and speed. Then often some other contingency pops up to screw all the angles and numbers you’ve planned:

There goes your formula as well as your smooth, flat descent angle, and here come the speedbrakes:

They disrupt the clean airflow over the wing, and you can see why–they’re like a board pushed out into the slipstream over the normally smooth wing. So there’s a good deal of rumbly vibration, right? Here’s where they are in the cockpit:

The noise and bumpiness are no big deal–the aircraft is designed for this, and most of the noise and turbulence is from the wind. It’s like when you’re driving down the freeway and open a window–lots of wind noise, which is what a slipstream is: disturbed air. Loud, annoying even, but harmless.

What the speedbrakes are doing, however, is important: they’re catching you up on the formula above when some factor alters one of the numbers in any of the three key variables: time, distance, and altitude.

It’s a three cornered relationship–another triangle, right Coach?–whose sides are constantly in flux due to conditions. I’m always visualizing the three variables and how they are fitting and changing due to circumstances like altered restrictions, winds, and speed changes. The alternative to speedbrakes for increasing a descent, which I recall wistfully from my other flying life, you definitely won’t like, or certainly not the 4-G level-off at the bottom:

Sorry, just another quick flashback. Anyway, starting a descent farther out allows for a shallow, smooth descent–think of the triangle. Delaying the descent necessitates a steeper rate: the combination of feet per mile and thus feet per second. There’s the big angle that feels like a plunge when circumstances dictate a higher than usual descent rate.

In my Toronto example above, other traffic below kept us from starting our descent as far out as I’d have liked. Yes, ATC could have vectored that other aircraft out of our way, or even vectored us off to one side. But they didn’t. Suddenly, the time-distance-altitude triangle is changed.

As pilots, we’re always watching that geometric relationship develop in our heads–thanks Coach Smith–and I’m always planning a strategy accounting for the variables like crossing traffic and one I haven’t mentioned yet: tailwind.

Top left corner, “GS 526” means “Groundspeed 526,” even though our true airspeed is in the 400s. That’s because of the “276/107,” which is right above the arrow, which is showing the wind angle. Means that whatever speed we’re showing on our airpeed indicator, add the wind to that, because we’re in the airmass which is itself  moving at 107 knots.

It’s this deal:

No matter what speed they’re paddling, the raft’s in the swift-moving roaring torrent of fluid.

Air is a fluid, and 107 knots is a torrent. Which eats up our hypotenuse quickly and in my triangular mental image–I realize we need drag to descend by the restriction. And probably a steeper deck angle, plus drag like the speedbrakes and if we really need all the drag possible, the landing gear too.

Again, more noise, but the gear hanging is like a drag chute slowing us down–we can really lower the nose and keep the speed under control nonetheless, dropping our jet in the technical terms I’ve perhaps used more than once, “like a turd off a tall moose.”

How about a little privacy here?

But why, you might ask, don’t we start all descents way out from the destination so as to ensure a shallow, comfortable descent?

Well, for a couple of important reasons. First, it makes good business sense to stay at a higher altitude to take advantage of the lower fuel consumption and the favorable tailwinds. But as a pilot, I’m naturally a fuel miser: I want every pound of fuel in reserve for any contingency we might encounter–weather, mechanical, a runway closure, whatever.  Because–another flashback on my part–we can’t just air refuel like back in that other flying life.

"I think a 5,000 pound top-off will do."

Plus, the airspace is crowded more today than ever. If you plan to get into a major airport, you have to do your part to assure the traffic sequencing: increase that descent when Air Traffic Control needs it, and be mindful of the restrictions ahead. Because you folks in back have connections to make and schedules to keep, right?

Which means, of course, skillfully flying the hypotenuse, adjusting the triangle relationship of speed, distance and altitude. Squeeze in the feet per minute required to fit into the traffic mix.

And when you as a passenger on descent hear the noise of the landing gear or speedbrakes, feel the rumble, and notice the deck angle steepening, you can turn to your seatmates with a knowing nod and reassure them by dropping a few phrases since now you know about the “what” and the “why” of the fluid time-altitude-distance triangle.

Just smile and say, “Yup, boards are coming up,” or “guess they needed to catch up on the descent and a speed restriction” or if they still don’t seem reassured, flash a smug grin, then casually turn back to your newspaper with a bored yet oh-so-knowing, “like a turd off a tall moose.” Tell ’em you learned that from Coach “Cougar” Smith back at Del Campo High School.

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Now, are you still worried about approaches and landings? Stay tuned, stay subscribed: we’ll take the mystery out of both very soon.

Turbulence: A Moment of Silence, Please.

Can we talk for a minute? I mean crew to crew? If you’re not flightcrew, this may be boring. Sorry.

But still, let’s talk about not talking for a minute. Here’s the deal:

We’re flying along fat dumb and happy. Then, it gets bumpy. I turn the seatbelt sign on. What do you NOT do? Or more accurately, what do I wish you wouldn’t do?

Call the cockpit. Seriously. What we get more often than not these days is, bumps, then ding-ding. “It’s for you,” I say to the First Officer, even though I am monitoring the flight interphone in my headset. Then I get the thanks a lot look from the F/O who reluctantly picks up the phone.

But I already know what the flight attendant’s going to say: “How long is it going to be bumpy?” or worse, “it’s really bumpy back here.”

Sigh.

First off, besides being an inane question, it shows a real lack of understanding of what just happened, plus what needs to happen. To begin with, if we knew the turbulence was there ahead of time, do you really think we’d fly into it? And given that we didn’t know it was there, how the heck are we supposed to know how long whatever it is we didn’t know about is going to last?

And truly, is it possible that it’s bumpy in back but not in the cockpit, so you really need to call and let us know?

Worse, either of us having to answer the phone with “we have no idea” or “yeah, it’s bumpy up here too” only prolongs the turbulence. Why? Because here’s what has to happen to get out of turbulence.

First, I have to decide if we can climb or descend. Are we light enough for a higher altitude and at that altitude, what is the margin between high speed and low speed stall? That is, a higher altitude may be habitable in smooth air, but not in turbulence–yes, the charts are broken out into smooth, light, moderate and heavy turbulence because it affects both speed control and the airfoil. Given that we are in turbulence at this geographic location, there’s a darn good chance it extends above and below us here as well.

If the margin between high and low speed buffet–Coffin Corner, as it is known–is sufficiently wide in my judgment, then climbing is one option.

The other is descent but that has a catch as well. Yes, the Coffin Corner spread is more favorable. But now we have to worry about fuel burn, which is higher in the denser air of lower altitude–which is why we cruise at the optimum altitude for fuel burn and Coffin Corner spread. I have to calculate whether the increased fuel burn allows for sufficient arrival fuel to accommodate the destination situation–and that varies.

Going into Omaha? Seldom if ever an arrival delay. Atlanta? Chicago, La Garbage? Better have flexibility and loiter time–which means fuel. Plus, the destination weather: with a low ceiling and visibility, even Omaha isn’t a slam dunk.

The final gotcha about descending to a lower cruise altitude because of turbulence is the increased fuel burn it’s going to take to return to the optimum cruise altitude when it’s reported smooth again.

With me so far? Then we need to call air traffic control and find out the ride report and the winds at a higher or lower altitude. Why? because a higher (or sometimes lower) altitude can have a significantly larger headwind, which again affects fuel burn, never mind arrival time. Anyway, calling takes time, then it takes more time for Air Traffic Control (ATC) to find the info we’re asking for.

Once we know the winds and the reported ride conditions, it’s back to a decision about up or down, based on the fuel endurance and destination weather factors I just explained. That all takes time too.

Once we’ve determined the best option, we request a new altitude from ATC, then wait for them to coordinate a new altitude–which also often comes with a catch: sometimes, they’ll need you to turn off course to gain spacing from another aircraft either in the airspace we need to climb through or at the altitude we’ve requested. Again, more fuel. Can we do that?

And then there’s the climb or descent itself: it takes minutes even after the minutes of calculations, requests and clearances.

None of that starts till we’re off the phone with you. Because in a two-man cockpit, both of us must be fully in the decision loop, as well as the execution of the changes in altitude and heading. And even then, we may find the new altitude is not smooth either–in which case the whole process starts over.

You can trust me on this: once we encounter turbulence, we immediately go to work to find a better ride. But none of this happens while you’re calling us. And we’d do it whether you called or not–so don’t delay the process.

If you’ve ever flown with me, you know this: if I know of any turbulence ahead, I’ll call back and tell you to “grab yourself a buttload of jumpseat–she’s gonna buck.” If I haven’t told you and it is suddenly bumpy–grab yourself a buttload of jumpseat–and wait for us to start the process of finding smooth air.

We’re definitely aware of the turbulence and looking for smoother air. All we need is a moment of silence.

Dummy Air: Stupid Is As Stupid Does.

The DC-10 flight engineer was the first to reach the aircraft for pre-flight on a cold, damp Boston morning. Yeah, must be nice to be the captain and First Officer, still in Flight Ops, warm, drinking coffee, chatting with the flight attendants. “Hey, we sent the engineer out to warm up the jet,” they’d say, “he’s supposed to have coffee ready when we get on.”

Same gate, every week, right? Up the steep stairs from the ramp to the jetbridge. Inside, power up the jet. Start the auxiliary power unit for conditioned air to take the chill off of the cabin. Set up the Flight Engineer’s panel, pre-flight the cockpit. Then back outside, flashlight in hand, for the walk-around inspection of the aircraft exterior.

A pause under the tail, slightly aft and to the starboard side–there. No matter what the ramp temperature, in that one spot the air is a balmy seventy-five degrees: that’s where the APU exhaust reaches the ground. Warm jet engine air which strangely, always had the slightest smell of pastries. Wintertime in Chicago or Boston, you’d always see DC-10 engineers spending a significant part of their exterior walk-around in that one spot.

Schlep back up the stairs, punch in the door cipher code; inside to the mid-cabin door. Hmmmmm, waiting till the last minute, I guess the crew is. They’re the ones who will be frantic as 250 people pile aboard and they’re not ready.

Back in the cockpit, set up the nest: pubs out and ready, audio hookup; final cockpit prep. Done.

Waiting.

Where is everyone?

Oh NO: wrong airplane!!! It’s been on this gate every morning all month–but not today!

Frantically re-pack all the engineer pubs and tools. Power the airplane down, beat a hasty exit. Try not to tumble down the steep jetbridge stairs hauling the forty pound flight bag and an equally heavy suitcase. Scurry over to the correct jet–duh, they’re loading cargo on this one, stupid–park the two bags under the nose where you and they can’t be seen from the cockpit.

Quick exterior walk-around, then bound up the inclined steps, into the jetbridge. Squeeze by the boarding passengers, slip into the cockpit. Stow bags ever so quietly. Unpack engineer stuff casually, even though your heart’s still pounding from the Chinese fire drill between jets.

Up front, no one says a word. First Officer is staring off into space. The captain, a very distinguished gentleman of few words, taps his fingers idly on the control yoke.

I breathe a sigh of relief. Pulled it off. All’s well that ends well.

Not so fast.

“Well,” says Bob in the left seat, casting a sly grin my way. “Are there any other jets on the ramp you’d like to pre-flight?”

Busted. Never did make that mistake again. Well, thankfully I was only a flight engineer for a year.

*****

But fast forward now to my early days as captain, flying with one of my favorite First Officers who had earned the nickname “Deuce,” and now I’ll explain for the not-so-faint-of-heart how he earned that sobriquet. If you’re easily grossed out, consider ourselves done here–onto to more erudite reading; see you next post.

This means "stop," in pilot world.

Okay, you still here? Good.

Well anyway, as with flight attendants and felons, there are no “ex-Marines.” Once Semper Fi, always Semper Fi. That’s why in the ex-military frat I come from, Marines are great to fly with. They just never stop being hard-charging and fearless, which is a quality to be admired on the flight deck.

If we’re picking teams for flights or fights, I’ll go with a Marine pilot first choice any day.

“Deuce” won his nickname from a particular talent he had–are you following yet? Stay with me: “deuce” is the number “2.” Is this beginning to make sense?

Anyway, as is the Marine way, Deuce liked to establish his virility and prowess through what George Costanza referred to as “feats of manly strength.” In Deuce’s case that had to do with a certain bodily function.

The MD80 lav is like a barely sophisticated outhouse. The one item that differentiates it from your average porta-potty is the “splash pan.” That is, a flimsy metal plate on the bottom that opens like a trap door under any, uh, weight of any kind, depositing stuff into the swirling blue pool of degerm.

I know, “eww.” Anyway, my ex-Marine compadre claimed as his feat of strength that he could propel his nastiness hard enough to audibly knock the metal splash plate against the housing. The distinct metallic “whack” was his signature, and from the cockpit, there was no mistaking it.

For him, it was like a carnival game, with his own unique sledge hammer ringing the bell every time.

What can I say? Flying is a serious business, so it’s cool to have a little comic relief between crises. Again, Marines are the best for that. Duece “saved up” daily so he could whack the splash pan audibly, for me in the cockpit and of course, for everyone in First Class. Who da’ man? Deuce.

And yeah, after a month of flying with the Deuce, I did consider challenging him–but only for an instant.

Gawd--this is disgusting.

Gave up that idea real fast. Anyway, fast-forward to the 737, my new, twenty-first century jet. New lav, with a Teflon base and suction that if you were a fat guy sitting on the can in First Class and flushed, you’d get sucked into coach in an instant. No more swirling cesspool stinking up the forward end of the jet. But no more carnival-game splash pan.

I flew with Deuce on the 737. Great reunion–glad you’re on the fleet! Good to fly with you again. But what about that lav? No splash pan.

Deuce shrugged, older and wiser. “Doesn’t matter,” he said, “I had to stop doing the deal on the MD-80 anyway.”

What? Why?

He shrugged and looked away. “Gave myself roids.” Pause. “Huge roids.”

Nuff said. Semper Fi. And like the goofy engineer story, stupid is as stupid does.

See you next week.