Halfway From Yesterday.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Airline Pilot: A Day in the Life

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

. . .  YOU’RE LATE!

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

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

Am I the only one running late?

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

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

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

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

Head for the office:

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

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

See? Everyone does it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

So, how's your trip going so far?

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

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

Thunderstorms out west, chopping up the sunset.

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

Gut bomb!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stay tuned: coming soon–Day 2.

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My Investigative Report: Omaha’s silent tragedy.

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The truth about airline ticket prices.

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

Jerry Jones.

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

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

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

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

"YTBSM."

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

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

A snack bar price list at "Jerry World."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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View from above: “Where am I?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Airline Captain: It’s all about the prestige.

Yeah, it’s all about the four stripes. A lot of stuff changes the day you put them on and move into The Center of the Known Universe.

First, there’s the instant recognition from coworkers. They know the reality behind the symbols of authority and reflect that in their very manner. No one resents that you’ve moved to the top of the dog pile; in fact, they fairly burst with enthusiasm for your good fortune and want you to know that.

Oh, we kid, don’t we, on the flight deck? Of course, you have to “keep it light,” right? And the circumstances dictate a gracious demeaner no matter what. I mean, everyone’s looking to you for leadership, and so they grant respect. As a captain, you have all of the authority in the universe once you’re in the air: “you da MAN.”  Yes, we kid face to face, but behind the captain’s back we know there’s a silent respect we can’t see–but you sure can feel it. Eventually.

Yes, you get paid to lead and don’t worry, with the increased responsibility there are perks for you, the leader. First, the posh accommodations that say “welcome to your restful hotel.”

There’s your room! And the floor outside will be vacuumed for you without fail at about 6am. We’ve been waiting for you!

"Honey, I'm home!"

So, you’ll get a sanitary rest, at least to the naked eye, so you can be ready for the next day’s flying and of course, “leadership.”

Now THAT'S a cart I could be proud of.

Rest is crucial, everyone knows, so the  standard is a good eight hours–or at least until the vacuuming starts at dawn–and then a hearty breakfast.

So with those giant carts, why don't we ever see that "Sanitized For Your Protection" strip anymore?

Here you’re likely to see the captain out having a thoroughly nutritious meal, balanced and calorically sensible. The challenges of flight dictate that those at the controls are properly fed and watered.

Paycuts + divorce(s) = tight budget. Sorry.

Other crewmembers might have lower nutritional standards

and that’s fine. But you, “Mr. Captain,” must lead by example.

Perfect Breakfast: "Blow Your Head Off" spicy tofu at O'Hare. Note: block off the forward lav in about an hour.

Because you want to make a good impression on the traveling public, who also look up to you for reassurance.

"Yo, wingnut: where'd they hide the toilet in this airport?"

Further, you have to be confident to earn the respect of the Cabin crew,

plus that of your fellow pilots

who are secretly happy about the fact that you have the four stripes, not them, although they do love to joke around. Never mind that it could be–SHOULD BE–them in the left seat now occupied by your sorry lard ass, no one’s bitter.

"Get out of my seat, old man."

Well at least they seem happy, so why would you think anything different? In fact, the friendly banter is what affirms the captain in his spot atop the flight deck hierarchy.

So you lead on, ever at the helm, with the tacit backing of those who support you. It’s their job to trust the captain and support his leadership, come whatever challenges may descend upon their flight. So you just have to know that they’re “there for you.”

All the pilot banter aside, no matter what it’s the look of sheer admiration you get from the little kids, the one that says “wow, you’re the pilot!” that just keeps you going.

Well, after a day in the sky, on top of the world, it’s time for the captain to grab his luxury wheels

Employee lot, DFW, February 11, 2010.

and head home to the humble yet swingin’ abode his second ex-wife allows him to have without taking him back to court for more alimony.

Car in driveway = roommate made bail!

That’s pretty much “the big picture.” Yes, that fourth stripe makes all the difference in the world to those who wear it. Those who don’t, however, probably know “the big secret.”

Want Fridays off and a half day Wednesday? DENTAL SCHOOL.

But really, why tell that to anyone considering aviation as a career. Why not just let it be a surprise?

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This little device ought to be good for a few fistfights in the cabin. Apparently, you as a passenger put these snap-on clamps on your tray table and magic: the seat in front of you can’t recline. Good for you, bad for whomever’s sitting in front of you, and bad for the cabin crew who must referee the ensuing argument: “What do you mean I can’t recline my seat?!!!” Let the games–and the lawsuits–begin.

Deja Crew: Once and Again.

[Note: the Olympic Figure Skating commentary is on the bottom of this page.–Ed.]

This always happens, if you’re a flightcrew person long enough, sooner or later. Across the terminal, changing planes, maybe even on the employee bus, but somewhere in your polyester-clad day, someone catches your attention. Wait. I know you. But from where? Slowly, the fog of distance and time gives way to remembrance and:

So good to see you again, my old friend from “back in the early days” when “things were always fun,” when crews had more time to hang out, layovers were longer and everyone wasn’t beat to death or worse, older now. But we can catch up, remember, ask about other crew friends and see where everyone is, how everyone’s doing despite the ravages of time and the changes that have battered our work life. Who’s transferred bases or aircraft, married, divorced, retired or just plain old stopped flying altogether? Mostly, though, we remember, share a laugh, a good time.

Last summer it was us with a couple other crews shipwrecked in the Mexico City Airport Hotel because of thunderstorms in Dallas. Naturally, everyone hung out together and thank God we had Spanish-speakers on the crew to smooth the way. Remember that little dive behind the hotel?

Crews still go there. We  stuffed ourselves to the gills for about $2.25 each. Of course, we paid dearly, eventually. Yes, the “Salmon Carpaccio” was delicious, seriously, (Note to Self: go ahead, eat raw fish in Mexico, then exist as a human shower nozzle for days afterward) but my fever lasted for a week and if I recall, the #1 Flight Attendant had to reschedule her bridal portrait because she was sick as a dog for days. Same deal at “The Nunnery” in Monterrey, Mexico, remember? You could make a meal of the excellent Tapas–then the Tapas would eventually eat YOU alive.

Or how about the long Mildew Plaza layovers in Manhattan, where we found out the reason the now defunct “Westside Cottage II” advertised “free wine with dinner:” it was so vile that no one could gag down more than a Dixie cup. Total. The van ride in, the van ride out: always a traffic snarl, but a social hour in the morning trying to wake up and not have a coffee bath on the pot-holed drive through midtown, a yack fest late at night from Newark or LaGarbage trying to wind down from eight hours of flying.

Don’t forget “Miller’s,” our old stand-by on Chicago layovers inside the Loop. How many frozen Lake Michigan arctic blusters did we weather there, only a merciful body slam or two from the welcome revolving doors of the Palmer House? Or before that, the Americana Congress across from the fountain: a cab ride to Gino’s, dash back, cut through Miller’s to save half a frozen block to the hotel.

And those nights in New Orleans, thirty hour DC-10 layovers, hanging at The Dungeon (all 1970’s classic rock–and only classic rock) which didn’t even open till midnight, after blind blues man Bryan Lee’s first set at The Old Absynthe House. Then a good eight hours rest at The Sonesta, and an eye-opening cafe au lait and beignets at Cafe Dumonde and we were good all the way to Seattle, never mind the powdered sugar all over the polyester uniform.

Was there anything better than downtown Montreal and charm of Old Towne? Never was a colder layover in winter, but the sidewalk cafes on summer nights–so European; the food, the bread alone worth bidding that trip.

Vegas? Oh, I remember. Just step across the street to the aging Tropicana, the smoky old-school casino with the hog trough buffets the ancient widebody captains just had to have. Then it was up to the big open air lounge for

watching the hookers work the old guys on package tours and assorted lotharios like the big cats stalking wildebeasts. Yes, you just have to laugh, and we did. Then back to work for another ten thousand miles.

Like right now: I know, you have to go, I do too. You’re headed west, I’m headed east but who knows, one of these days, we’ll see our names on the same crew list again. I hope so. Till then, take care, fly safe–and thanks for the memories. If were lucky enough to fly together again, we’ll make some new ones.

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Olympic Update:

Okay, I don’t care what your coach told you, but there is NEVER a time when it’s okay for a guy to wear a clown suit like this on prime time television, never mind in international championship competition. Sure, your partner likes it and yeah, she’s kind of hot in a starving waifish sort of way, but jeez. Even with the mute button on–couldn’t take the mournful stale “Send in the Clowns”–and the nutcase judges aside, I threw up a little in my mouth when you zipped out on the ice in your clown jammies. For the love of God, you need to man up: pull a hockey jersey over that mess, pee standing up for a change, fart during a triple “Lutz” (whatever the hell that is, but it sounds official); I don’t care but stop ruining everything.  I’m just sayin.’

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“Far Away” revisited.

“There’s no such place as far away.” Richard Bach, the “Jonathan Livingston Seagull” guy wrote that, and my parents sent the booklet to me for Christmas, my first Christmas oh-so-far away. They were in Italy–my father an Air Force officer–and I was on Okinawa in the South China Sea at the far side of the globe, also an Air Force officer and pilot. And let me tell you: Mr. Bach notwithstanding, there most certainly is “far away.”

I see it every work day, and I’m just one guy, one journeyman airline pilot. But let me share with you what all aircrew members know, because we’re your silent partners in “far away,” wherever and whenever you go. It’s mostly good, considering those who go because they want to, because they’ve waited so long and now the big trip’s here. I notice the wedding dress in the garment bag hung carefully in the forward closet. I root for you on your big day, am proud of the flight attendants who send you off with something special, because they care.

I root for the old couple–I’ll push your wheelchair, have pushed it for you–bravely going where they can without a thought about “next year,” much less tomorrow, just courageously embarking on their journey of the precious “now” despite limitations life and age have foisted on them.

We see the reality, the distance of “far away” in you when you’re going where you will go but more poignantly, in the eyes of those who must go: the children, like a nomad flock, of divorce. The “unaccompanied minors” as they’re tagged, suspended between divorced parents on holidays and vacations. We see it in the child’s eyes, knowing there’s a loved one to leave, a loved one to rejoin. I’ve shared the tears of a mom, swearing with all my heart that it would be okay, that I would call from the destination and let her know her son was all right, safe with the other parent he also misses.

We’ve seen it with the thousands of silently dedicated young troops we carry too far away. I’ve promised them each, “finish your duty here and I will gladly bring you home.”

And we do. Home to families, back from far away,

whatever it takes, a solemn promise from your silent partner in far away, we will bring you home.

Getting there is what matters, and we see the people on both ends: those you leave, and those you meet. Whether you land at home or far away, I see that in your faces one by one as you deplane. And I really look hard as I say thank-you and good-bye, because that’s what I keep in mind each and every time I take-off, fly and land the jet, following the exact procedure, using all of my years of experience, perfectly every time, night and day, here, there–everywhere.

And that’s the main reason I do and to me, near or far–it’s all the same. Because the secret of “far away” is this: it only seems so, it only matters, because there is a home to go back to. That’s a good thing.

Yes, we are the agent of faraway, but also the angel of home. When you’re ready, we will bring you home. That, without fail, I promise you.

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In case you ever wondered: yes, there is such a thing. Chocolate’s rare, but the best.

Things to NOT ever do at the airport.

People don’t like to be told what to do. So, here are some things you really ought NOT do at the airport:

1. You don’t necessarily have to pay to check your bag. Seriously.

Skip this--and the fees.

Just pack a normal-sized bag:

All of these will work.

If your bag weighs over 50 pounds, every airline’s going to charge you and extra $75 to $100 (yes, despite the legend, even Southwest is going to charge you for a bag over 50 pounds). But not if you carry it aboard. So you just take your bag through security instead–you think he cares how much it weighs or how large it is?

It just has to fit through the opening in the screening machine. Take your bag through security and to the gate. Ask the agent at your gate, “You want to gate check this?” They probably will, gladly, to avoid the usual last-minute baggage hassles on board. In fact, they’ll usually make an announcement before boarding to the effect that “if there’s any question as to whether your bag will fit on board, please bring it forward for gate checking.” FREE. This is especially important if you know it weighs more than 50 pounds–which it probably will after you buy more junk wherever you’re going. You like free stuff, right? Here, you just saved at least $50, plus whatever overweight fees you were going to pay.

2. NEVER do this:

Are you nuts?

Why would you put your wallet and watch into an open container and send it off on a conveyor belt to a point where you can neither see it nor reach it? Are you out of your mind?

Let’s talk. First, there’s nothing in your wallet that needs to be x-rayed and even if it did, it wouldn’t set off the screening arch if you walked through with it in your pocket WHERE IT BELONGS (note from your Mom: “Why do I have to tell you these things? Do you not have one lick of common sense?”).

Bag it, so you can find it easily after screening, stash it--and lock it!

Put anything valuable–like your watch, any jewelry, cell phone or if you insist (remember what Mom said) your wallet into a hand-carried bag WITH A SMALL COMBINATION LOCK ON IT.

There. Now when all your stuff goes through the screening arch

but you’re pulled aside to do the “scarecrow” pose while a stranger wandles (“wandle” = the combination of “wand” and “fondle” and you’re likely getting both) you, your valuables are not available for the quick swipe by anyone already through security. And the lock is a MUST: when the security screener asks, “Is this your bag?” he will not be able to open it until you are there to watch, because you don’t have to give him the combo. They can–and will–wait.

3. Don’t depend on anyone to tell you what time or what gate your flight leaves from. Ever. Why?

Because this is 2010, amigo! Pre-program your phone with the phone numbers for:

A. Gate/schedule information.

B. Designated flight rebooking number.

C. Destination hotel/transportation numbers.

Get these numbers from the appropriate website and note: the “rebooking” number is not the same as the reservations number. It’s on your airline’s website–or simply call them before your trip and ask for it.

Of course, this all is dependent upon you knowing your flight number. Not your destination–your specific FLIGHT NUMBER. There may be more than one flight to your destination, so it’s vital you know the number in order to get the correct gate and time info. “Where’s the flight to Omaha?” won’t get you the answers you really need. And in my opinion, even these screens

are less than useful because first, you have to find one, second, they’re often mobbed by what Herbert Nash Dillard termed “the great, heaving, vomiting, unwashed masses”–especially on Southwest–and third, they change often and besides, they only cover an hour or so from the present time.

But look at you all smug and cool because you speed-dialed for the most current gate and schedule information on your cell phone and you already know the latest.

Plus no one stole all your valuables while they lay out in the open on the far side of the screening arch. Right? And you can make the all-important phone call for connecting flight information while you taxi to the gate. Your information will be more current than even what was announced in flight because it’s more recent. And rebooking?

You won’t be in the endless line–which is often outside of security–because you rebooked on your cellphone as soon as a cancellation was discovered. Probably only by you because you shrewdly called. Shhhhhh; quietly proceed to the new gate and get your seat before Herbert Nash Dillard’s group discovers the change.

4. Finally–and this is just for me and every crewmember you might see–don’t ask where the bathroom is. I mean it.

Think about it for a moment (you don’t want Mom chewing your butt again, do you?). The airport, like any public building, has restrooms. If you don’t see one right away, you choose a direction, left or right, and walk till you see one.  Do you have to go so bad that you feel the “right or left” choice is life or death? If so–poor planning. Consider a diaper–if the shuttle astronauts wear them, you can too.

Mostly though, I really don’t want to be aware that you have to go to the bathroom. Although like most crewmembers, with difficult people I keep the “stray dog” maxim at all time: “don’t make eye contact,” but it’s not foolproof. If someone still insists on asking me where the restroom is, I usually ask them, “number one or number two?” People actually stop and consider and are about to tell me when they eventually catch up with the basic norms of decorum and adult personal responsibility. “That way,” I tell them, pointing either right or left, because sooner or later they’ll find a restroom.

I could go on–and likely will in a future blog post–but these four tips will put you way ahead of the traveling masses and make your trip both cheaper and less frustrating.

I know–no one likes to be told what to do. So here’s what not to do and please, listen to me, or you’ll probably have to deal with Mom when things go haywire–and . . .

". . . it's your own fault because you didn't listen, did you smarty pants?"

Besides, when it comes to Item #4, “yes, you should have gone before you left the house.” Thanks, Mom.

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The oriental salmon salad! What’s not to like?

Airline pilots are overpaid–or maybe not.

Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain.

None of my passengers yesterday had any idea that on landing, they were speeding down the flooded runway with no brakes, which is fine with me.

I mean the part about “nobody had any idea.” I’m a big fan of braking, especially when it comes to a sixty-ton jet on a rain-slicked runway.

They all deplaned a few moments later, none the wiser, which is also fine with me. I wanted to make a phone call and grab a bite between flights and I only had a few minutes to do it.

If you prefer to have “no idea” what goes on in the cockpit, click here.  If you you want to pay attention to the man behind the curtain, here we go.

Twenty-some miles out of Raleigh-Durham Airport at 5,000 feet and about 200mph. The wind is a direct tailwind at 69 knots. The ceiling at the airport is between 300 and 500 feet. That means we won’t break out of the clouds until we get below 300 feet. But the minimum we can descend to without a determination that the landing is safe is 200 feet. That means we’ll have about 5 seconds from when we see the runway to decide if we can land–and make the necessary control inputs to position the jet for a safe landing and oh by the way, the approach lights aren’t working today. With me so far?

The tower reports the surface wind to be a direct crosswind. So we know the wind will shift 90 degrees somewhere between 5,000 and touchdown, plus decrease in velocity by nearly half. Also, the temperature at our altitude is about 50 degrees, but it’s 33 on the ground with freezing drizzle. Besides the fact that the jet, like a galloping horse, wants to point it’s own head and go where it’s pointed–into the crosswind, which isn’t unfortunately the way the runway’s pointed–the shifting airmass we’re riding in is bumpy as a logging trail. I call back and warn the cabin  crew,

“Hang on–she’s gonna buck.” They’re Dallas-based as well. They get it. Lightens the mood–okay my mood–a little to joke around.

My F/O is one of the best. She’s an Air Force Academy grad, and like me, a former Air Force pilot. “Takes 4,000 pounds of fuel to get to Norfolk,” she offers, thinking of our alternate. We have 12,000 pounds at the moment.”If we don’t land, you put clearance on request to Norfolk and we’ll be there in twenty minutes. The winds are lighter there.”

This ain’t my first rodeo, I know how this goes: I’ll have a couple seconds tops between when we break out of the clouds and she calls “minimums,” which means if we’re not in the slot–on airspeed, fully configured, power stable–we’re going to Norfolk. Also, I know that when the jet’s done bucking around, her nose better be pointing down the runway (that’s what rudder’s for, but there’s not always enough throw) and I’ll need to delicately put the upwind wingtip lower, touching down right main gear first, then left, then the nose. Then stop the beast on what I know is a slick runway.

We break out of the clouds but into heavy rain at 300 feet. I take a “one-Mississippi” breath to size up the picture, kick in the correct rudder, lower the wing, and see if my correction will hold. It does–we can land, if nothing else changes.

This is actually my watch. No nerdy-pilot clunker here.

“Minimums,” Nora calls. “Landing,” I announce. I keep a hair-trigger on the go-around throttle toggles, ready till the last few feet to rocket us back into the air if the bronco starts to get the better of me in this wild ride. One deliberate bump from the heel of my throttle hand and the fuel controls 140 feet behind me will dump a torrent of jet fuel into both burner cans, then we’ll stand it on it’s tail riding 50,000 pounds of thrust, getting the hell out of Dodge.

I wrestle the controls; I win. We touch down softer than I meant to, but with the blustery winds, my main goal is to make it a controlled gear-by-gear touchdown without dragging a wingtip.It’s a smart jet. On touchdown, when a computer senses that the main wheels are turning, the spoilers on top of the wing automatically pop up to kill the wing’s lift and thereby put more weight on the wheels and make our braking more effective.

The spoilers didn’t deploy. That’s because the wheels weren’t spinning: we were hydroplaning at about 145 miles per hour.

As I said, this ain’t my first rodeo. I know that hydroplaning occurs most readily at nine times the square root of the tire pressure. Our main tires are at over 200 psi, so the square root is around 15; multiplied by 9 equals 135 or so. After which, we’ll get traction and braking. Lesson of the day: if your car’s tires are at 36 psi, your hydroplane vulnerability is around 50 mph. Don’t panic! Stay with it, decelerate carefully and you WILL regain traction.

My excellent First Officer called out, “No spoilers” and manually deployed them. I kept the nose straight with aerodynamic controls until the brakes became effective, slowing our sixty-ton sled to taxi speed, skidding nonetheless four or five times more over pooled water from the heavy rain.

We warned the Southwest jet on final ten miles behind us. Then taxiied to the gate.

The jet emptied, the passengers went safely on their way, and I stopped at my favorite barbeque place before turning the jet around and launching back into the rainy gloom.

Just another day at the office. I couldn’t do anything without the teamwork of the fantastic first officers we have.  And you couldn’t get where you’re going in one piece without all of us on both sides of the cockpit door.

Nonetheless, we still hear all too often that airline pilots are overpaid. Click on the video below, and think that over.

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Meet your congress!

Well, at least one famous member. Here’s the “Larry Craig Toilet” in the Minneapolis Airport:

Airliner Lavatories: No Blue Sky and NO DEUCE. Ever.

I couldn’t wait to stick my head in that toilet. I was nine, we were flying from Buffalo to Chicago and when the seatbelt sign finally went off, I flew up to the lav, just certain that when I flushed the toilet–once I figured out how–the bottom of the bowl would open up and I’d see blue sky below. I’d planned to drop stuff out of there across the country, pencils, tissue, pictures, maybe even a deuce if I could work one up.

What a buzzkill when I realized the truth: it’s just a chemical toilet. No open skies, thousands of feet of open sky below. Just a chemical toilet.

Well, it’s worse than that. The way your modern airliner is designed, it’s basically a chemical toilet with no water–just degerm solution swirling around below an aluminum “splash pan.” Yes, “ewwwwww,” but stay with me–it gets even worse: the chemical toilet is barely an arm’s reach from the galley.

This is you, standing in the galley, looking into the can. Nice, huh?

Are you getting this? Here, let’s paint the picture: the aircraft designers put an outhouse right next to the kitchen. But it’s worse than that, too. Let’s strip out the walls

Okay, see where that bowl is? And see where my seat in the cockpit up front on the left is? And how close? Well, the ventilation is designed so that whatever you do in the lav is brought forward almost instantly.

An old Air Force buddy of mine flies for Southwest Airlines and reports this as a major problem on early morning flights. Since Southwest doesn’t have reserved seating, a line forms at the gate well before boarding.And no one will leave the line to go to the bathroom lest they lose their boarding priority. He reports that as soon as they’re airborne, everyone suddenly needs their morning constitutional. The end result could only be described as similar to my high school memories on Saturdays when my Dad would roam the house picking up newspapers and magazines. You knew what was coming next: an hourlong sit down during which you hoped none of your friends came over; the whole house smelled like, well, an airplane lav.

No, we’re not defenseless in the cockpit:

But that does make it hard to drink my morning coffee (believe me: you want me to have my morning coffee) and does nothing for your fellow passengers gagging up front.

Yes I always fly with a drawing pad. Why do you ask? Anyway, take pity on the other hundred-plus people on the plane. Here are some reasonable yet crucial guidelines:

1. No Deuce in the forward lav. That’s the one by the cockpit near me. “Number One” only in the forward lav–NO DEUCE (that’s a “Number Two,” okay?) EVER up front. Except, of course, for me:

It’s good to be captain. You? Go to the aft lav in the rear of the airplane. Everyone back there’s traveling on some kind of discount anyway, they can live with it.

2. Mile High Club? Seriously?

What, in an outhouse? The last guy’s skid marks (remember: no water) stinking the place up? Now THAT’S amore. And you’d have to be an idiot. Your buddy who claims he did it in the lav (yeah, right) is an idiot for even thinking about it.

3. In and out, quickly. No newspapers, you’re not my Dad and this isn’t Saturday; you’re in a Porta-Potty five miles up at 500 miles an hour. Make it quick.

4. Wear shoes! It’s not that we mind you mopping up the sticky spillage on the lav floor with your socks (or less–ewwwwww); we don’t. It’s just the thought of it makes me gag when I type this, and especially when I see you doing it.

5. Mercy Flush: every thirty seconds, at least. Remember: no water. Lots of air. People trying hard to breathe and your atomized particulate matter is wafting around the cabin.

Look, your best bet is to just hold it, because the lav’s a filthy Petri dish; between flights the unlucky low man on the ramp totem pole holds his nose, flaps a rag around the lav, sprays some junk to mask the stench then slams the door. You can hold it and remember, it’s not like the bottom’s going to open up and let you throw stuff out into the blue sky. Seriously, I checked.

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World’s most dangerous sandwich, from the deli in Hangar 3 in LaGuardia Airport:

My in-flight hogfest from LaGarbage to DFW February 2.

Hot pastrami with provolone, onions  and mustard on a hero. Definitely will get you to the other coast, and someone’s going on oxygen a couple hours into the trip. Okay, there’s the connection with the “Deuce” post above.

When I was a First Officer–back when the earth was still cooling and dinosaurs roamed the planet–on the DC-10, I’d get one of these babies to go from the LaGuardia deli and eat it in flight enroute to O’Hare. During the next leg, about midway to Seattle, you could count on a burnt-onions-like gas cloud in the cockpit that had the captain ranting. What was he all whipped up about? Here, just Pull My Finger.

He’d fingerpoint, eventually at me, but on a three-man crew he couldn’t be certain if it was me or the flight engineer (that’s the beauty of today’s two-man crews: you always know who farted) who was responsible for gagging him. I swore up and down it wasn’t me.

Then one trip, the usual engineer called in sick. Over Wyoming–same stench. Busted; he wouldn’t give me any landings the rest of the trip.

Now, “My Darling Bride & Favorite Flight Attendant of All Time,” like most women, would be horrified and grossed out by this story,

but seriously–nobody’s reading this blog, much less this far down in it, plus she doesn’t even know I have a  blog. So shhhhhhh, mum’s the word, okay? Besides, whenever she asks me what I could possibly know about the general topic I call “Man Stuff,” I tell her honestly, “I used to be a guy.” Guys–particularly husbands–reading this are nodding and grunting. Women? Whatever. As I said, nobody’s reading this anyway.