Who IS the airline Captain anyway?

Depends on who you ask. But though it seems obvious to me from the inside, it’s a legitimate question I ask from the outside of other exclusive professions.

Well, I can give you a look behind the curtain in the airline pilot world if you’re interested. And also the perspective of captain, which is even more unique: I can remember flying in the First Officer position on the DC-10 one dark and stormy night going into Chicago. Options were running out; The Boss had to make a decision–and fast–whether to divert or to commit to the approach.

He looked to me for advice, which I gave him. “Not sure what the best thing would be,” he said, as if fishing for more.  I smiled slyly and looked back across the cockpit, saying, “Yeah, I bet that’s a tough decision.”

Because he had all of the authority, not me, and in fact I had the luxury of sitting back and watching him sweat it out. It’s good to be captain, right? It’s also tough to be captain as well.

Well, I’ve had the experience now from the captain’s perspective nonstop since 1991. That’s when I got where I am, but not how. Let’s go way back.

Okay, we don’t have to go back that far, do we? Seems kind of boring, to me. But, that is where I came from and it has bearing, whether I’d like to admit it or not, on where I am now.

Seventh grade, control line planes and they really flew. Built ’em, eventually designing my own balsa wood constructions; slap on that infallible .049 engines and drive all the neighbors crazy with the noise, flying and eventually crashing my planes (learning a loop was easier in a jet than one of these control line planes) then fixing them to fly again. Did that all the way through high school. Radio controlled planes? Too expensive.

And along those lines, in college “too expensive” won out over “too stupid:” flying lessons were way out of my budget (I paid my own way through college) but skydiving was relatively cheap. You had to pay for a lift, which wasn’t all that much, and you were in flight just like that. Of course then you had make your own way back to the terra firma, but that was even cooler: flying without the plane! But still in the sky.

Bought my own parachute, budgeted a morning and afternoon jump on weekends. Thought I was immortal, which is really stupid, especially since over those years I saw a lot of folks get hurt jumping and took a few knocks myself and actually split a helmet when the wind dragged me across the asphalt and into a parked car (black eye; onlookers clapped because they thought it was planned). Dumb, dumb idea, but I learned a thing or two about life and death and fear in the process. Those lessons served me well later, as I’ll explain.

The Air Force helped me break that skydiving habit my senior year by paying for flying lessons. And one of my buddies who’d borrowed my skydiving rig made it final by shredding my chute when he landed in a tree.

Actually, it was “flight screening” the Air Force paid for: who had two left feet? Who should the Air Force not invest a million dollars in for jet flight school because they’d end up washed out or dead?

Of the fifty-some guys in my college graduating class who were qualified and competing for a pilot slot, I somehow ended up in the four who were actually selected for flight school. One washed out, one was killed flying low-level formation and the other guy now flies for Delta. But that’s another story.

Bigger and better flying followed. The Air Force decided to ship me off to Okinawa first, then Hawaii, for a total of seven years in the Pacific and worldwide. Good flying, around the clock and around the world.

And a few more pilot compadres got killed doing it, I should note to be honest. But we figured the risk was worth the reward, if not always the duty.

Couple buddies flying back in the states let me know “the airlines are hiring.” Yeah maybe, I thought. I have orders to fly the above White Rocket stateside now. Do I want to screw that up by getting out and starting over?

For the hell of it, I did a couple interviews. That’s all it took.

State-of-the-art jets and a wide open future: you could fly till sixty if you wanted! The Air Force would have you tied to a desk by your late thirties. You’d be done in the cockpit.

Sat side-saddle for a year as DC-10 engineer. On that jet, I flew with legends and gods, in my mind anyway: these were pilots who’d flown a hundred combat sorties in Vietnam. Some had spent time as POWS. They’d flown the classics of the jet age, from Thuds to the Deuce to the Sabre jet; you name it.

Some had flown with my father, a thirty-year USAF flyer. They were gentlemen, they had been baptized with fire in the air flying exotic stuff and even the first jetliners back when I was still in diapers. They were captains the likes of which, honestly, no longer exist.

I was humbled. I shut up and watched and learned: here’s how you lead a crew, here’s how you calmly handle the whirlwind when it erupts and you’re responsible for 250 plus lives.

Then I graduated to a copilot’s seat. Moving forward in the cockpit, now working one-on-one with that old breed of captain. I watched and learned. I fought the weather, the mechanical stuff, the air traffic problems, the schedule plus my own fatigue.

And loved it.

Earned my own set of captain’s wings six years almost to the day after I was hired. That’s unheard of today, where most First Officers have been here at least ten, some as many as twenty years. So I’m nothing special–rather, just damn lucky.

Now I live with what I call the captain’s pyramid, which probably isn’t what you think.

Sure, you’re at the top of the heap, blah-blah-blah. But for me, it’s now about being the guy to whom everyone else says, “Yeah, I bet that’s a tough decision” as I did to that DC-10 captain for whom I was the First Officer so many years ago.

The captain’s view is from inside that pyramid, and as you go up, as the flight becomes challenging due to weather or emergencies or a million other problems, you’re shoved upward, like it or not, ready or not, and lives are in the balance.

And it gets narrower. And there’s less room, but you have to make it work. You have to find the safe way out for you and your crew and all the souls on board.

That’s where who I am, the boring part I was describing before, takes over. It’s the lessons of calmness when hurtling downward at terminal velocity, a snarled parachute overhead and the realization that you have one shot at manually deploying your reserve chute–so make it a good one.

It’s the stormy nights over the most distant South Pacific nowhere land, a thousand miles from any shore and the knowledge that you must get on that tanker boom, vertigo or not from the moonlight through cloud breaks plus the turbulence and constant turning to avoid weather scrambling your equilibrium, you must and will hang on for your fuel–or your life is going to become “interesting. ”

It gives one the quiet calm at the eye of the storm, nose pointed up, climbing for all she’s worth but losing to the mountain you’ve been errantly vectored into in the thunderstorms of peak-ringed Mexico City.

There’s neither panic nor fear, in fact there’s a deathly calm as you do the math and search for any inch of advantage you can get, the only emotion being a distant backroom anger at finding yourself here again. What’s scary is you’re not scared–you’re on task, concentrating.

When that engine quits or worse, explodes; when the weather screws you and the windshear grabs for you, when the terrain (thanks, Mexico City Approach) smacks you in the face: you do what you gotta do. Calmly.

Because that’s where I came from. Like most captains, this ain’t my first rodeo.

And I’ve shared that look, words unspoken, with other captains on the crew bus. We’ve been in the same storm, faced the same narrowing of the pyramid. We’ve been steeled enough through years of the relentless fire to the point where we claim that deliberation, that scary calm, and do what we have to do. Nobody says a word, but the look traded says, goddam, we did that again and did it well, didn’t we? Nobody likes or goes after the top of the pyramid, but we all know it comes after us and we will stand our ground.

That’s kind of it. That’s who we are, which now you know, is because of where we come from.

Not everyone has a military background. Some of my favorite First Officers, the most capable pilots I know and the ones I absolutely need as the top of the pyramid closes in on us, are of all civilian background. And the ex-military folks, well, we’re all pretty much diecut and stamped.

I wear the four stripes which yeah, cuts a path down the jetbridge during boarding. But that’s all eyewash to me, just things passengers need to see to feel confident at shotgun speed seven miles up, comfortably unaware of the pyramid closing in on us. It really doesn’t mean squat there.

So I really don’t give a damn about the cosmetics of it all. Flying is what matters and what decides success or failure, not the outward trappings of the position. Which is why although now you do know, you needn’t even be concerned about who’s responsible for getting your feet safely back on the ground, predatory but invisible (to you) pyramid or no. My gig is flying, living up to the legacy of the giants who came before me and who taught me, employing the hard lessons I learned along the way.

That’s who your captain is, no matter what airline you’re on or who’s in the left seat of your jet. And from my perspective as an airline captain three decades after I first soloed, that’s really what it’s all about.

Who is the airline captain? Now you know.

The TRUTH About Flight Attendants.

You sure you’re ready for the truth?

Still watching “Happy Days” reruns? Or maybe even “Leave it to Beaver” (okay I do, but I already have seen behind the curtain when it comes to Flight Attendants) where June Cleaver vacuums in pearls and heels? If this is you, please click here. Okay, don’t say I didn’t warn you.

First, let’s start with the basics: who IS this person we call Flight Attendant? Where do they come from? Actually, they’re parents and spouses and significant others and sons and daughters. And they come from, well, everywhere.

My friend Melissa and her crew.

The common denominator seems to be the ability to get along with nearly anyone. That, plus the ability to handle children. No, it’s not that they handle children on board in their role as Flight Attendant. Rather, they must deal with a lot of childishness in flight on both sides of the cockpit door. So anyway, many, it seems, have a background in Education: either  as a college degree or as a teacher–or both.

My friend Nanci dealing with one of the children on board.

But that’s just what constitutes a significant number, but by no means, the majority. I once dated a Flight Attendant who had previously been a USDA meat inspector (I got rejected as “Not Prime,” although I’d like to consider myself at least “Average Chuck”), I know several with PhDs, I know one guy who flies for my airline who is an M.D.; the bass player in my band (shoutout to Angela!) is a flight attendant; My Darling Bride (MDB) before she became a “stewardess” was an engineer.

Okay, WARNING: don’t EVER call them “stew;” they hate it–even though my own mother, even after 25 years of non-rev travel on my passes still calls me to say, “The stews were so nice.”

Thanks, Mom.

But I can use the term myself because MDB doesn’t listen to me any more and in fact, with Flight Attendants you could say anything you want on the aircraft P.A. and they’ll NEVER KNOW. Seriously–the P.A. is a frequency that they can’t hear–kind of like a reverse dog hearing–so I could announce “I slept with your sister!” on the P.A. and she would simply ask, “what time are we landing?” Because she didn’t hear that P.A. either. But I digress.

Let’s just cut to the chase: here’s what you really want to know. In fact, let’s just go over important facts you NEED to know if you’re going to deal with flight attendants (of course you are, in flight), or date a flight attendant (you THINK you are, but that’s in YOUR dream, not theirs and they don’t get much sleep these days anyway), or maybe even you want to BE one (What, you’re finally off suicide watch, now this? Break the Prozac in half). Anyway, learn THIS:

1. Flight attendants will kick your ass. Seriously, they can and they will if they have to–and trust me, I’ll explain later–you want them to.

Okay, Carolyn's actually one of my Facebook friends and she's very nice. Mostly.

I’m not kidding. If you piss them off, you will pay. It might be be something simple like overfilling your coffee cup purposely so you’ll have to spill it (that was one of MDB’s specialties) or even the patented Flight Attendant “eff you” that is given so subtly and sweetly that you don’t even realize till the cart and flight attendant are three rows back before you think it through and realize, “Hmmmm . . . I think I just got told to go eff myself.”

Not that you don’t deserve it: they’ve asked one hundred people before you the same simple question–“What would you like to drink?” And they’ve answered the what do you have question at least as many times, plus they made a P.A. giving you the answers ahead of time. So, when you in row 32 ask again anyway, they have a soothing, pleasant proximate answer that after a few minutes your brain finally deciphers correctly as, you stupid idiot, YOU SHALL HAVE NOTHING. To which I would add, “you douchebag” but Flight Attendants are more skilled and less vulgar than I am. Bottom line: don’t be an idiot.

2. Flight attendants will share their ass–and they are crafty. We’re all crammed into a long, sealed tube, right?

Let’s face it–you’re in a sardine can for hours on end. In the cockpit, I actually have separate zone-controlled (by me) air conditioning and recirculation. Yes, it is good to be captain. And sure, you have some weird ideas about what goes on beyond that cockpit door, don’t you?

Suffice it to say that we pilots get “the royal treatment.” Now let’s move on.

Back to the long metal tube you’re paying a few bucks to be trapped in rather than face the freeway for days on end getting to whatever destination you’ve coughed up your vacation savings for.

The air in the jet is fine, it’s just the people like you who muck it up with your coughing, sneezing and personal exhaust if you know what I mean and I think you do.

Well, the cabin is their workplace, too.  As long as they’re trapped and required to endure assorted emissions from both of your ends (sometimes you’d have to think that the ones from your south end are more tolerable than the “what do you have?” stuff coming out topside), they deserve a chance to defend themselves. And when you travel, especially as much as we do on a flightcrew, diet is at best a catch as catch can thing. That end result is bad, eventually.

Wet cleanup on aisle six.

And the best defense in this case as in most others is a good offense.

Hence, “crop dusting.” That’s the diabolical plan by which they spray front to back on board so that by the time you get smacked in the face

"My god--air, please . . . !

. . . they’re already halfway to the aft galley and out of sight. You all will blame each other, but there was, you should know, a secret plan:

From the Flight Attendant Manual: "Always cropdust front to back."

There’s nothing you can do about this, by the way, except take small breaths. Deal with it.

Finally, here’s the last and probably most important thing you should know:

3. Flight attendants will save your ass. And that’s what they’re on board for–not just to tell you what beverages are available, not to entertain you, but actually to save your ass in the worst possible moment of your life.

Notice who isn’t walking away from this crashed aircraft alive and well? It’s the Flight Attendants who helped them off and are still on board helping others. That’s what they do. And that’s why you want them to be able to do item #1 above: they need to be able to throw your ass down an escape slide if you can get out of a burning passenger cabin yourself.

They can handle the 90 pound emergency exit door or the even heavier cabin doors. They know the route by feel and by heart to the nearest emergency exit in a smoke-filled cabin–and they’ll take you there. They are ready with first aid and CPR and a defibrillator and a fire extinguisher and oxygen and anything else you or I might need in flight. Not what we “want” in flight, although they take care of all they can–but most importantly, what you need to make it off the plane alive in any circumstance.

That’s the challenge they’ve undertaken on your behalf. That’s what they’ve trained to do, what they’re tested on and certified annually and rigorously through drills, classes and study.

They’re not leaving without you, even if they have to haul your ass out of a burning plane themselves. To me, that’s amazing.

This they do for minimal pay over long hours with little time for food or sleep and with complete disregard for time zones or body clock, because that’s just the nature of the job. I’ve never known a more selfless group, and there isn’t a more versatile group of professionals on the planet. They can hang with anyone, talk to anyone, and they’ll save the life of anyone, in the air or on the ground.

Do I have to spell this out for you? You should respect and appreciate the unique and giving individuals who are the flight attendants on your flight. Or in my case, I appreciate the one who is my partner for life. Or there’ll be an ass-whuppin’ in short order for you and me alike.

Got it? Good–remember it. Think about the big three flight attendant truths I just shared with you the next time you fly.

And be sure, if nothing else, that you know what you’d like to drink BEFORE the cart gets to you. When it does, “please” and “thank you” are mandatory–especially to the professionals who can both kick your ass and save it, and who will do both as necessary.

And THAT is the truth about Flight Attendants.

Epilogue:

Actually never met the guy, but you gotta like the way he thinks.

Coming next:

You hear the name, you see the pilot, but who is this person, “the airline captain” in whom you place your trust?

The exclusive, only here. Subscribe.

Sea level to 737 Captain: Back Into The Blue.

NOTE: This is the final entry in a series tracing firsthand what it’s like

for an airline pilot to transition to a new aircraft. Want to start at the beginning? Click here.

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Jitters about the two-part simulator check? With the FAA? Only a fool wouldn’t worry.

But, you learned a long time ago to set that aside. Whether it was before skydiving, or military flying, or even starting a marathon, you’ve always been good about acknowledging fear–then leaving it behind. Because it doesn’t help help going forward, and often that road ahead was full of problems. Worked best with full concentration.

The last hurdles between you and the real jet in the blue sky is the Maneuvers Validation, then the Rating ride. The “Maneuvers Val” as everyone calls it is  a four hour test involving all of the most important performance standards: precision and non-precision (what a pain in the ass) approaches, Category 3 (300 yards visibility) hand flown, single engine and dual; systems failures and how you handle not only malfunctions, but also the crew. You’re the captain remember?

Then the rating ride will be with an evaluator, plus at no additional charge, the FAA Principal Operations Inspector for the 737 fleet at our airline. That will be a two-leg enroute sequence with surprises, technical and mechanical “gotchas.” No problem–you wouldn’t want to be turned loose with a full jet without competence in every facet. Yes, they’ll throw the gauntlet at you, then judge how you handle it.

Doesn’t mean you don’t worry about the one shot deal facing you. Twenty-five years with the airline and never a busted check. But everything only gets more complex and challenging as time goes on–you can’t even imagine how anyone comes off the street into this career field–so there’s no slack even after 17,000 flight hours.

Maneuvers Val: Just one of those days. Slow, careful, methodical–it just came together piece by painstaking piece. Easy start with a min viz take-off. That’s with 300 feet of forward visibility in heavy fog, which requires centerline guidance through the Heads Up Display (HUD) for me to keep on the straight and narrow till liftoff.

CONCENTRATE! You know The Dead Zone between 80 knots and rotate speed at 143. You don’t bite on the wrong abort: you have a split second to decide and correctly announce “continue” despite the angry yellow master caution light glaring through the bottom of the HUD.

Airborne, then a warmup with some navigation intercepts, some holding. That’s just three dimensional thinking and then correct radial layout and execution of point-bearing-distance and intercept. Cake.

First engine fails on a missed approach; carefully, smoothly, just enough rudder; recite the litany (pat your head, rub your stomach) while keeping on course and an climbing vector: “Flaps fifteen–positive rate, gear up; throttle (confirm) close, start lever (confirm) cutoff, fire switch pull and rotate; heading select runway heading . . .” and so it goes.

And so it went: slow, careful, deliberate. You’ve been a captain for over nineteen years–you take it slow and methodical; as your old CRM former fighter pilot bud used to say, “First and always, take a deep breath and say can you believe this son-of-bitch is still flying?”

The Rating ride too: careful, methodical, taking your time–they even try to rush you, but like in real life when that happens, you slow down even more: no one pays you to rush and they’ll hang you for a mistake.

Before you could even think about it, mired in concentration, it was over. Thank god. And thank god for the rock-solid F/O that Bill is.

Then the verdict. In a briefing room cold enough to hang meat, seated across from us, FAA sitting to the side, the evaluator speaks: “This is the good stuff, guys–congratulations, and welcome to the fleet.”

Then there was more paper. Here’s the whole, arm’s length training schedule

heading for the trash. Because the only piece of paper that really matters is in hand:

The ticket: type rated as captain in the Boeing-737-800. The end of hours of study, classes, computer based training, manuals, systems trainers and full motion simulators. All of them, and every bit of the considerable effort it took to thread the needle through yet another aircraft qualification were all to put you on the doorstep of yet another flying opportunity.

That day, the first flight, is best seen in pictures, and here they are.

The day starts early, but somehow you don’t mind. It’s like Christmas morning, and there’s a new jet under the tree. The eyes just pop open.

Check out your new ship. From the terminal? The jetbridge? Heck no–you go downstairs and meet her where she’s waiting patiently, already loaded up with fifteen tons of jet fuel, ready to leap off to the coast.

Couple of these bad boys slung under the wing will be needing about 20,000 pounds of that jet fuel to hurl us across the country.

Nice lines, the wing noticeably higher above the ground with a greater dihedral angle than the old Douglas flat wing. Something for you to keep in mind: if you evacuate the people onto the wing, it’s a long way to the tarmac. And that’s a seven foot tall winglet out there–looks like a toy from the ground, but it’s large and graceful.

You’re seldom out here at this hour of the morning, and that’s by choice–and seniority. But it’s almost like returning to your roots, back to earlier days when you weren’t senior but were glad nonetheless for any flying schedule. When you appreciated how many people wished they had the job of climbing into the cockpit and not just riding, but actually making it happen.

It’s a new day, isn’t it, both literally and figuratively? And there’s nothing like the feeling of anticipation on a ramp with loaded jets like a team of horses ready to break loose and gallop away. You need to saddle up.

There you go: best seat in the house. And humbling, isn’t it? You’re just damn lucky to sit there. Yeah, there were many years of scrambling and sweating for it–many gave up along the way–but no one really deserves the great privilege of the captain’s seat on a cool jet.

But since no one really does–it might as well be you. Just stay humble, and be grateful, and pass that along.You’ll share the flying with more good F/Os along the way.

And she really does hand fly well: stable, a solid wing. That winglet seems to make her ride a little tighter through chop; not sure that’s a good thing, at least for passengers. But you can feel the power in those two CFM-56 engines, feel the stability and lift of that wing climbing out.

And the seat of the pants feeling: it’s all different now. It’s like you were married to the MD-80 for twenty-plus years, but now you’re sleeping with someone else. You knew every move she made in her sleep, her breathing; now it’s all different: the shudder of the wing in chop, the movement of the throttles and the rumble of her pressurization. Cues mean something new, you’re still trying to read her.

Takes time. While, you’re learning, don’t forget to appreciate the view

as seven miles below, dawnlight drenches the canyons of Utah like spilled paint.

Appreciate the fact that half of the First officers on the property have been gagging in the right seat for fifteen to twenty years, waiting to move up to the captain’s ranks. Half of the F/Os at the base are on suicide watch, the other half have lost interest and just come to work because it’s the only job they’re qualified to do–or are paying most of their attention to a side job.

Enjoy that cup of coffee at the top of descent, then go do what you do best. With thankfulness for the good fortune to, as you will next month, every Tuesday fly this shiny new jet to Toronto; spend the night downtown, then on Wednesday, Chicago, then on to Seattle; stay downtown. Then on Thursday afternoon, one leg home.

After the sound and the fury of struggling, striving, learning, surviving, it all comes down once again to this:

Back into the blue.

It’s what you do.

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Coming up next week:

Yeah, this one might get my ass whipped, but the story should be told.

Subscribe! You don’t want to miss this one . . .

From Sea Level to 737 Captain: Judgment Day.

NOTE: This is part of a series that examines firsthand what it’s like for an airline pilot

to transition to a new airliner. Want to start at the beginning? Click here.

____________________________________________________________

Judgment Day: this is what it all leads up to: the FAA rating ride. That is, another aircraft “type” rating–that means that the FAA grants you the privilege of flying a specific aircraft type.

It’s mainly a captain thing. First Officers usually don’t get the Type Rating, although on our 737 fleet they do. Our airline decided that since the 737 fleet flies internationally –including south America and the Caribbean–they’d type all the F/Os to have complete versatility manning both the International and Domestic divisions.

And a rating ride is usually done by a designated airline examiner, meaning an airline pilot Check Airman (you were one yourself on the MD-80 fleet) is designated as the FAA certifying official. But for you? Sorry, it’s not your lucky day.

The Check Airman giving you your “polish work”–endless landings with ever increasing crosswinds, engine failures at lift off–casually mentioned, “By the way, the FAA Principal Operations Inspector will be observing you on your  rating ride.

Say what?!!

Like a rating ride isn’t enough: let’s add the feds, the guy who can revoke your pilot certificate with the stroke of a pen based solely on what he observes in your check.

“But don’t worry,” he added quickly, “he’s a really nice guy.” Yeah, with small fingers, right? And a set of beady little eyes watching everything you do for four hours, judging you. Judgment day.

Your luck is really lousy, isn’t it? You are so screwed.

But you’re getting ahead of yourself. Let’s revisit the last week. Here’s the plan:

Simulator Day 1 through Day 5 are with a simulator instructor: procedures, basic maneuvers, procedural flows. The sim instructor spends about two hours before each sim period going over the complex computer work we’ll doing with the Flight Management Computers (FMCs) in order to effect the performance and navigation we need to accomplish.

And it’s truly Byzantine in the complexity and layering of systems interaction that must be managed while flying the jet at the same time. The FMCs manage both vertical and lateral navigation, but there’s a catch: you have to program it properly and command the correct mode. Not so easy.

The hands-on is better, being something you can understand. And the neighborhood is becoming more familiar, too. You can find the switches and knobs and grouped systems you need to operate the jet.

But it’s one thing to DO the programming, and quite another to call for it while you’re hand flying. Kind of like patting your head and rubbing your stomach. The process is, programming the FMC, commanding change through one of six modes, monitoring the implementation of  the change on the Mode Control Panel lights, verify that with the proper annunciation on the primary flight display then the performance instruments, and then ultimately, the seat of the pants: is that enough power? Pitch? Roll?

Now see how that plays out on the Nav display: are we intercepting the lateral course? Will the wind shift the lead point past a mandatory fly-over  point? And vertically, will we make the assigned crossing restriction at the correct speed?

For you, the answers must be squared away with your cyborg-vision: the trick of the HUD, besides deciphering all of the data, is looking THROUGH it. Meaning, seeing the target through the HUD while gathering the data peripherally, not fixating on the ghostly green  glowing data stream itself.

When you’re rocketing down the runway, near take-off speed you’re traveling at over 200 feet PER SECOND. You cover a football field in the blink of an eye in the nosecone of a seventy ton missile of metal, fuel, bone and blood. You have a nanosecond to decide from the data before you–aural, visual and tactile–not only should we stop, but can we?

So we practice constantly in the simulator. Blasting down a wet runway, you keep the diamond shaped speed bug at 80 knots in your awareness. Any abort after that is only for the big four: fire, failure, fear or shear.

Two of these bad boys slung under the wings put out a combined 54,000 pounds of thrust.

That is, engine fire, engine failure, “fear” or your split second judgment that something has made the jet un-air worthy, or “shear,” which is wind shear. And that’s always the captain’s decision, and he’d better get it right because on the line, no “do overs.” It’s for keeps.

So rolling down the runway, near max abort speed, yellow caution light comes on; “continue” you announce correctly. Another time, at 120 knots, a fire bell. “Abort!” and you grab the controls, yank both engines into full reverse then through the most accurate gage–the seat of your pants–determine if the Autobrake system is handling the deceleration properly. If not–you must.

Actually, face it: every day, every flight, is judgment day. And you’d better be right.

Which is why everything’s accompanied by a specific and often tedious litany, but that’s what it takes to get the complex job done exactly every time. If it was easy, anyone could do it, right? And oh by the way, the FAA will decide if you’re doing it right.

. . . and do all this--perfectly--at over a hundred miles an hour in thick fog.

Anyway, you move on to the final simulator phase, and the Check Airman takes over. You did that job yourself for years on the MD-80 so you know the drill: now we marry up the instruction with real-world scenarios and applications.

Finally getting good, solid line-oriented advice fro a guy with a couple thousand hours in the jet: hold the power in till thirty feet, don’t float, a little opposite rudder and wing low. Ah, flying stuff–now THAT makes sense.

The hours are wearying: two hour brief, four hour sim; sometimes coming out of the box at midnight; sometimes going in at 5:30 am. Still, that’s just like the airline pilot job: some nights a tough approach in Seattle after midnight body time, often it’s a buttcrack of dawn take-off on the east coast.

Now, though, as we near the end of the syllabus, like the runway end rushing up at us, you have to make a judgment: are you ready? Are we as a crew ready? Like every decision you must correctly make in flight, there’s no easy answer.

But like in flight, you make the call. “You guys ready for your check?” he asks on the last training day.

That’s every bit as much a judgment call as you’ll ever make on the end of a runway or at decision height on an approach. No easy answer. Some things still feel rough. Most is okay, with a herculean effort. The First Officer? Solid as a rock, excellent pilot. But we’re both in the “new jet” phase with this beast. And the FAA will be in the front row, on board, second guessing you every step of the way. With the authority to ground you if you fail.

“Yes,” I assure the Check Airman. “Bring it on.”

Judgment Day? Yeah, every single one of ’em is that.  But if it was easy, everyone would do it, right?

Coming up next, the final hurdle: the maneuvers validation check (MV) and the line check (LOE). An eight hour four axis, full-visual simulator examination of everything from single engine approaches to minimum ceiling and visibility to complex navigation.

And the payoff for all of the work . . . the first flight in the real aircraft.

From Sea Level to 737 Captain: The Good, The Bad and The Ugly.

[Note: this is part of a continuing series describing what it’s like to become an airline captain on a brand new jet. Want to start at the beginning? Click here.]

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Midway through the simulator phase and there’s plenty good, some bad and a lot of ugly.

But the latter stuff, that’s just your perspective as a pilot. What the hell do you know?

Overall, it’s good to be handling hardware rather than clicking a mouse and watching animation. But there are rough patches. You can’t find anything. Reflex guides your hands to the wrong place: need a wider Nav display range? That’s not where it is. Looking for a map light? Uh-uh, it’s over there, not here, and it can’t exactly reach anyway.

And the HUD: a thousand bits of information before your eyes. But it’s all displayed in lime green, largely negating the symbol sorting aide provided by colors (red, warning, yellow, caution, green okay, blue, advisory) on all other displays. Plus, what doesn’t fit on the display is converted into a number: the all important radio altimeter hides in among a cash crop of abstract digits rather than as a moving display. But half of what you need to call for is based on its countdown–or up.

Here’s you on the controls: take it easy . . . what is this with the power steering? You’re flying with hamfists and pork brains, or at least that’s how it will feel in the back of the plane.

From the movie Airplane:

Gunderson: “He’s all over the place! Nine hundred feet up to 1300 feet. What an asshole!”

Ever fly a plane before? Well, yeah–the last 19 years on the MD-80 which handles like a pig in both pitch–especially pitch, being a long tube, and with un-powered ailerons. The 737 is a Maseratti by comparison. So you feel like a klutz, wing-rocking down final because it’s so sensitive–and you’re not. Which brings out your inner teacher:

Maddog jocks, you know the drill: put some smash on the jet, aim it at the runway. Cross the  threshold at fifty feet with a plus-five knots (I always did; admit it, you do too) over V-Ref  speed then snatch off all the power. But not in the Boeing.

And you’re your own worst critic. The real teacher? The Simulator Instructor? She’s great; real laid back, very calming demeanor in the briefing and in The Box (which is what we call the simulator). You learn better that way, the way she is: confident, knowledgeable yet very easy-going.

Cleared for the approach, read the fine print.

Still, need a conversion course for MD-80 “steam jet” pilots. But you’re figuring it out: LNAV VNAV is smart box stuff–FMC driven.  Where’s the IAS and vertical speed? Ah, there’s the magic.

But practically speaking, the hours in The Box are beginning to add up. Here’s what week one of the sims reveals:

1. You’ve become lazy as a pilot because there was no challenge to the same old Flintstone (do I really need to spell this out? PREHISTORIC Douglas jet) flight deck for too many years. Time to update and rethink the concepts such as Category III approaches hand-flown to a 50′ decision height (YGTBSM), 600 RVR, vertical navigation, and how twenty-first century technology has changed flying.

Simulator instructor's station. Right behind us; pay no attention to the woman behind the curtain.

2. Boeing has made a stable hand-flying jet. That’s a good wing, a dependable airfoil. Feels substantial both in the flare and on rotation. Not so much lion taming with a whip and a chair like the MD-80. Plus power to spare, on the wing.

3. With the state-of-the art technology comes the challenge of lawyers and liability. Now procedures are driven by what just happened in court regarding some type of aircraft accident.

Anyone can fly like a pilot, but now you need to fly like an attorney. So many new restrictions and procedures that you can tell stem mostly from legal considerations and absolutely not from good flight practices. But that’s just the twenty-first century, right?

Still, so much to absorb, especially in the left seat: you’re going to sign for this jet and everyone on board in about ten days. You have to get this right, not just to pass a check, but for what you know is coming: that dark and stormy night when things start going to “the top of the pyramid:” options narrow, no way out, it’s up to you to out think and outdo whatever nasty situation that will–not might, will–test you in the air sooner or later.

Funny thing: flashback.

Pilot survival, from so many years ago. Back then, a “double-bang:” fly two sorties, back-to-back; formation, aerobatics–you name it. In between, a Coke and a bag of peanuts for you. The Coke had both caffeine and sugar to pep you up. Same deal now, at midpoint in every simulator session, in the Iron Kitchen now, in the Squadron Snack Bar back then, face still showing the outline of an oxygen mask, hair matted from a helmet.

Now, the Iron Kitchen is just an alleyway between simulator building, filled with vending machines and a few tables. It’s the crossroads of airline pilots all somewhere in sim world, whether on the break between sim periods on a check or like you, between training sim sessions. It’s the company of pilots at once lost in their own reverie about their sim check or like you, the right steps into a new jet, shooting the breeze, hangar flying, griping, laughing but regardless, it’s the folks who fly.

Just like back in the Air Force, the peanuts good and salty to put something on your stomach quick, then back to the struggle with an unruly jet that wants to get the better of you.

It didn’t then, and won’t now either. That I promise; I promise me, promise you. Believe it.

Coming next–and in the next installment of this blog: final preparation, the the FAA rating checkride. Stay tuned . . .

From Sea Level to 737 Captain: Drinking From The Firehose.

Note: this is part of a series relating firsthand what it’s like to transition to a new jet as an airline captain. If you’d like to start from the beginning, click here.

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It gets this way eventually in all aircraft ground school:

“In the beginning, there were two molecules. Then Boeing added a hydraulic system, plus five auto-switching electrical distribution buses, and transformer-rectifiers . . . .”

Huh? That’s what we call “drinking from the firehose.”

There’s always a balance in teaching theory in a one-size-fits-all syllabus: some people need to know the “whys,” some just the “whats.” You’re the latter category–just tell me what it does.

Really don’t need the why (“the Force-Fight Monitor closes this solenoid which allows pressure from the standby pump to blah blah blah. . .”) but simply the “what:” if the PACK TRIP light comes on, you can reset it and if the temperature goes down, it will come back on line.

Everyone learns differently. So at this phase of what’s become an information overload, you develop your information filters. Primarily, being practical, the sort criterion “will this be on the three hour systems exam?” organizes your thinking and listening.

Now it’s all about the exams on Friday: the 14 “Immediate Action Items” which have to be regurgitated verbatim–or the whole exam process stops. No references, besides your already overloaded brain.

Then if you get by that hurdle, there’s the 3 hour systems exam: the computer database generates 100 questions from thousands possible and creates a unique exam for you. For this, you can use your Operating Manual (unfortunately, not the systems manual) and Quick Response Handbook, because you’ll have them both in flight anyway.

Then finally, a one hour exam on an active Flight Management Computer: can you manually (the jet does this itself via data link) input the route of flight, nav data and then use it for intercepts, route changes, climbs, descents, restrictions and holding without ending up lost over  Bumfuk, Egypt?

That’s four days from now.

The good news? At least the cockpit is starting to make sense. You can find most of the stuff you need now and the beginnings of familiarity with systems actuation and procedures become stronger every day.

And this is a cool jet. So it’s worth the struggle.

The Flight Academy has every conceivable training gizmo you could think of to help you understand the function of the systems. Here’s the “Star Wars Trainer,” which has animated displays and touch screens, along with animated schematics to show you what’s going on system-wise when you activate components.

The navigation systems work as well, so it’s a completely integrated trainer–probably cost a bazillion dollars–but has room for chairs and books and active schematics to blend the cockpit and classroom.

That’s emblematic of the Flight Academy: all the best equipment, a thorough and advanced syllabus, even the schedule is engineered to account for travel time (Bill’s based in New York and lives in North Carolina) and even food requirements.

What choice did I have? Now I'm addicted--to both the crackers and the Captain's position.

Instruction has been thorough and very good, although it’s probably inevitable that the instructor would start to get in our hair after so many hours. You’ve even considered saying, “Look, I’ll let you use my name in exchange for you not poking or kicking me every time you want my attention.” Guess that’s just the way it goes–only a couple more days of ground school anyway.

So here’s your practical approach now:

1. With Bill, decide if the class stuff applies to The Bigass Exam this week. If not–ignore and study what is. We know as line pilots that trivia doesn’t really help in the air, or on an exam.

2. Take the practice test over and over. Still scoring in the upper 70’s (need 85%), but that’s without the flight manuals we’ll be allowed to consult and it included a few systems we haven’t covered. Looks like we’re on-track to hit the 90’s by the exam day.

3. Max the tome-length “Immediate Action Item” test–and you have been hitting 100% on that.

4. Don’t lose your marbles over the byzantine Flight Management Computer operation. That’s been going smoothly and will continue as long as you don’t over-think it.

A few more systems trainers and simulator sessions but mostly, ground school is all about getting out of ground school: the exams are dead ahead. Let’s get through them and move on.

Coming up next here: after the inquisition, on to full motion simulators. And in two weeks, into the air in the real jet. School’s fine, but get  back in the air where you belong.

From Sea Level to 737 Captain: First Break.

Note: this is part of a series relating what it’s like to transition to a new jet. If you want to start from the beginning, click here.

_________________________________________________________________________________

 

Whew.

That’s the first week of classroom, Computer Based Training (CBT) and simulators. Two days off now.

Katrina, our ground school instructor, recommends we take at least one day of the two and do no airplane stuff. Bill the First Officer (sounds like an official title) is off to Wyoming to visit his girlfriend. Best to take Katrina’s advice and not do any aircraft-related stuff tomorrow.

Looking back, though, on the week:

The CBT stuff is helpful, even if you want to nod off on some of the programs (“this door opens to the left”). The good news is, you can do it at home thanks to the handy CD-Rom with all of the lessons on it.

It’s better to be out of the refrigerator that is The Flight Academy (can’t imagine the utility bill to keep it at 70 degrees). The only problem with that, though, is there are other screens in the house with somewhat more compelling images,

but since Tech seems to have no defense this year, 737 systems are actually more rewarding to view. Then after absorbing the material and taking the practice tests on the CD, back at The Schoolhouse (that’s what pilots have always called The Flight Academy) it’s time for the computer generated practice exam incorporating everything from class and the CBT.

First time on the comprehensive exam, 79%. Today–after being up at the buttcrack of dawn for a simulator session–scored 89%. So the academics are sinking in, and the test points out the weak (emergency equipment location) and strong subjects (engines), which is as it should be: did those programs last month, will brush up.

Some of this is a weird relief: just to be able to ram dump all of the byzantine MD-80 limitation numbers–climb EGT, acceleration, cruise, momentary, starting, after start, on and on.

This jet is just way smart: the solid state engine controls meter fuel flow so it NEVER hits a limitation and what’s more, and even more efficient, the limits are non-linear anyway. It’s not necessary for you to memorize a buttload of abstract numbers–rather, the smart boxes recompute all of the parameters based on the conditions at that time and place.

And it’s talking to our maintenance base constantly through non-stop telemetry. Katrina says you’re likely to get a call from them in flight asking for more data because an engine is reporting a vibration trend. That’s why an on-the-wing failure of these CFM-56 engines is rare.

And like something you’ve recited over and over too many times, the MD-80 numbers have lost their meaning anyway. Recall last month in the MD-80 currency check:

Evaluator: “Okay, Captain, what components are on the right hydraulic system?”

You: “Seriously?” We’re really going to do this?

Evaluator: “Yes.”

You: [in your head: for God’s sake, who cares anyway, if something fails we get out the book] “Everything that’s not on the right system?”

The annual systems knowledge oral recitation.

Evaluator: [eyebrows raised]

You: [in your head: 14,000 hours in the jet and we still have to play twenty questions] “Left nosewheel steering, inboard spoilers, elevator boost.”

Wake up! It’s today, that jet is an ancient memory. New stuff to learn, to remember, to find:

While you were bunkered in the MD-80 for twenty plus years, the airline jet manufacturers moved waaaaay ahead. That’s where the 737-800 stands out as cosmic:

 

A HUD is worth a thousand crosschecks.

 

You’re now captain cyborg, with your vision tunneled through a dynamic stream of data. Almost too much.

I’m thinking the ultimate technique would be to absorb as much performance and navigation information peripherally while still being primarily focused on the actual view through the data. That will take some practice, but that’s why we’re here at oh-dark-thirty in the simulator, right?

So here’s your day at the flight academy: review with instructor the systems you studied the day before, working through the CBT on your own. Then two hours in the simulator, trying to work through the various checklists for each phase of flight.

That’s awkward now, which is to be expected. It’s vital, as you well know, to actually and thoroughly focus on the checklist item itself. Now there’s a huge expenditure of energy and focus just to find stuff. The systems are laid out logically, which might be what’s confusing after so many years of the Maddog. Because it seems like the Douglas designers simply crammed indicators and alerts for EVERYTHING into that cockpit every which way and slammed the door.

Not much smarts involved: the MD-80 simply displays everything at once and lets you sort it out. The 737-800 brain inhibits info you don’t need, then organizes what you do need and offers it to you in a manageable format in a logical collection.

Weird, huh?

Meanwhile, more butt-in-seat time will bring together the location and function of the systems. The cumulative knowledge testing reflects that the big deal systems are sinking in (engines, fire detection/protection, electrical systems, APU) which means they all probably will in time.

And the big buggaboo, navigation systems–the most advanced stuff–seems to be no problem. It never has been a problem although it really should be, so count your blessing–somehow it just makes sense.

Two days off, then hit it even harder. Hope to have an update for you in a few days with higher test scores and maybe even the first inkling of feeling comfortable with the systems and procedures.

Meanwhile, like Bill, take some time to enjoy your girlfriend (below), too. She’s been patient, but don’t push your luck.

Back to the Future: From the Ground Up.

Have to warn you: this could be boring.

Because you’re on another journey: forward, which in a way is backward, too.

Been sitting here for twenty-ish years. Thousands–fourteen thousand plus change, actually–of hours of pilot time in this jet. You know where everything is by feel. Could do most functions with your eyes shut. Thousands of approaches and landing and take-offs and cruising.

All that ended Friday.

Buh-BYE, MacDonnell-Douglas, hello Boeing. Nice the way Boeing incorporated the Mac-Doug logo after eating the company whole, don’t you think?

But to get there, to move to the 737-800 captain position from the MD-80 captain’s seat: transition training. And there’s the time machine.

When did you do that last? 1994, for a brief stint on the F-100. And that school, that airplane, was a cake walk.

Back in those days, well, back “then,” new aircraft, new systems and procedures–just a fact of life. Flight engineer school, then  First Officer training, then widebody DC-10 First Officer upgrade, then MD-80 captain, then F-100 Captain and then requal back as MD-80 captain all in the span of 6 years.

That was just the way of the world: just do whatever it takes to fly the latest jet.

And before those days, an even faster whirlwind of flight.

Just a kid, twenty-something with a comparative (at least to today) handful of flight hours blasting around with my hair on fire. It was all just good fun and the training part? Just something you had to do–a nuisance, really–to get to go fly. That was fun, despite the responsibility of study and learning and proficiency.

It was all about the rush of flying, the freedom from the mundane office world, a desk and god forbid, a boss breathing down your throat. In the air, it was all pure exhilaration, freedom, power, and what the hell was I thinking, below, being barely 21 and flying solo with about 8 hours total, with a camera in one hand?

 

What the HELL was I thinking?

 

Back in those days, ironically, the buzz phrase was “fly safe.” Not sure we really did, but we said that a lot. Now, it’s a more appropriate “fly smart” in my mind, because that’s safest, really.

No doubt this place on the verge of more flight school and newer, bigger, faster jets is now as it was then a bit of luck: you’re just some guy, nothing special, who’s been lucky enough to be put in the right place, this place, where once again the top of the line jets and equipment at a major airline are there waiting for you to start.

There’s the link with the past: I still marvel at the opportunity, the good fortune, to have another jet waiting, to have a spot on the roster of airline captains flying it, to have a training slot and instructors ready to help me through all the steps and hurdles between now and forty-thousand feet.

And there, too is the connection with the mundane: studying manuals, learning procedures, memorizing technical limits and emergency procedures. Cockpit drills, procedural trainers, simulators, classrooms, evaluations.

I used to do all that as a matter of course?

Of course.

And here we are again. You wanted to stay out of an office, away from a desk, right? Been free of that scourge since college, and that was a different kind of desk. You’ve never had an office or a desk, really.

So here’s the alternative. Starting tomorrow, this blog will go through Boeing 737-800 school from Day One to first flight.

Might be boring. Might not even be able to make a blog of it. But, the connection of past and present, the reentering the past way of life–climbing over hurdles and obstacles–to get back into the air in an even more exciting way.

How’s that going to be, devouring new technical data, mastering maneuvers in a new jet, in full-motion, stage-3 simulators? Out with the old hand-flying feel, in with the new: airfoil’s different, controls all hydraulically boosted, no doubt a Boeing’s going to fly different. State of the art navigation (thank God, at last) to learn, new operating philosophies.

Can you master everything required to be certified as captain in flight with 150+ bods-on-board, never mind the $50 million dollar jet and the responsibility for both? In a few weeks?

That’s going to be past plus future, at least for the present. Interested?

It all starts again tomorrow. Let’s go.

Waltz in Blue: Last Dance with the Old Girl.

She was my first. And it’s true: in flying, like many other areas of life, you always remember your first.

It was a long time ago when we were both a lot younger, newer to the airlines. I’d read about her even before that, though. She was the sleek new model–long lines, long legs.

I looked down on her at first, at least from where I was, flying the DC-10. There was no mistaking her distinctive tail and shark-like profile.

I sat sideways on the DC-10, The Plumber, for a little more than a year and I saw her around–knew someday we’d get together. I wouldn’t be a flight engineer forever, and she was the “first date” for a new First Officer.

That’s the first “first” I shared with her: my first flight as a First Officer. For me, that was a long awaited milestone. By then, I’d been flying jets for nine years, seven of them in the Air Force.

But finally, after a couple years flying sideways as flight engineer, and six weeks of transition training, hours upon hours in full motion simulators, this was the baptism of fire: take-off with a full boat–130 plus crew–fly to Long Beach, land.

What a view, finally, from a front seat! All the way across the country, thinking about that landing in Long Beach. First time for me in a Super-80, and with a full boat. We worked it out; she made me look good, touching down firmly but in Long Beach, with a fairly short runway, that was the right thing to do.

And that, as I said at the time, was a dream come true. We did a lot of miles together, saw most of the country and a lot of Mexico, too. Good times, some of them on days I’d rather have been at home. But we hung out together on more than one Christmas, many holidays, even a birthday or two over the years.

Thanks, Marsha!

All told, I guess I accumulated a couple thousand hours in that right seat. Learned a lot about “big picture” airline life on my own, but most of the important flying lessons, like how to land on a slick runway, in near zero visibility, how to pick through a line of storms, wrestling with crosswinds and treacherous icing and a thousand little ‘gotchas” I learned hand in hand with the 80.

Then a couple years off to fly the big brother–the DC-10–all over the globe. But I took with me the early lessons I learned on the smaller, thinner “Long Beach Sewer Pipe” and put them to work on a grand scale on the wide body jet where often, I was glad I’d figured out how to accomplish the mission on the 80 first.

Which brings me to the second first: the Big Kahuna.

Captain’s wings. I can see plain as day still my first landing in the left seat at Raleigh-Durham, thinking similar thoughts from the first “first” in Long Beach years before, landing the MD-80 for the first time: that was a dream come true, too.

Now that’s where 19 more years have passed. Day, night, good weather and bad–you name it. The airline records show over 11,000 captain hours in this one spot.

And actually, the other seat, too, wearing yet another set of wings:

Instructor and evaluator. Helping others make their airline pilot dreams come true and as importantly, keeping the dream alive by ensuring the quality of of training in jets and sims for a couple years.

We’ve seen a lot of miles together in the air. Carried thousands of passengers safely over the years. And we’ve crossed the country enough times to span the distance to the moon, enjoying  the view most of the way.

Which brings us to the present. And more significantly, this week.

It’s the Last Dance with the MD-80 for me. It’s been a good twenty-plus years and many thousands of hours in the air.

But . . .

There’s a new girl in town. In fact, we get a new one every month, and that rate is actually going to pick up in the new year.

She’s state-of-the-art, more powerful, lifts more and cruises both higher and faster. She’s actually replacing the faithful old MD-80 which one by one, month by month and actually two by two, heads to the desert to park for good.

So this week, instead of another first, it’s going to be our last. Three more days and maybe another few thousand miles together.

Then when I put you on the deck this week, it’ll be for the last time. That’s going to be a little sad in many ways, but that’s the way it goes, right? People want to fly on newer jets and even beyond the fact that I can’t blame ’em is the reality that I do too.

In fact, I’ve already started learning the 737-800 systems, although my formal classes start in mid-month. Lots of new numbers, systems and procedures to learn.

And the new Boeing will be just a transition relationship for me. In a couple years, I’ll throw her over for the 777.

That’s the way it goes. Will always have a soft spot for the old girl; she was always faithful and a great dance partner. It’s going to be hard to park her for the last time Friday, but whenever we pass in the sky–and I know we will–we’ll share a good thought, a good memory just the same.

Ryanair: An Empty Head, Two Heads, and a Pay Head.

Single-pilot airliners make financial sense, according to Ryanair CEO Michael O’Leary, and that point I can’t argue.

Ryanair CEO Michael O'Lerary

But what I can and do argue is that any airline run by a CEO who makes operational decisions based primarily on cash value–and O’Leary is the airline guy who introduced the concept of the pay toilet to the airline world–is an airline I’d never fly on, much less let my family travel on.

It would be like consigning yourself to an operating room whose surgical procedures were based on cash value to the hospital. Under anesthesia, hope for the best and by the way, did you pre-pay the resuscitation and de-fibrillation fees?

More important though is how fundamentally ignorant O’Leary is regarding the very product he sells. Let’s start at the beginning.

There have been many high-tech single pilot aircraft flying successfully for years. But the difference is, there was only one life at stake and a guaranteed escape plan if the airplane became un-flyable:

That escape option doesn’t exist on an passenger jet. But that’s not the only reason why two pilots are necessary for safe airline flight.

The basic philosophy of the airline operation is that layers of redundancy safeguard the thousands of passengers who take flight each day. It’s not simply a case that two or three pilots can divide the workload, which is true.

What’s more important is that it takes more than one pilot to divide the task of safe flight into the components that require simultaneous undivided attention in the critical phases of flight during which the aircraft and everyone on board are most vulnerable.

And that’s just in normal operation. The division becomes even more critical during an abnormal or emergency situation. Here are two prime examples.

We routinely take off from airports with tiny runways designed for the smaller propeller aircraft of the fifties and sixties. Jets, particularly when they’re heavy, require miles of runway to accelerate to take-off speed. Even more critical than that is the additional runway required to achieve flying speed if an engine fails.

Which adds another constraint: stopping in case there’s not enough runway to continue to take-off speed after an engine failure. That, on a short runway like in LaGuardia, Washington National, Burbank, Chicago-Midway and San Diego to name but a few, makes an instantaneous decision to abort a life and death question: do you have enough speed and runway to continue into the air? Do you have enough runway and not too much speed to stop?

Add to the stopping situation the wild card: is whatever failure for which you’re aborting going to affect your ability to stop? That is, with an electrical, hydraulic, landing gear or a few other potential failures–you can’t and won’t stop on the runway.

How does one person sort all of the variables of speed, runway length remaining, malfunctions and stopping capability and make the correct split second decision to stop or go?

The answer is, one pilot doesn’t.

Despite O’Leary’s theory that one pilot does most of the flying–and maybe it’s true–two pilots are needed for the big decisions like the above and many other split second decisions that have to be made in the critical landing  phase, here’s the secret: divide.

The take-off situation I just described is what we call a balanced field. That is, there’s exactly enough runway to allow for an engine failure, then a continued take-off on one engine or a safe stop on the runway. This is not just a short runway contingency either–the miles long runways at both Denver and Mexico City are often barely long enough in the summer heat due to their mile-high altitude.

Either way, the safe stop depends upon all of the stopping systems–spoilers, brakes, hydraulics, electrics–all working. You have a split second to decide. And in all of the above locations, there is no overrun. You’re going off the airport at high speed, loaded with fuel.

When I take-off from a balanced field, I divide the focus and tasking this way: the first officer will make the take-off. He is the “go” guy, meaning if I don’t take over and abort, we’re flying. He has but one task, no matter what, one engine or two, malfunctions or not: fly.

I, on the other hand, am the “stop” guy. I’m only looking for the Big Four as we call them: engine failure, engine fire, windshear, structural failure. I’m looking for those and only those–not both malfunctions and take-off performance. Because my righthand man is zeroed in on that.

We both then have individual, singular focus on the critical items in two opposing but now separate dynamic realms. It’s simple. It’s smooth, it’s reliable.

And it’s not possible with a single pilot.

Same theory of separation is vital on low visibility, bad weather landings, only this time the roles are reversed: I’m flying and looking outside for critical landing references, the First Officer’s entire focus is inside on the instruments, looking for any anomaly that would require a discontinued approach.

The O’Leary method, apparently, is to simply roll it all into one and save a few bucks per plane on pilot salaries. Never mind split second decisions, separation of critical duties and focus and ultimately, your safety.

Which might result in a few bucks of savings on your Ryanair ticket. But be prepared to give it back to them in flight eventually anyway.

That is, if you can muster the courage to fly on an airline whose CEO sees everything in terms of dollars and cents–but has little common sense himself.