Ride the sky home.

There’s a song in my head and it won’t go away. It comes at the top of the slide,

a sloping seven mile glide, ever downward and south toward home. Bound for DFW from the west coast, the captain’s voice my own, says “we’re eighty nautical miles from touchdown in Fort Worth; be on the deck at half past.” and on it drones with the same spiel as ever, but the music gets louder each mile, drowning it out.

It’s a tedious trip west to east to south, like the ride from The Stockyards to Tanglewood, or God forbid, the Far Southwest side on Bryant Irvin where any time of day, never mind rush hour, it seems like forever: there’s just no hypotenuse. East to west, or north to south but not north to southwest in Cowtown, not without a lot of pain and aggravation. But come down easy, that’s how you get home. There are no shortcuts.

The mayor once said with a hang dog tired face it’s so bad you could change a tire in a Cowtown traffic jam and not lose your spot, and he wasn’t even talking about trying the mythical hypotenuse between the North Side and the southwest Mecca of Hulen and Tanglewood. Really, it’s not so far away but just hard to get to yet home is definitely worth the trip.

When I cross the Red River I feel like I’m in the neighborhood and the red dirt pancake of the Panhandle starts the song of home in my head. It’s those comfy notes your hands just know, a cozy riff you can get lost in like a half-awake morning in the Paris Coffee Shop, more aware of what it’s not—and it’s not a modern chain shoveling breakfast—than the bald light, melodious clink of silverware and bracing aroma of strong coffee that it is. Newspapers and linoleum and waitresses who call you “hon” and the comfort of an old tune not redone, not over done; rather, the original from way back when. That’s the music that when you play it, you transcend fingers and frets and keys and notes, simply cruising along with the melody.

A hundred plus people follow me down in the back, some coming home and humming the same tune. Picture my wife’s Paschal mafia: they graduate and scatter to the four winds—but they return sooner or later. So there are the inexorable five year milestone reunions at Joe T’s or the Stockyards Station or anywhere Fort Worth that’ll hold the returning classes; hugs, backslaps, “so good to see you!” but because so many seem to move back eventually, and we see them weekly anyway at Thom Thumb on Bellaire, what’s the big deal?

But that’s everyone humming along—no one needs sheet music; like the song in my head, they probably don’t even know they’re doing it. That’s the song of home you get to sing aloud now and again with others who know it.

We slip between big-shouldered thunderheads marching out of the west toward Fort Worth, casting a bruised blue shadow across a red sky sprawling east like a dome you can see best atop Reata, the bustling crisscross of Sundance Square below. Storm’s coming with one inch raindrops plopping an inch apart, but nothing’s perfect and who knows? Maybe it’ll hold off till we get there, and we need the rain nonetheless.

Things look bigger the lower you go and now the swaths of green and brown and lakes of blue define themselves like individual musical notes on a scale but now you don’t need them: there’s DFW and you’re cleared to land. More hands and feet on the controls, working less with science than art, riding the familiar tune whose beat is like that of your heart. Close your eyes and see the flow of red tail lights snaking down the main artery to Fort Worth.

Slower, down to earth but still, the music will carry you home. The steel and glass on Main and Commerce rise straight backed and tall, waiting. Patience, slowly, mile by mile, the music will carry you home.

Flight Time: Soothsayers, Stooges, Sages and Thunder.

Time is pretty sneaky when hooked up with his silent partner, motion. You think you’ve got all the time in the world–and relatively speaking, maybe you do–but where you’re headed will force your hand nonetheless.

Can I get by everything in my way? Am I above it all? Or do I need to change course? Ah, the curse of forethought and the knowledge of a future rushing your way.

Can you really look too far ahead, and if you do, can you get an accurate picture of what’s in your way? Can we trust the seers and soothsayers we look to for their view of the future?

Do they really know, or are they just telling you what they see, rather than what’s real?

There’s no shortage of people with answers to sell but that all depends on your buy-in: do they really have the answer you need? Can they see the path ahead of you? Even if they can, what will change between the time they give their view and when the picture ahead becomes near and real?

Can you really have faith in either art or science claiming to transcend the barriers of time and space and help you understand the future? I guess some people do, because they continue to ask the experts for a vision or at least a forecast.

Always good to have options, right? And a backup plan.

And information is always good, with a catch: predictions, visions and forecasts are all helpful, but nothing beats realtime information. What’s happening right now? What’s happening on the path ahead this minute, this second?

That’s where time and place coincide: worry is because there’s nothing you can do until they meet.

Now the picture is clear–not a prediction, not a forecast, but at last, square in your face. Now you can take action: evaluate your options. You could wait:

Fine a place to hold off to the side until the storm passes. Of course, that presumes we’re talking about a “passing storm,” not anything permanent.

Another option would be to plow right on through and hope it’s just a temporarily bumpy ride:

Some folks choose to plunge headlong into the storm. Maybe they’re mislead by the earliest look at things–where maybe from afar there seems to be a safe passage through the ugliness, based on a forecast or an earlier report. “Look–a sucker hole. Can we make it before it closes up?” That puts YOU in the business of predicting the future.

And the only thing predictable with perfect reliability is that things will continue to change. Opportunities for safe passage vanish in an instant and there you are, nose to nose with big trouble. With the escape path blocked. With no options but straight ahead.

Oops! The sucker hole is closing fast . . .

Where are the soothsayers now? Where’s the clear path, based on a few minutes ago? That’s why I’m a confirmed pessimist, at least at work. Expect the worst. Count on it. Plan for it.

I knew this was going to happen. So we have a couple tons of fuel to spare–we can outlast the storm. We can go the extra miles around the tumult and so just not care what it does in the near term–or ever.

Well folks, slight delay here as we give trouble a wide berth. We didn’t worry too much in our flight planning as to whether there’d be problems along the way–rather, we just planned on it. And so we have the range we need to keep life smooth for all of us.

Don’t really need soothsayers or good luck charms–just tons of fuel and patience.

Like mayhem in life, lightning in flight is best enjoyed as a spectator:

That’s life. Craziness is fine, as long as you’re just a casual observer and can step around the insanity. Forget the soothsayers and stooges telling you what they think you want to hear. You already know what you need to dodge the thunder.

Here’s how that looks from the flight deck. You can relax in back and enjoy the view–we’ve got time and distance all under control for you.

There’s always a way around, if you’re ready now, never mind “then” or whatever “they” predict. It’s a big sky, thankfully. Plan accordingly.

Inflight Etiquette: How Not To Get Busted.

Certainly, manners are an essential part of airline flying, right?

Well actually, the usual standard in flight is a free-for-all of bad manners and ill tempers, mainly due to the circumstances of air travel today that includes delays, crowding, extremes of temperature and declining on-board amenities.

In fact, that may be the standard of twenty-first century life.

So let’s hearken back to better days and find the important standards of travel conduct that originally made the jet age a wonder of good manners, and refined behavior.

Certainly, though the traditions of dressing up and reserved behavior have nearly vanished, the realities of air travel that affected even the well-dressed, finely-mannered early jet age travelers remain today:

Aircraft pressurization controls.

That’s right–the aircraft changes the pressurization in the cabin in order to maintain a safe differential between inside and outside of the structure. That is, as an aircraft climbs, so will the cabin. Same on descent: slowly, the pressurization system will bring the cabin altitude back down to match the landing field elevation.

What does that mean for you?

On ascent, whatever gas is in your body will expand as the cabin pressure is mechanically lowered.

Which translates to that “balloon animal” feeling often encountered in flight. Of course, that’s predictable and a normal side effect of a pressurization cycle–plus the nasty junk you’ve been eating while traveling, especially at the airport.

The close quarters on an aircraft, particularly in the Coach cabin, add to the problem in that there’s really no room to move around or reposition oneself. Nonetheless, the gas pressure must eventually be relieved, right?

In a crowded airliner cabin, this can be a problem of both safety and etiquette. But don’t worry–there is a time tested technique that will allow you to handle the problem discretely. First, think etiquette: there are those around you trying to breathe what is a limited amount of air on board. It’s not like they won’t notice or be directly affected.

Miss Manners demonstrates: here’s the dilemma.

Although you can’t do anything about the effect on others, they key is in distribution. Flight crews at the beginning of the jet age developed an effective solution beyond the usual sea-level techniques.

While this might work in a social situation on the ground, there’s a better technique for in flight:

Crop Dusting: This involves a short walk in the cabin, but it must be done properly. Specifically, front to back (see Fig 1)

Fig. 1: Always crop dust front to back.

ALWAYS move from the front of the aircraft to the rear. That way, when the olfactory impact is sensed by your fellow passengers, there will be no one in sight on whom to fix the blame: since everyone’s facing forward and you’re already out of sight by the time the stench hits them.

Oh my God, who had nachos for lunch?!

Your mission is to appear uninvolved. This technique has been used successfully by flight attendants for years.

"I sure feel less bloated."

Fortunately, the ambient noise level in flight will drown out all but perhaps the most vigorous excisions of gas, so simply try to meter the outward pressure and the jet noise should take care of the rest.

The piano was added to the exceptionally quiet 747 upper deck simply to mask the noise of First Class passengers depressurizing.

Of course, you could handle the matter even more discretely in the lav, but I don’t recommend that for a couple of reasons. First, as soon as the lav door opens, the olfactory remnants will have you completely busted by the next passenger in line.

Truly, the lav smelled bad before you entered, but add a few cubic feet of your body gas (had to have the large fries, didn’t you?) and the next person will not only blame you for that, but probably also whatever crop dusting is experienced in the cabin–and call you on it: “Hey, this is the one that just skanked out the lav.” Not good.

Second, consider the adventure of flight: why not go all out and crop dust as a part of the experience? Where’s your sense of adventure?

Finally, if the seatbelt sign’s on and you can’t move about the cabin (front to back, remember?) to accomplish this vital bodily function? Your only hope, and it’s slim, is this:

Yeah, not likely. Your best bet is to feign innocence or if you can act at least halfway credibly, immediately express your disgust by glaring at those around you. Be the first–the one who seems uninvolved is going to get the blame.

Me? I’ll stay uninvolved. Best of luck to you in the back.

Finally, if anyone next to you complains, just point out to them that things could be much worse, then get this out of the seatback pocket in front of you:

Kind of makes them put things into perspective. Have a good flight!

“Are we there yet?” Trust Me: You Don’t Want to Know.

Being the captain, I think I hear it more than most but all flightcrews get a fat share of the “are we there yet” question–especially at night. I might hear it from a bored F/O with a tired butt aching from sitting in the cockpit for hours, or often a call from the cabin from a flight attendant wishing the time until deplaning was an hour or two shorter because passengers are asking them that question over and over.

And I usually answer, “yes we are” and add “open the door and plunge to your death” but only in my head for that last part. But the impact of the question comes not from the answer–in my head or what others hear–but rather in the reality: we don’t really know where we are.

Seriously–and I don’t really care.

Sure, I could press a couple buttons and get a present position reading down to a tenth of a degree of both latitude and longitude–but that reading would look like a car’s odometer with the tenths place rotating as we moved: by the time you can read the position, we’re not there any more anyway.

And at night, there aren’t any visual cues outside to define an approximate position (there’s the Mississippi!) or even direction of flight (the sun’s off our right wingtip, it’s afternoon–we’re headed south) to orient oneself. So it becomes even more glaring that in the absence of any real or definitive position, no one seems to mind plunging through the darkness at the speed of a shotgun blast in a metal tube with thousands of moving parts.

Powered by dual blast furnaces turning gears and wheels at 50,000 rpm. In air so thin you couldn’t breathe and so cold you’d turn blue in a minute. What a curious detachment there has to be in order to step aboard and not worry about where you are for two or three  hours in unsurvivable conditions.

Like that last breath you take before jumping out of an airplane miles up, there’s that confidence that never mind this moment, soon enough we’ll end up where we expected to and presumably, in one piece. I’m not sure if this belief is borne of faith or convenience.

I’ve seen from the cockpit the groups of people and cars below watching us landing and have often thought, as they park and wave from the exact spot where we’d impact if we landed short, that it was the former–a greater faith in the institution of piloting and aviation than I have. Which is a convenience item–bored? Let’s go watch airliners land.

But having lived the human side of piloting from behind the scenes for thirty-some years, I have my doubts, which I’ll share, followed by why I have faith nonetheless. The important thing is not the asking of “are we there yet,” which translates to “how much longer?” but rather the leap of faith that ignores the fact that where we are is not significant.

The very nature of travel–like life itself–is an extended process. While there’s always a point of embarkation in both, the waypoints en route are significant only in relation to the end of the route. How close is it? How soon? And is it where I meant to be?

Which brings me back to the giant step out of an airplane into empty miles below: we’re really counting on the positive result at the end more than the process of getting there.

So here’s the secret: the important part is not where we are, but rather where we’re not. For that, we pick a defined point and measure from it to plot our relationship to the known. For me, it’s always north. In this hemisphere, no matter where I am in the dark or daylight or weather all that matters to me is where North is. Then I can position myself in relation to the Big North, the pole, where I’ll never go but which will always define where I am by comparison.

I’ve done my freefall then looked up to see a tangled mess of a parachute above my head, hard brown dirt racing up from below at terminal velocity. And besides a fleeting thought cursing the chute packer–at least till I recalled packing it myself–the only significance of my unwinding altimeter was not where I was, but rather how much time I had until I inherited the Earth in a big way. And so I really didn’t want to know “are we there yet,” figuring the end would be apparent enough when it happened.

And because I had more important things to worry about along the way–like  pulling the reserve chute ripcord but holding it in tight, then with one end-of-the-world throw downward, hope to God it billows roundly in hundred mile an hour slipstream sufficiently below me to brush aside the tangled mess above me. That would separate me from the ultimate “known” I spoke of above, truly the “there” in the journey that comes only once. And let me tell you, when you’re close to the edge, you suddenly don’t want to ask that question.

Which returns us to the matter of faith or convenience. What you believe in truly is a convenience: from below, spectators watching a plane land or sky divers tempting fate always think they’re immune and immortal since they’re uninvolved in the process. How much more so the passengers in a jet? Even asking demonstrates how little they know of how close to the edge they really are.

And that’s the convenience of faith: you have to believe in the safe passage or you probably wouldn’t take the journey. Never mind the risks of standing in a landing aircraft’s path, much less riding one down. Don’t even think about plummeting from the sky with only your wits and just one backup between you and the hard earth calling you down hard.

That’s life and while yes, I said “you probably wouldn’t take the journey,” you are nonetheless on your way. No real meaning to where we are en route save where we are vis a vis the end of the journey. You can close you eyes and have faith in your own north and where you are in relation to it. You can trust in the choice of conveyance en route. But it’s only if you ignore the perils of the journey and the ultimate destination that you you can ask the foolish question, “are we there yet?” Because really, you don’t want to know the answer.

The good news is this: I’m awake up front; station-keeping at 500 miles an hour and I’ll always know where north is. You can relax in back because I’ve got the clock measuring our fuel and mileage and the right course set in relation to true north and ultimately, a clear focus on throwing the reserve out as effectively as possible to ensure our landing in one piece if need be.

That’s why I really don’t care where we are, only that we’re safely on our way to exactly where we planned to be. And the “plunge to your death” addendum I’ll add silently after your annoying question “are we there yet”–which is really asking “how much longer”–is born of firsthand experience, so trust me when I tell you on both counts: you don’t want to know.

Keep your north in mind always, and know where you are by comparison. Don’t curse the guy who packed your chute–just be sure it works or if not, you have a backup. And if you live your journey fully, you won’t need to know where you are in relation to the end.

That reality is beyond faith and convenience–rather, that’s life. Enjoy the ride. I’ll keep you on course en route, but you really won’t need me to tell you when we’re there.

So do me a favor: just don’t ask.

Destination Weather: Do You Feel Lucky Today, Punk?

I have one eye on the fuel flow, the other on my watch: the two are inextricably linked with the only variable being the rate of consumption. Always have hated math, especially in a situation like this where the stubborn numbers refuse to add up as I’d like them to do. We have only so much fuel and therefore only so much time, with the factors of altitude and speed governing the number of minutes till we fall out of the sky.

It’s a major factor because DFW is experiencing the fallout of a normal summer weather pattern: storms.

Here’s where we can often expect a call from the back. “The guy in 4B says his office emailed him and the weather’s fine at the airport.”

Of course, the flight attendant’s call isn’t to pass along the special knowledge Mr. 4B’s office has forwarded (busted! we’re holding for the fun of it) but rather to give us a laugh while also letting us know that the typically self-righteous know-it-all’s are being themselves which is to say, a pain in the ass.

Air Traffic Control radar display

Because actually, the weather at the airport is clear, as is the weather between us and the airport. But the weather ninety miles beyond the airport is blocking the aircraft from the other coast from arriving–so where might they go?

Bingo! To our arrival corner post! That is, if the two corner posts–mandatory overfly points that sequence the arrival crowd of flights into the airport–on the far side of the airport are blocked, there’s going to be a fuel-hungry crowd gathering on our side which means–everybody gets to hold. Despite what Dwight can see out the office window.

So now options are limited, but there are some choices to be made and with those choices, I cast our lot among the other fifty jets all negotiating the same decision process. First, speed: should we push forward fast and burn a lot of fuel to get to our arrival post first? That would put us at the head of the line–except for those from the far side ATC may vector in front of us. In that case, we’ll have wasted precious loiter fuel getting there fast for nothing. And it’s a long way–in distance and fuel–to our alternate.

Or–and this is what I usually prefer–we can slow down, save gas en route, maybe even stay in the high altitude sector to save even more fuel rather than enter the descending holding stack where fuel flow increases with the lower altitude and the high banked turns required to stay in the holding airspace. Then, if we must divert (I hope not) we’re closer to our alternate and will get in and out before the crowd of other diverting aircraft do the same thing.

But that option might put us too far back in line to hold until everyone else lands. Double-edged sword, this weather strategy biz. No matter what you choose, there’s a downside:  the fuel flow continues regardless and even “slowed down,” we’re rushing toward the arrival corner post at about 400 miles per hour. So the question is, do you feel lucky today, punk?

Here’s where we often get a call from the back asking if we could say anything for the Dunder-Miflin crowd second-guessing whatever decision looks best from where I sit.

But what can I say? Especially between fast-changing options: F/O is off searching for the best and lowest-fuel required alternate and weather for each, I’m doing the math with the speed and fuel flow and guesstimating how long ATC is allowing folks to stay high plus how fast and in which direction the weather is moving and on our radar, how it’s developing or decaying and at what rate. That, plus the close-fast-low or lag back-slow-high equation that’s in constant flux.

So I will make a P.A., not for the backseat drivers but just to prepare the crowd for the delay–which is all we can be sure of at the moment. Plus, it seems to me best to make no promises or predictions because I realize how frustrating it will be if after a few minutes, I have to explain why what I just related is now irrelevant. And, I need to have my attention and concentration back in the cockpit so as to not miss a single clue in the arrival puzzle that’ll get us in earlier, or any weather awareness via radar or reports from a half dozen other airfields that when put together, give me a clearer picture of our best course.

That’s what’s happening on my side of the cockpit door when you feel us slow down dramatically or even go into a series of turns that often indicates that we’re in a holding pattern. It’s that time of year again and with the ever-increasing density of arrival traffic, this scenario is going to arise often.

Maybe now you can help me out by explaining to the Dunder-Miflin guy seated next to you steaming over the delay exactly why I’m not saying much, plus what you now have a pretty good picture of up front. I’ll get to you as soon as I have a free moment and something definitive to say. Which for me would be “flight attendants, prepare for landing.”

And if I’ve been able to maximize all the variables I just described, that will be at our scheduled destination.

Air Travel: How to Fly with Children

Travel season’s here and it’s time to round up the kids and head for the airport. There are many things you need to know to make your trip with your kids smoother. Here are some important tips based on my 25 years as an airline pilot:

1. Educate beforehand: kids need to visualize what’s going to happen at security before they experience it firsthand. Like their first trip to the dentist, they need to be prepared for an unfamiliar, sometimes uncomfortable environment with a different set of rules from their normal life.

The fact that they can be separated from you by the TSA is scary enough unless they understand the process. Plus, whatever stuffed animal or toy they may carry for personal reassurance is going to have to be scanned separately. Talk it up ahead of time! Make it a game–“you’re going to walk through the arch between mommy and daddy.” There may be a magic wand involved (see above). Teddy’s going to ride the conveyor belt inside a duffle bag (please do–I’ve seen stuffed animals caught in the rollers and shredded to the horror of a little one).

Let your child know that you might be singled out for screening, which can be scary for a child.

If possible, tag team: one parent goes through and waits for the child or children on the secure side. Never send a child through first to wait–if you’re detained for further screening, you will be separated from your unsupervised child.

Hand carried items: this is a problem. You’ll have enough to carry just to support a child’s travel, so try to minimize loose items by making sure all hand-carried bags have some type of closing device to keep items inside. Open containers or bags will inevitably spill their toys, crayons, books and food when jostling through the security screening machine. Backpacks for elementary school aged kids make sense: they can carry them and still have hands free, and backpacks can be closed with drawstrings and zippers.

Make a total count of bags ahead of time–“we have three bags and a stroller”–and make it a game: “Mommy said 4 items.” Count and gather items on the secure side.  Tag everything and tie a colored ribbon or string on each item–kids will help find the color or label you choose, so make it distinctive. If you leave anything behind at the security checkpoint by mistake, chances are slim that you’ll ever see it again. In the chaos of gathering clothing, shoes, bags and kids, it’s important to inventory all for items before leaving the area for your gate.

2. At the gate: get a tag from the agent for your stroller. But before leaving home, get a protective bag for the stroller or car seat. Both Target and Baby’s-R-Us have them for around $20, and you do need one to keep the stroller or car seat clean.

Protect your stroller or car seat.

Also, the bag will keep loose or losable parts together, or at least in one bag–we find loose pieces of stroller trays and accesories all over the ramp and in the cargo compartment of the plane.  Cargo handling is an ungentle, dirty business–the cargo hold is not clean, nor are those other bags smashed in with yours or actually, the hands that handle the gazillion bags a day. Cover your stroller or car seat and keep the dirt and grime out of your infant or toddler’s food chain. Plus, on your return trip, you can stuff a world of used laundry into the bag as well as the seat or stroller.

Should your infant be gnawing on any of this?

Find yourself a spot at the gate that allows your little one(s) some space to expend a little energy. Consult the airport guide to find any kids’ playgrounds, a great idea that’s making its way into more and more airports. Usually, they are corralled off from the main traffic areas, allowing kids to run and play–something that presents a tripping hazard for kids and adults in the regular gate area.

Kid's Zone in the Detroit Airport

Check on-line to see if your airport has one, or just ask an agent or passenger service person. Just keep track of time, and be sure to listen carefully for gate change announcements while you’re there.

3. Food and water: here’s a more in-depth discussion of food while flying, but here are a few hints tailored to parents and kids. First, the MacDonald’s Kid’s meal in the airport?

Maybe–but only in the airport food court. Dragging this messy meal in flimsy containers on board–especially given everything else you have to carry–is a bad idea. There’s really no elbow room on board, which kid’s require to eat like kids do, plus there’s no way to contain the mess or clean it up afterward.

In the above-linked discussion, I make this important point: it’s not about eating on the plane–it’s about not being hungry. If you can’t feed your child right before the flight, be sure to have non-perishable, non-crushable or non-spillable snacks stashed in your hand-carried bag. Don’t count on any in-flight snacks which may not be kid-friendly (Does your toddler like beef jerky? Potted meat?) and are subject to the on-board service schedule and availability: once they’re sold out, that’s it.

Bring snacks and water for everyone. Again, don’t count on the inflight service which may be delayed or in case of turbulence, canceled altogether. Bring what you and your child will need!

4. Sanitation: the aircraft is known to many flight attendants as “The Flying Petrie Dish.” This is another good reason not to bring a meal on board: the aircraft isn’t really clean. Bring hand-sanitizer, plus wipes for your seat’s armrests, tray table and anywhere a small child is likely to touch.

$2.99 at Costco

Save yourself a cold or worse down the road: wipe down the common areas within your child’s reach.

5. Ears and pressurization: although modern jetliners have automatic cabin pressure controllers with very gradual rates of change during ascent and descent, little ears can be sensitive to the changes anyway. Be sure that your child is not congested due to a cold or such and if so, consider an over the counter children’s decongestant to ensure they can clear their ears. Some parents have had good luck with having their kids drink during descent, which requires swallowing, which helps equalize pressure between the inner and outer ear.

You’ll need to be prepared: bring something to drink in a container. Flight attendants are required to collect all service items in preparation for landing and so will not be offering or serving any beverages.

6. Deplaning: Inventory time! How many bags? Contents–particularly stuffed animals–returned to the bag (check the floor around your seat) and bags closed! Do this on descent–don’t wait till everyone behind you on the plane is trying to deplane! Be ready.

With my youngest on a trip, we once discovered the tragedy of a missing teddy bear after we got home. So now we actually have roll call of all traveling stuffed animals at the hotel and on the plane.

Much easier than having to call the hotel and prepay the shipping for a somewhat threadbare but much needed bear. Trust me. Check seatback pockets thoroughly too for things you or your children might have stashed and forgotten about.

7. Department of “Duh:” Shouldn’t have to say this, but some people don’t seem to even think about this nastiness, so here goes.

Don’t change a diaper at your seat. The aircraft lavs all have pull-down changing tables for that purpose.

And that’s the correct place to handle that matter. Literally, speaking of that “matter” or material, would you want my Uncle Fred to change his diaper on your row?

The only difference in the “matter” is in quantity, not content (well, Uncle Fred likes anchovies, but still). Yes, it’s your cute little one, but it still is what it is and everyone on the plane wants to not share the experience and scent.

Thanks, Uncle Fred.

And seriously: DON’T hand the used diaper to a flight attendant! Or DO NOT plan to have them dispose of it in the meal cart (I know, it’s incredible, but people do). Put the diaper in a barf bag and dispose of it in the lavatory waste bin. Again, no one on the plane–particularly the crew–wants to get involved with anyone else’s bodily waste. Would you?

You want me to take WHAT?

Actually, there are more helpful travel hints for parents traveling with children, but this will do for now. If you only master these items alone, your trip will be smoother and more enjoyable.

Have a great trip–and if you have any other helpful travel tips, send them to me and I’ll add them!

Just throw your airfare under the car.

This is me looking down on my old high school–literally, not figuratively–where as a freshman, I had a neighborhood paper route.

It’s significant for me now to look down on my old paper route there–the Sacramento Bee, daily and Sunday, over a hundred customers–because in those days I looked up from my bike as I tossed newspapers, wistfully watching the airliners climbing toward the Sierras. I have the better of the two views now.

But I also relate to a “customer service” lesson I learned on the paper route that’s just as valid from my present perspective a few miles above my old paper route and and two hundred times faster than bike speed.

The biggest pain every month had to be collecting from customers. And the worst of that was at the house of a junior high school principal who lived on the route.

Ring the bell. Wait. He comes to the door and points to his driveway.

“Your money’s under the car–where I normally find my paper.” Crawl under the car; at least he usually had exact change. Every month.

Which didn’t seem fair, because his paper wasn’t under his car every day. Just now and then, because I had about 137 papers to throw from my moving bike, often with a dog or two chasing me, and a lot of days in the rain.

I think of that percentage as we top the Sierras (that’s Lake Tahoe in the middle)  because we’re running about forty minutes late.

Of the one hundred and forty people on board, I’m sure that one or two are steaming like my old customer, wanting to see me crawl under the car because this is what “always happens.” No dogs chasing me this time, but yes, weather slowing things down and a traffic-jammed Air Traffic Control system.

For that guy, and those of his ilk, there’s no explaining what goes on and why–they’re really not listening anyway and just want to tell their neighbors about how the paperboy has to crawl under the car to get his measly $3.50 a month.

But for the majority of reasonable folks on board, here’s a behind the scenes explanation for the common frustration experienced by all but seemingly insurmountable for the “under the car” minority.

Why doesn’t the pilot tell us what’s going on? Well, because  . . . it is going on: two nights ago, we were taxiing in the aluminum conga line to the runway, watching on radar as a ring of storms converged on the airport.

There’s no time to spare. I’m recalculating fuel burn for a new route, listening to and answering ground control giving instructions on one radio, monitoring the other radio that my first officer is on negotiating a new route from Clearance Delivery and steering the jet with my feet on the rudder pedals. And that’s not all that’s “going on;” it’s taking shape as the minutes tick by and the ring of towering cumulus closes in on the airport. I don’t have time to step out of the task mix and say “here’s what’s happening” because it’s changing by the minute.

Seriously?

It’s difficult enough when one of the Flight Attendants call up and ask “What’s the delay?” The answer would be, “I’m doing five things at once; don’t call me back unless we’re on fire.” Most Flight Attendants realize that and don’t call. If they do, I realize they’re taking heat from the hundreds of eyeballs boring into theirs as they sit on their emergency exit jumpseats. Any wonder why some of them may be a little defensive?

So–I know this is not what you want to hear, but–if I’m not saying anything on the P.A., it’s because there’s nothing for me to say and no time to say it anyway. And even what information there is changes by the minute. Even if you wanted to be part of the chaos, I don’t have the time to narrate what’s going on and still keep up with it and stay on top of our flight priority in the mix. Can you just get started on your crossword puzzle and trust that we’re doing our jobs as efficiently and safely as we can?

Once we do get into the air, we have another 4 hours of flight.  So make it the New York Times crossword: it’s in the “Entertainment” section, on the driveway. Under your car.

Meanwhile, lighten up on the paperboy, okay? He’s doing the best he can.

Air Travel and the “Kick the Dog” Syndrome.

The forward cabin door closed with a kerthunk and its warning light winked out on the overhead panel.

My first officer said, “You know, this is still a pretty good job once the door’s closed.” I nodded and keyed the interphone mike to called the ramp crew chief in the tug below. “Brakes are released, stand by for push clearance.”

He was right, of course: once we close and seal that door we’re on our own, free of “supervision” and the hassles that come with it. Now all decisions rest on the flight deck; each can be handled sensibly, quietly, without abstract criticism and senseless third-party interference.

But when is this not a “pretty good job?” Well, usually any time we’re not on our own–which is when the cabin door is open. Because besides the usual hurdles required to pass through an airport–gates, passengers, baggage, maintenance, cargo, restricted items, law enforcement travelers, fuel, engine service, catering–there’s one major side effect of the financial and managerial failures endemic to the Post-9/11 airline industry:

The “Kick the Dog” syndrome. And unfortunately, everyone gets to be the dog sometime at the airport.

The Urban Dictionary defines “Kick the Dog Syndrome” as “[t]he act of mistreating a peer or someone inferior to you out of frustration because a superior (whom you can’t argue with) has treated you poorly.”

Everyone in the airline and airport biz has been beaten thoroughly and regularly from the top down. Everyone’s reaching the boiling point from drastic pay cuts, stripped retirements, increased work, longer hours and less rewards than ever.

The airport is a combat zone populated with disgruntled airline employees, besieged concession workers and overwrought passengers. As a result, the trickle-down effect of the industry’s harsh austerity causes an inevitable reversal of polarity: surely as a methane gas bubble raced from the ocean floor five miles to the ocean’s surface and blew the hell out of the B.P. oil rig in the Gulf, air travel is right at the flashpoint of anger.

Tremors that indicate something ready to blow, someone on the verge of “kicking the dog?” Here are the classic examples that tell me for someone, I’m the dog:

1. Long day, many legs, bad weather–but it’s finally over. The whole crew’s dead tired, trudging to the hotel pick-up spot.

No hotel van.

We’re on time; same schedule as always. No van. Flight attendants look at me sidelong . . . do something, captain. Too many captains simply don’t, but I’m not one of them. I dial the hotel on my cell phone.

“Hi, the flight crew from 1157 at the airport waiting for pick-up . . .”

Pause. Then whoever answers the phone at the hotel says, “The van should be there.”

Now I’m ready to kick the dog. I know the van should be here–but if it was, would I be calling? Do I really need to know it “should” be here? Are we all just stupid: the van’s really here, we’re just calling the hotel for the hell of it?

Not gonna kick the dog, not gonna kick the dog. “I know that,” you dumbass I say only in my head. “Can you tell me how much longer it’s going to be? We have a short layover and if necessary, we’ll take cabs.”

Pause. “Well, we won’t pay for cabs.”

Note to self: Prozac. Valium. Yoga. Nine Milimeter. Whatever it takes.

2. Quick turn in Las Vegas. Gotta grab some food and get back on board to pre-flight. Hmmm, Burger King is near our gates; I even have exact change. I wait in line.

Finally, my turn. “I’d like a veggie burger with no pickles.”

The guy in the paper hat smirks. “The veggie burger doesn’t have pickles on it.”

So why do you have to say anything, other than “Okay,” then take my money? Don’t kick the dog, don’t kick the dog.

“Well, then put one on it then take it off because I don’t want one.”

Okay, I kind of “nudged” the dog. He deserved it.

3. Checking the destination weather back at the home drome. Chance of thunderstorms both en route at in the terminal area just popped up. Plus, I know from experience that we won’t get our cruise altitude right away due to outbound traffic from another major hub. Better call for more fuel.

A quick cell phone discussion with the airline dispatcher–he agrees and sends the updated release fuel to the station. Then a courtesy call on the radio to the station staff: “We’re going to add another thousand pounds of fuel.” From the station: “Stand by.”

I can feel it coming . . .

Finally, on the station frequency: “The fueler says you don’t need more fuel.”

Sigh. Did I ask the fueler if I need more fuel? Am I confused and can’t read the fuel gages myself and so was checking with him, especially knowing he doesn’t feel like driving back out to add more? No doubt, he’s checked the weather en route and we’ll just go with his judgment on this.

Don’t kick the dog . . . don’t kick the dog . . . “Uh, we’ll need another thousand pounds; he’ll be getting the fuel slip from dispatch any minute. When we get it, we’ll go.”

Just in case the Operations people forgot that we might have requested more fuel, not that I’m unclear on the amount on board. Give them the benefit of the doubt.

Operations: “Well, no one else has asked for more fuel today.”

Who the hell cares what anyone else has done? Who’s responsible for my flight–and who’ll answer for anything that goes wrong in the next thousand miles? Well honestly, I’d tell the FAA inquiry, they said no one else has asked for more fuel so I didn’t.

Before I could kick the dog, my First Officer jumped on the Ops frequency: “Ask the fueler if he’d like to add the thousand here, or drive about five hundred miles down the road and refuel us when we divert.”

Good answer! A kind of “nudge” to the dog.

I could go on, but I won’t. Suffice it to say that once we’re underway, things go more smoothly. But meanwhile, if you’re walking through the terminal, reconsider whether you really need to ask the flightcrew people you pass where the bathroom is (especially when they’re on their cellphones, grabbing a minute between flights to communicate with home), or whether you must ask them the “20-questions” starter, “am I in the right place?”

Just don’t ask or better yet, think before you do. This simple advice might make life smoother for your dog when you get home.

Sweet Tart Time Warp: The Three Hour Sunset

You point the nose west and settle into cruise and it finally hits you: this sunset doesn’t want to end. That’s the moment when the past catches up with the present and lets you in on a little secret about the future. That is, time depends on where you’re going. Long? Short? Brief? Interminable? It’s all a question of direction.

As a kid in fourth grade I had pretty much worked out the science of this revolutionary discovery using my newly acquired mathematical tools like long division and multiplication, scratching calculations on three ring binder paper while downing Sweet Tarts for brain fuel and watching Dick Van Dyke Show reruns. According to my calculations, if I flew west to east at just the right speed, given the turning of the earth below and my jet’s speed, time would stand still because I’d be over the exact same spot. Kind of a grade school version of the geosynchronous orbit.

Fast forward to my adulthood and the opportunity to examine that theory from my present job site at thirty-plus thousand feet and .77 Mach.

One thing I hadn’t accounted for in my grade school theorizing was the fact that as an airline pilot and an adult, I’d be lazy enough (and senior enough) to not fly early in the morning. So I’d be flying mostly east to west, joining the tide of blinking strobes creasing the sky late in the day, sailing to the coast. And in that physical reality, I find that I was halfway right: the sunset goes on forever as we chase the sun west.

But in the most part–damn the math and Sweet Tarts–I was just plain old wrong. No geosynchronous orbit. Not time standing still. But the important lesson: time depends on where you’re going. That’s a matter of proportion and substance, not speed and duration. Here’s why.

This sunset was observed at sea level. Actually, nine decks up from sea level and it should be noted, on a cruise ship with a camera and a vodka tonic in hand rather than Sweet Tarts and a number two pencil. Two other factors are fundamentally different as well.

The ship was cruising at a leisurely twenty knots, rather than my work-related obligatory four hundred plus knot cruise speed. And in the second clause is the most significant distinction: work. At altitude, I’m at work. At sea level–especially at sea–I’m not.

That seaside sunset lasted about two minutes. The week long cruise in retrospect seems now more like a matter of a day or two. But the months leading up to the cruise–and especially the maintenance-delayed flight to the port city–seemed like forever.

By contrast, once the jet’s landing gear is tucked into the gear wells, time slows to a creep. There’s the inverse relationship: at high speed and high altitude, time drags slower than Christmas.

By contrast, sea level–“sea” being a key word, particularly on a beach or a cruise ship–when not at work flies by like a lightning bolt, a brilliant flash disappearing in a squiggly swirl of smoke and landing somewhere far away. The thunder lingers, like the stack of vacation pictures, but predictably fades with time till you can only barely remember the original brilliance.

Same way with parenthood, and families and important events and people. Gone in a flash, yet the times in between seem to drag on. Not that there aren’t dazzling views on the way, incidental in only the fact that they’re unanticipated, but breathtaking nonetheless.

And it would be shortsighted to discount all the friends and family and events waiting ahead in unanticipated places and times of equally rewarding experiences encountered along the way to the next “big event.”

Maybe the real secret is this: the whole journey is the big deal; the events just the waypoints along the way. Maybe it never was about a geosynchronous life, hovering over a here and now. Maybe in the interminable sunset between events–the time warp–there’s also a meaningful now that sets into relief the precious moments of past and present.

So maybe there’s no time warp after all, and fourth grade math and youthful perspective not withstanding, no need for it either. The real deal is in the journey and whether at five hundred miles and hour or ten, sea level or flight level, you’re speeding onward nonetheless.

Hard as it is to admit, the times in between the momentous events are the majority of the journey, rather than the sideshow. Never mind long division–I always suspected it would lead to no good–and I’ll take the Vodka tonic over the Sweet tarts nowadays. But from the time from of fourth grade to forty-plus, one thing is clear: time, distance, place and people go by too quickly when you don’t want them to.

I think I’ll spend a little more time concentrating on the ride. Long or short, there are only so many sunsets to go.

Flightcrew Zoo: Stupid Layover Tricks

When you’re shipwrecked with fellow crewmembers, there forms a special bond. Over the years, I’ve shared a few exceptionally memorable times “shipwrecked” on layovers with pilots and flight attendants who have become lifelong friends. Here are a couple of the most memorable stories.

Mile High-Jinks

Dave was a fairly senior 777 captain when he took early retirement a few years back. Before he did, when we’d pass in the terminal, besides saying “hi,” one of us would grab the other and say to our first officer, if they were nearby, “He can verify that galley story I told you is true.”

And the story was from twenty-plus years ago when Dave was a DC-10 First Officer and I was the Flight Engineer. We flew all month with the same flight attendants, enjoying long layovers in downtown Chicago. The core group of us–me, Dave, Jennifer, Marianne, Lynne and sometimes Lonnie (whom Marianne admonished for “wearing too much make-up for daytime”) went out every night in Chicago to some club or other night place. Everyone became fast friends and hated to see the end of the month come which would mean no more weekly Chicago long layovers.

To make our last trip memorable, the inherently devilish Marianne dreamed up a plan. During our last leg from Detroit to DFW late one night, I got a call on the flight deck. “There’s something wrong with the P-Lift,” Lonnie said. “Can you come back and have a look?” The “P-Lift” was one of the elevators from the mid-cabin galley to the lower deck galley. Typical that there would be a problem and being the engineer, typical that I’d have to go back and see about fixing it.

“They’re having trouble with the P-Lift,” I told Bob, the leisure suit-wearing captain who ditched us in Chicago every layover to go out with his boyfriend, we suspected, and also to let Dave know I’d be gone. “Be right back.” I grabbed my flashlight, turned on all the fuel boost pumps and headed for the main galley.

“Downstairs,” Lonnie deadpanned, pointing to the P-Lift. Okay, I thought the P-Lift was the problem, but let’s go downstairs. I hopped in, closed the door and pressed the down arrow. The lift lowered me into the darkness below. Hmmm, good thing I brought my flashlight.

Every ORD layover included a stop here after midnight.

The door opened to candlelight in the lower lobe galley. Blankets and pillows covered the floor, and Marianne, Jennifer and Lynne were sprawled out in their nightgowns. “Want to join our slumber party?” Marianne asked, the three of them totally ignoring the 250+ passengers upstairs.

About twenty minutes later, I re-entered the darkened cockpit acting as nonchalant as possible. “Uh, Dave,” I said, “I think you’d better go have a look.” Maybe he knew what was up, but he wasted no time unstrapping and heading back. At least twenty minutes later, Dave returned, grinning. As soon as he did, Bob started to unstrap, maybe thinking it was his turn but Dave very pointedly said “No!” All’s well, he said–no need for you to leave the cockpit. The ladies would have killed us if he’d shown up.

Before Dave retired, our First officers would shake their heads in disbelief at the story but with verification, they could only think back on “the good old days”–such a thing would never happen today.

I still see Marianne now and again, Lonnie too. Lynne quit flying in the 1990s, and Jennifer worked on all of her flight ratings and is no longer a flight attendant but rather, a fairly senior First Officer with us now.

Man The Lifeboats!

Back in the 1990s, we used to have long layovers in Long Beach on the Queen Mary, which had been converted into a floating hotel. We used to convene in the forward lounge which was an art-deco masterpiece. The fun trick was to recruit flight attendants who’d never been to The Queen to have a beverage on the forward veranda of the bar, outside overlooking Long Beach harbor.  The trick in that was the magic hour of 7pm, when they blew the ship’s horn which was located just above the veranda.  More than a few spilled drinks and near heart attacks resulted from the uninitiated experiencing that heart-stopping blast.

My First Officer and I had a good laugh at our flight attendants’ expense on one such trip. One in particular, Rhonda (I still see her now and then) vowed to get even, but we figured it was all in good fun and so thought nothing of it.

That particular layover, The Queen was full and so both he and I had been given adjoining suites instead of the regular crew cabins. Of course, the flight attendants didn’t believe us when we told them. “Here,” my First Officer said to Rhonda, handing her his room key, “see for yourself. I’ll get another key at the desk.” They left us to tour the ship–including his suite–while we opted to stay and watch the NBA playoffs in the lounge.

A couple hours later, the game ended and we headed below decks, me to my suite and my F/O to the front desk to get another key. We had fifteen hours before we had to fly again and so I was looking forward to at least ten hours of good sleep.

As soon as I unlocked my door, I heard water running. Not a good sign, especially on a ship, I decided. At the same moment–maybe I was a little slow from a couple cold beverages–I noticed that I was standing in an inch of water that was beginning to slosh. Again, the beverage-effect: WE’RE SINKING! I grabbed the phone and called the front desk . . . to the lifeboats! She’s going down! “Uh,” I stammered, “I need a plumber pretty quick here.”

A few minutes later, I had both a plumber and hotel security in my cabin. The plumber removed the towels stuffed in the sink and tub and had turned off the water. Hotel Security began to grill me. “Why did you flood your room?” Rhonda. “What?” I tried to act indignant. “Why would I douche out my own room?” The F/O’s key, the adjoining room. She’d gotten her revenge.

Eventually, the Security Agent decided that he couldn’t prove that I’d flooded my cabin, but as punishment, I was given a virtual broom closet of a cabin–the ship was booked full and I believe it actually had been a broom closet at one point–and so I slept with one eye open looking for the ghost that legend has it prowls the old ship’s quarters.

Even now when I cross paths with Rhonda in the airport or even on a flight she smiles slyly; I smile, too. Thankfully, she stopped saying “you deserved it” about ten years back, although she never actually admitted to the deed nonetheless.

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