Airline Fees: Just The Tip of the Iceberg.

With the summer travel season upon us now, you can hardly watch more than thirty minutes of any newscast without some mention of airline fees which, according to every source pandering to public perception, are skyrocketing and unfair.

I’m all in favor of fairness. So, if this problem of added fees is to be eliminated for the sake of the consumer, it needs to be eliminated across the board. Because airline fees are just the tip of the iceberg.

First, and perhaps most egregiously, we need to eliminate the outrageous gouging the average consumer must bear every time a restaurant feels like charging for “extras.” To do that, everything on the menu should be included in one price. This business of charging a fee for an “appetizer,” a “dessert”–it’s nothing more than a money grab. Coffee, too–all beverages, really–should be included without an extra charge. When you order a meal, just like buying an airline ticket, everything the business has should all be included in the price. In the food service industry, that must include the bar as well: just like the ideal check-in at the airport, you should be able to tell the bartender (and of course, the business owner) “one, please.” Whether that “one” is beer, wine, liquor, a milk shake or iced tea–that must be one un-itemized or variable price, which probably needs to be set by the government to be fair.

Same goes for the auto industry: when you go into any auto dealership, every option available on all models should be included in the price. Basically, like an “airline flight,” there should be the specification “vehicle” designating that any option (or all options, at the consumer’s discretion) must be included in the sale price. This blatant price gouging involved in up-charging for “leather interior” makes as much sense as a restauranteur charging for “dessert” or an airline charging for “baggage” and clearly, the whole trend needs to be stopped.

And musicians have been getting away with this scam for too long. The business of selling songs via iTunes or other piecemeal on-line media is yet another abuse of the consumer: if you buy the Aerosmith song “Walk This Way,” you should be awarded the entire “Toys In The Attic” album, period.

Finally–and this really hits home–there’s the housing industry. When a consumer contracts with a builder, there should simply be one commodity, “a house,” like an “airline trip,” a “restaurant meal,” and a “vehicle,” with one set price including all possible options. The traditional builder “amenities package” which includes various prices for different components, materials, appliances and fixtures runs exactly counter to the basic consumer right (certainly, “passenger rights”) to have a product produced at an all-inclusive, fixed price, announced up front and encompassing every possible choice a builder could offer.

Which brings up another relevant analogy: everyone loves to decry the high price of medical care and often, doctors fees which ultimately is a thinly veiled resentment over how much doctors make.

That consumer right, however, seems to get short shrift in the emergency room or god forbid, on the operating table. There’s no one complaining about price to their anesthesiologist or their surgeon, never mind the hospital providing and charging item-by-item for the services required to provide medical care.

Clearly, the problem of “fees” is a universal plague that extends far beyond simply the airline industry. But kind of like the emergency room mindset, I seldom hear griping in flight about prices or fees when the weather is down to minimums, the winds close to limits, or the jet experiencing some type of mechanical problem.

Regardless, if one industry–in urban myth, the airline industry–is getting out of line with other commercial enterprises, maybe in fairness there should be some pricing regulation. But until the other ninety-nine percent of the for-profit industries join the one-price-fits all fairy tale espoused by those in the media, the government and ultimately, the public–we’ll just have to deal with the reality of product, price and choice that has defined free enterprise since the concept was first introduced in this country centuries ago.

Now, go to your favorite restaurant and tell them how unfair the menu is. Be sure to insist on their finest champagne to toast the deal, and it better be included in the single “meal” price. After all, that’s fair, isn’t it?

“Living the Dream:” Cathay Pacific 747 Pilot Jeremy Giguere, Live from Hong Kong.

Summer Air Travel Disaster: “We” Collides with “Me”

Getting onto the jet about twenty minutes prior to pushback, I encounter an all-to-familiar scene: standing in the doorway to the cockpit is a man with a bag and a hopeful look on his face, flanked by two flight attendants giving me we tried to tell him looks.

“In this bag,” he tells me, pointing to his roll-aboard that’s about half again as large as the normal size limit, “I have $30,000 worth of fragile instruments. The suitcase is too large to fit in the overhead bin,” he continues, “so why can’t I just put it into the forward coat closet here?”

This is where his “me” collides with our “we:” I sure empathize with him regarding whatever he had in his bag. He’s thinking, in his mind, out of “me:” I have this stuff, I know what it is, I know it’s beyond the permitted size . . . me, me, and me.

That runs headlong into “we:” we are not permitted by the FAA to put anything other than crew bags in that closet ($5,000 fine for the forward flight attendant), we have a full flight, including five flight attendants whose bags already take up the allotted space for them in that closet. We already explained to you the carry-on size limits, and we have already heard what you’re going to ask next.

“Well,” he continues, after I politely point out that the closet is full of crew bags for the working crew plus a jumpseater, “Many times before they’ve let me put this behind the pilot’s seat up in the cockpit.”

I almost get nostalgic thinking back to the air travel days prior to 9-11, compared today’s world of underpants bombers, Air Marshals, pilots armed with 9mm handguns and bad people in far away countries relentlessly plotting to exploit our air travel system as a weapon of terror. That’s what we have to deal with, and we have had to change our way of thinking: there won’t be anything someone brings aboard that we’ll stow in the cockpit.

Because we as flying crewmembers have been mandated–and willingly adopt–a “group-think” that looks for threats in everything. Because we fly between 140 and 200 days a year and because we’ve been charged with stewardship of our air travel system and its security, never mind our own determination to see our families after our trip. And when you’re on board, you too are part of the “we” with everything at stake.

I take the easy way out. “We have a jumpseater in the cockpit today,” I tell him, “Sorry, but there’s no room for extra baggage.” For god’s sake, we’re not even allowed to carry critical parcels like organs for transplant any more in the cockpit–because you really don’t know what’s inside unless you open it–which we ain’t, and the flight deck is no place for surprises, period. I hate that, because I think of the organ transplant people involved at both ends of such a flight–but I never forget those on board nonetheless.

This goes beyond the obvious hassle for the other 159 passengers on board, many of whom are stuck on the jet bridge as boarding halts to deal with him. This goes beyond his disregard for those folks, their downline connections that depend on our prompt departures, and even beyond his claim to special storage space which, if a flight attendant bag was placed in the overhead bin, would deny another passenger space for his bag.

There’s more going on than that–which ought to be enough for any considerate passenger to avoid. Sure, Mr. “Critical Instruments” is only thinking out of his own world of “me,” putting us in the position of being in his “me-world,” the bad guys. But what he really needs to do is join the group-think that encircles his “me-world:” realize that the constraints apply to all, and that they are an inflexible necessity in this post-9/11 world. Join the “we” and make the trip smoother: we don’t expect to slip outside of the rules, we don’t expect to bend them, we don’t expect to be exempt.

I have to prove myself, despite my identification as the captain in command of the flight, by going through security screening like everyone else. You bet it’s a pain in my ass–god forbid if I were to actually access the cockpit–but I also embrace it: that’s the “we” that transcends the “me” for the betterment of all. Flight crew know this, so we do our part.

Yet honestly, sometimes we fail. I had an agent walk a passenger down the jetbridge before boarding in one of our smaller stations. The agent carried a briefcase-sized bag that was wrapped once or twice in cargo tape. “This man is a professional chef,” the agent informed me. “He requires this full set of chef’s knives to perform his duties, so I’ve sealed this case and he’s agreed to leave it in the overhead bin for the entire flight.”

Sigh. No, there will not be a full set of butcher knives and meat cleavers in the cabin–even wrapped in a few swipes of duct tape. When I put it that way, the agent returned to his senses, and rather sheepishly offered the normal procedure: “We can ship it as cargo, but not in the cabin.”

The fact that in 2012 we still have to have these conversations is troubling. Are we already forgetting the basic, albeit annoying sacrifices we must individually make in order to thwart those relentless dark forces looking for new ways to terrorize our nation through spectacular feats of evil?

Are we just going through the motions, but reserving exceptions in our own minds for ourselves, forgetting about the broad-based group-think that really only works if we forgo me for the best interest of all?

I sure hope not. But if we’ve already forgotten the hard lessons for which we’ve paid dearly in the recent past, if we’ve already through laziness or selfishness let down our guard, besides the fact that the bad guys win by default, one thing I can promise you is this: it’s going to be a long, hot, painful summer.

What I wouldn’t give to be proven wrong.

The gravity of jet flight.

Ever since the first time I flew in formation with another jet, the most stunning realization of flight remains the very un-worldliness of tons of jet-propelled metal suspended in mid air.

It’s never so evident as when you’re eyeball-to-eyeball with another jet, but still you know in the back of your mind as the earth falls away yet again that the miracle of suspended gravity is underway just the same.

I never forget all the moving pieces we depend on or immutable laws we’re bending by leaving the ground behind, and that’s as it should be–that’s what I get paid for. Still, it’s almost a shame that we’ve made that part largely invisible to those who pay us to work the magic.

That’s the part I like best, the planning, the clearance, then the execution of the bazillion orderly steps from sign-in at the airport to the final (at last!) closing of the cabin door and the removal of that jetbridge shadow from my side window. We’re free to fly.

Sure, that magical moment is hard to reach. Yes, getting there is a hassle: I have to navigate between every-nine-months recurring scrutiny of testing, oral, written and simulator evaluations with my license on the line every single time.

That’s in addition to the no-notice evaluations in the cockpit by the FAA and company evaluators and the harsh reality of the old USAF flight training mantra, “You’re always only two rides from the door,” meaning if you fail two checkrides, you’re wings are gone–and that remains true today in the airline biz: at any time, the FAA can invoke their right to evaluate you in the simulator and the aircraft, and your license is on the line. You are always just two rides from the door, and that’s the end of your career, as many have found out, in a matter of an hour or two.

Plus there’s the hassle of random drug and alcohol testing at the end of a trip (going home after a twelve hour day? Not so fast . . .) and the bi-annual FAA flight physical with an EKG data-linked to FAA Headquarters for unmediated scrutiny and a thumbs-up, thumbs-down decision made each time in an office hundreds of miles away.

And for those pilots on the lower end of the seniority list, due to the brutal economics of the airline business, there’s the ever-present (and often witnessed) displacement: you get notified that you’re no longer in your aircraft category or crew position–you’re demoted or worse, now based a thousand miles from your home. See to it that you get to work on time. That just happened to about 350 pilots in San Francisco as that pilot base was eliminated.

Once all that’s behind you, liftoff equals pure freedom–restricted of course by the layers of regulations, details, navigation, instrument approaches and performance variables of fuel, altitude, airspeed and weather.

But I wouldn’t trade this:

For any other work on the surface of the planet, period.

And I realize that there are different hassles in the back, way different from the career-ending obstacles we face up front. Nonetheless, I still see by comparison an element of nuisance rather than real threat, and it’s mated to a dismal outlook unwarranted pessimism (do you not have any views from the cabin?) which is rooted mostly in the Dental Theory: everyone loves a horror story about a dentist’s office visit, and no one wants to hear anything else.

Did you watch that? He’s right: flight is a miracle–but everyone’s pissed off about something nonetheless. You’re sitting in a chair in the sky going 500 miles per hour . . .

Sure, I know: air travel ain’t what it used to be. But air travelers aren’t either:

I’m fortunate that this particular harsh fact of air travel is mostly “in the back,” as up front the unrelenting economic and professional pressures we bear are set aside as they must be in order to concentrate on keeping the miracle of flight going despite the best efforts of gravity and physical laws dictating the impossibility of what we’re all doing at 41,000 feet. I’m not sure why that doesn’t happen in the back of the plane as well, but the cocktail party stories are about the worst, rather than the best experiences in the air.

Nonetheless, there’s still always this:

Utah in the fiery throes of dusk, if you care to look out and down six or seven miles. And even if you don’t, there’s always this:

Which is you stepping off the jet a couple hours and a thousand miles later–and that wasn’t ever going to happen by surface transportation, was it? Not in the time you had to do it, or with hotels and gas, in any less of a cash hit.

Sure, we both have to pay some dues to let the earth fall away and revel in the suspense of gravity and the shrinking of earthly life in both distance and perspective, don’t we? But how much of the good and the bad along the way is a matter of focus, yours and mine ?

That’s the difference between magic and mundane, and in the inevitably bumpy mileage above and below the clouds, the view depends on where you look, and if you even notice what there is to see.

What was it like to fly at 80,000 feet and 2,000 miles per hour?

We go one-on-one with SR-71 driver Bill Flanagan.

Be there.

So Where Are You Now?

It’s always the same: long, snakey boarding line, tall, short, fat, thin; tickets in hand, bags slung over shoulders and arms, dragged, carried; shuffle aboard. All going somewhere, and “there” is what matters, to you–I understand that. Why else would you be flying?

For you, here is no more than partway “there,” and I understand that too. I’m up front, plotting your escape, ensuring the hundreds of details so you don’t have to worry about the thousands of pounds of fuel and steel you’re going to ride in the sky like a broad winged condor rather than creep across the surface of the earth like ant. The litany of escape that is the pre-departure checklist: verify those waypoints loaded in the flight guidance system; the fuel burn, the departure sequence, speeds, climb, GPS departure track, enroute fuel burn, winds aloft–everything I need to have settled in my mind and cast in stone before I commit us all to flight.

But that doesn’t mean I don’t remember you–in fact, I do, and I wonder where you are now, after I left you with both feet on the ground whatever thousands of miles forever ago. Sure, there are many I remember, and some I can’t forget.

You were down in Houston. With your mother, for months. The Shriner’s burn ward. You couldn’t have been more than ten years old, a full body wrap, burned over most of your body, but finally well enough to travel, to go home and resume the life of a fourth grade girl somewhere in the midwest. I felt for you because I knew you were in such pain, the body wrap making you hot on top of third degree burns, as the agent told me; maybe not well enough for this trip but needing to go home, and pain medication wearing off.

Then the delays–thunderstorms; sorry, honey, it’s not safe for us to take off yet. I watched the radar, waiting for the storm to march by and I felt for you, way in back–I can see the cabin temp climbing there in the July sun roasting our aluminum tube bogged down on the Houston ramp. I cock the jet sideways so as not to blow any smaller aircraft off the tarmac, then push up the right throttle–we’ll deal with the fuel imbalance later–adding bleed air to force the max cooling out of the cabin air conditioning, never mind ours up front. The First Officer gave me an “are you nuts” look, and I shot one back that said don’t say one word. You needed that air; you get it.

I want to know that now, years later, you’re healed, you’re well, you’re not in pain, you’re flying comfortably to a bright future. Where are you now?

And you were the young man with the panic in his eyes, standing in the forward entry door with his fiance giving him a look that could bend a spoon. The agent was on her cell phone, calling the hotel van driver who’d brought them to the airport. No luck. The groom had left his wedding suit on the van which was now heading to another city.

You don’t have time to get back through security if he brings it to the curb she tells him, in her mind’s eye watching the dream wedding somewhere in Mexico crumbling into chaos. He’s like a deer in headlights, letting her down instead of making her dreams come true.

“I can go get it,” I assure them, “If you can get the van driver to turn around.” Even if I really can’t get back though security by departure time, the jet’s not leaving without me. But no dice: the hotel can’t reach the van driver. No wedding suit.

The agent and I exchange glances, both stifling a smile: they’ll get it, eventually. Golden plans, platinum dreams, bronze reality but forging a future of hearty, burnished metal that will weld them strongly nonetheless. Got to close the door now; it’s time to go.

And you were the elderly man wearing his natty suit, in the wheel chair. Cane in hand, eyes looking miles and miles away. Leaving Florida and most of his life too: his wife was down below, in the cargo hold. He was taking her home, one last time. The agents fussed over him, keeping him close. But there was really nothing to be done besides just plain old caring, seeing in him the path of loss and leaving. He seemed calm; sad, distant, but some peace from somewhere, wherever his distant eyes focused, somehow sustained him. Because he knew.

He knew that like him, we were all headed west to where the sun eventually sets. Some at the start of the inevitable trip, not yet even far enough down the road to be able to look back much less laugh about the wedding suit that had to be bought in Cabo to replace the one that drove itself to Tulsa.

Some healing from the cruelty visited out of nowhere, a branding undeserved, a childhood hell unforeseen–but I needed to know, surmounted. Where are you now, all of you? Maybe east of me, and I’m east of the dignified gentlemen late in his journey; the young couple a distance behind but really, not so much.

Maybe that’s what the widower knew that we’d all learn: we’re all headed west. Sooner, later–but west. What matters most is not the journey, but the caring along the way. For a while, when we flew together, I did just that. And wherever you are, you should know: I still do.

We talk one on one with WWII Pilot Bee Haydu, one of a small number

of women pilots serving in the AAF during wartime.

April 8th–don’t miss it!

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Food Porn: Pie in the Sky.

Two flight conditions in the cockpit combine to produce an interesting result: boredom and hunger. The natural remedy is something to eat, which in turn is also something to do. Kills two birds with one stone.

Boredom, however, can extend to the food as well, as many passengers who fly the same routes often begin to notice. Since pilots fly the same flight segments sometimes for the whole month, the same entree does become a little monotonous.

“Tastes just like chicken,” like rattlesnake and alligator, because it is chicken. Not that it’s all bad, because sometimes there are items that you can’t refuse even though you probably should. But again, there’s the aspect of “something to do” that overrides that aspect of caloric discipline. I mean, there flight might be four hours, maybe five. What are we going to do?

I’ll tell you what: you’re going to stuff this into your pie-hole (where else would it go?) and not think twice afterwards. Pie in the sky is not to be questioned but, it is never a given. It kind of shows up here and there, but normally, the longer the flight the better the chance of running across some version.

Now, a side note to all of my flight attendant friends who groan and say, “Ewww, you eat that stuff?” Let me just say, don’t “ewww” me: we see you in the galley stuffing all of it, especially sundaes, into your faces, standing up, of course, and wiping your hands on the galley curtains. If there’s any “eww” factor–you get credit for an equal dose.

Meanwhile, speaking of stuffing face, here’s the rare and exotic flying lemon cream with crumb topping, normally seen on transcons, but it has been spotted enroute to Seattle lately:

There are circumstances, however, when you might want to pass on the full tray and just go for the bookends, appetizer and dessert:

That would be on the occasion where you knew that there was decent food at your next stop, like my all-time favorite in the San Francisco International Terminal: Tyler Florence’s Carry-Out inside Napa Grocery. The best deal going (literally, carry-out) is his side-special:

My three favorite sides are his famous macaroni-and-cheese (you’ve probably seen him make it on Food TV), grilled asparagus, and potato salad. That’s going to get you through a couple thousand air miles with no chance of hunger pangs.

For the quick-turn, there’s nothing better than a quick “Big Dawg” in Santa Ana’s John Wayne Orange County airport:

And speaking of dogs, I never pass up “Good Dog-Bad Dog” in the Portland Airport–no matter what hour of the day. Here’s a breed of dog you might not have ever considered, but it’s perfect, and perfectly portable: the breakfast dog, topped with scrambled eggs and sauteed onions:

Going for a little lighter fare? One of my all-time favorites is Matasuki in the Washington-Reagan Airport in DC, where the shrimp dumplings and miso soup will take the chill off of a day at altitude:

And speaking of noodles, the best on the planet are in Seattle at The Noodle Shop, a small Vietnamese kitchen with huge flavor:

Takes the damp chill off of a Pacific Northwest day in nothing flat.,

And finally, for those big jobs, like from New York to Seattle, there is the Weapon of Mass Destruction, the Hot Pastrami and Provolone Hero from the LaGarbage Employee Deli:

Afterward, you will not be hungry until somewhere over the Dakotas, at the earliest, and that slight hunger pang can be dispatched quickly with something small, like the cherry cheesecake:

Then once you’re safely on the ground in Seattle and finally at the hotel, there’s bound to be room for a bowl of clam chowder across the street at Roasters:

Go ahead, enjoy–you have at least twelve hours off after that long inbound flight. As I said, this is not only about hunger, it’s something to do as well. Never mind nutrition–that’s for a life at sea level. If you’re going to fly, you’re going to have to eat–it’s kind of the tradition in the airline pilot ranks.

Spicy tofu carry-out at O'Hare will set your hair on fire.

Well, there you have it: flying and food, a natural combination. Actually, there’s so much more food strategically located at airports around the country and whether you’re in the cockpit or the cabin, your mission ought to be to stay calorized in flight. Judging by the food offerings at airports coast-to-coast, I can tell you that if you find yourself hungry at 35,000 feet–it’s really your own fault.

Bon Apetit, and may god have mercy on whoever has to sit next to you, cockpit, cabin–or anywhere else.

Your Pet On My Jet

While most veterinarians don’t recommend shipping your pet by air for a lot of good reasons, it can be done safely if you plan carefully and, like you must for your own travel, plan well ahead of time.

When it comes to airlines and pet owners, there are basically two options: fly with your pet in the cabin, or have your pet put aboard in the cargo hold. On this latter option, there’s another choice: pet shippers, professionals who are in the business of shipping pets and will actually come to your door, help prep and consult on (or provide) an adequate shipping container.

But no matter which way you choose to transport your pet, you should know that there are actually regulations covering such transportation by both the United States Department of Agriculture (USDA) and the International Air Transport Association (IATA), and statistics regarding animal mishaps can be found on the Air Travel Consumer Report published monthly by the Department of Transportation (DOT). The DOT also publishes some guidelines for shipping pets that you should review.

Still wanting to fly your pet somewhere? Fine–according to the DOT, over two million pets and other animals are shipped by air annually, so, it can and is done often and successfully.

The best summary of “must-do” items I’ve seen comes from the guidelines for shipping pets linked above. Once you’ve ensured that your animal’s condition, shipping container and travel arrangements meet those basic standards, let’s look at the operational aspect: the airport and the flight.

While some airlines stop shipping animals in the coldest and hottest months of the year, many ship year round. But that should be a warning to you: some airlines believe that the extremes of temperature on the ramp that normally is acceptable for cargo might be too harsh for pets. Can you ship during a more temperate season? Can you change plans if the temperature is extremely hot or cold on your travel day?

Because your pet in a kennel will be subject to hot or cold temps on the airport ramp during both the cargo loading and unloading process, which can easily be up to a half hour each way. The flight line and the ramp are hostile environments: extreme noise (hearing protection required for humans–and many pets have even more sensitive hearing) and harsh temperatures. Now, our cargo guys at American Airlines (and I assume most airlines) really are sensitive to pet shipments, trying to minimize the trauma for the animals. Nonetheless, there’s little that can be done about the extremes of temperature and noise that are the facts of life on the flight line.

So, to minimize ramp exposure, try to book a nonstop flight. That will eliminate a mid-trip necessity for the pet and carrier to be offloaded from one jet and trucked across the flight line to another. In the case of both an origination flight and a connecting flight, a delayed inbound flight can mean a long sit on a cargo vehicle on the ramp–a nonstop flight  eliminates one long round of exposure to heat, cold and noise on the ramp.

And here’s a myth that we can put to rest: no, the cargo compartment is not unpressurized. If it were, everything in your luggage that is even in a mildly liquid state would ooze all over the place at altitude. The cargo compartment is within the pressurized hull of the jet and further, it is also temperature controlled.

But here is a hazard that is below-decks on a modern jet that isn’t in the passenger cabin: fire suppression chemicals. That is, is smoke is detected in any cargo compartment, there is a cargo fire suppression system that discharges “snuff” chemicals–that is, fire retardants that eliminate the oxidants required to support combustion–as well as breathing. Just so you know.

Again, for shipping your pet as cargo, review the DOT guidelines for shipping pets linked above and be aware of the important considerations required on behalf of your pet.

Good dog--in the carrier, not out.

Now, for option two, carrying your pet on board.  Of course, there are government regulations covering that too, and they’re for the benefit of the pets, the pet owners, but as importantly, for those seated around passengers carrying pets. And let’s make an important distinction: pets versus service animals. The latter are covered by a separate set of regulations–which don’t necessarily apply to ordinary pets.

If you’re planning to travel with a pet aboard a jet, know which regulations apply to you–including the limitations–because I can tell you this: the flight crew not only knows what they are, they are charged by the FAA with assuring compliance. Let me highlight some of the more important stipulations here:

• Your pet container must be small enough to fit underneath the seat without blocking any person’s path to the main aisle of the airplane.
• Your pet container must be stowed properly before the last passenger entry door to the airplane is closed in order for the airplane to leave the gate.
• Your pet container must remain properly stowed the entire time the airplane is moving on the airport surface, and for take off and landing.
• You must follow flight attendant instructions regarding the proper stowage of your pet container.

I can’t stress that last point strongly enough, because failure to comply with that last point puts a passenger into the category of non-compliance with the lawful instructions of a crewmember, which is a Federal offense we as flight crew members do not take lightly.

Why do I even bring that up?

Because other passengers on your flight may be sensitive to allergens associated with your pet–and they have rights too, specified by even more government regulations. As a result, each airline will have their own specific rules for passengers carrying pets which might be even more restrictive than the government regulations. For example, Delta Airlines regulations are more restrictive than the government regulations, requiring that your pet remain in the pet carrier for the entire time it is aboard the aircraft. And most airline policies are similar to that.

Why do I even bring that up?

Because many people have allergic reactions provoked by exposure to your pet. For instance, the above pictured happy guy went head to head with Alex van Halen on a recent flight over the aging rocker’s carried-aboard pet. And basically, Al Roker was right: there is no requirement for any other passenger to endure ill effects from another passenger’s pet on board an aircraft.

Why do I even bring that up?

Because inevitably, there are passengers carrying pets that insist on removing the pets from their carriers in flight despite the airline policies and Federal regulations governing the carriage of pets aboard passenger airlines. Don’t do it–for the sake of others, and for your own sake–because there are serious physical liabilities for others on board, and major legal consequences for pet owners who claim an exemption from the rules they agreed to upon boarding the flight. Sure, your pet is the cutest pet on the planet–in your eyes. But when on board an aircraft, yours are not the only eyes involved and regardless of your pet’s loveableness, they and you must comply with all government and airline directives.

So that’s it: you know have the big picture and as importantly, the associated federal regulations governing the carriage of pets on commercial aircraft. Read carefully, plan accordingly and if you do travel with your pet, enjoy your flight.

Coming Wednesday:

He’s amassed over 20,000 pilot hours in the Boeing 707, 727, 737, 757, 767 and 777: we go live

with Boeing Instructor Captain Mark Rubin.

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Airline Flying 101: Anatomy of a Landing.

So, where does the planning for landing actually begin? In cruise? Near the top of descent?

Nope.

It’s first thing in the morning, as soon as the alarm goes off–you’re thinking about the weather at your destination. That’s the deal: you know the jet, you know your own skills, you can count on your First Officer’s skill level–that’s a given at American Airlines–so what’s the wild card? The weather.

Having said that, let’s clarify this: we really don’t care about the weather–we care about the change. That is, the trend: what is progressing, and how fast?

The weather report is a snapshot, too soon to be history. And the forecast is a guess, really no better than your own–if you can detect the trend and the rate of change. Now, it’s true that pre-flight planning is based on both the snapshot and the prediction–but as a pilot, the only thing that really matters is how the weather is changing. Because real life in flight–unlike plans–is all about change, and so is weather: it’s never static.

So we’re pulling up the destination weather at regular intervals, but not to decide what we’re going to do when we get there. Rather, it’s to compare how the weather changes during the enroute time in order to understand what the weather is doing–how it’s changing, therefore how the air mass we’ll need to navigate is actually behaving.

Because it’s not like “the good old days:”

Halfway across the Pacific Ocean, fill ‘er up again against the possibility of bad weather in Korea. Weather data was harder to come by and so there was little or no way to get a string of accurate weather data comparisons in order to plot the changes and the trends.

When hours and thousands of miles later we did get close enough to Japan to pick up weather data for Korea, decision time: bad weather? Glad we have the extra gas. Good weather? Dump the extra USAF issued gas in the Sea of Japan and land in Seoul lightweight.

Those days are long gone.

And in the airline world, we have other things to tend to enroute anyway.

Well yeah, there’s that: dinner, maybe a sundae to deal with too. But more importantly, it’s time to line up the static facts for landing so as to have them firm in your mind in order to play them against the weather change when you’re finally on approach.

First, aircraft weight. You can predict the enroute burn pretty well, add that to the zero fuel weight and you’ve got the basis for your approach speed. Now, determine the worst case landing distance by taking the weight to the correct chart to determine the best case landing distance.

Then, determine the corrections for degrading factors: runway surface (wet, icy) and winds (tailwind and crosswind). Take the runway headings of the likeliest approaches and determine the wind angles and the tailwind penalties for for each. Now, get those azimuth ranges (deviation from centerline) set in your head and the landing distance incremental additive for each (for example, runway 4, the tailwind starts over 130 degrees  or 310 degrees) so two things you need in your head: what’s the distance per knot, and based on the landing distance (worst and best case) what’s the max number of tailwind knots you can take. Ditto the crosswind.

And what’s your plan if any limit gets even close? Got that all in your hip pocket? Good. Tell the other guy.

I hate the word “brief,” which every aviator uses when they really mean “verbal walk through.” But that’s what you do a hundred miles out, a verbal walk through. By then, the field conditions are about what you can expect for landing because you’re about 30 minutes out.

So your verbal walk-through includes the approach procedure, plus the numbers (weights, stopping distances, penalties and runway options) and what you plan to do. Also, it’s good common sense to ask the other guy to do all the calculations separately and compare.

Now you both have the plan in your hip pocket, you both are following the plan rather than making it up as you go, and both confusion and ambiguity are reduced on approach.

Now, just get the small details firmed up in your head: wet runway? Windy? Firm touchdown? Speed additives for various contingencies? Brake settings? Know what you’re going to do–and tell the other guy.

So there you have it. Plot the weather trends in your head from wake-up to final approach. Know the static factors such as gross weight, stopping distance, wind angles and tailwind values plus the incremental corrections, flap settings and approach speeds, then play them against the dynamic factors such as winds, temperature, precipitations, runway length (prepare for a last second runway change!) and surface conditions.

The landing plan is one big, complex balloon animal: you squeeze one part, another part will balloon out. We know the static parts, the limits and just how far we can squeeze in all cases–if we do our work ahead of time. And we always do.

So there you have it. You’re ready for the fun part, landing the jet. Enjoy.

Coming on Wednesday:

What’s it like to ride 4 million pounds of explosives into space?

My one on one interview with astronaut Mike Mullane.

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Why you should NEVER fly into Washington National Airport

There are many, many good reasons why you should NEVER fly into Reagan National Airport in Washington DC. And I’ll tell you why you shouldn’t, and I mean fly–not sit on your butt in the back of the plane. Of course, it goes without saying that if pilots shouldn’t fly there, neither should passengers. And here’s why.

1. The Postage Stamp Effect: like LaGuardia in NYC, the airport was built in the early days of commercial aviation, when the defining factors in aircraft design were slow air speeds, light weights, agile propeller aircraft. Fine.

Maneuvering this thick-winged, lumbering prop job on final was routine at a relative crawl compared to today’s heavier swept wing jets, which need lots of room in the air and on the ground to operate safely. But Washington National is a postage-stamp sized airport from a bygone era, and the serpentine “approach” hasn’t changed:

Look closely at the approach and notice the approach course–145 degrees, right? The runway heading is 194, so do the math: there’s an almost 50 degree heading change on final–and look at where that occurs. It’s at 424 feet above the ground. Which brings up my next point:

2. Extraordinary low-altitude maneuvering: The wingspan of the 737-800 is over 130 feet long, and the jet is normally sinking at a rate of 700 feet per minute on short final. Thirty degrees of bank at 400 feet with seconds to touchdown, with each wingtip dipping up to 50′ in a turn less than 200′ above the ground? And while a 20 degree offset is considered a challenge, the final alignment on such a typical offset approach happens early–but this turn is after the minimum descent altitude, and you get to finalize the crosswind correction at the last second landing on a marginally adequate runway length:

Look at the runway length of the “long” runway: that’s right, 6,800 feet–200′ shorter than LaGuardia’s aircraft carrier deck, and often on final approach, the tower will ask you to sidestep to the 5,200 foot runway instead. So before you even start the approach, you’d better figure and memorize your gross weight and stopping distance corrected for wind and in most cases, you’ll note that the total is within a couple hundred feet of the shorter runway’s length.

Then figure in the winds and the runway condition (wet? look at the numbers: fuggeddabout it) So the answer is usually “unable”–but at least half of the time I hear even full-sized (not just commuter sized) jets accepting the clearance. I accepted the clearance (had a small stopping distance margin and the long runway was closed for repairs) to transition visually to the short runway one night and at 500 feet, that seat-of-the-pants feel that says get the hell out of town took over and I diverted to Dulles instead.

“Do you fell lucky today, punk?”

If that wasn’t hairy enough (get the pun? “hairy,” “Harry?”) from the north, approaching from the south, you’ll also get the hairpin turns induced because they need more spacing to allow a take-off. Either way you get last second close-in maneuvering that would at any other airport induce you to abandon the approach–but that’s just standard at Washington Reagan. And once you’re on the ground, stopping is key because there’s no overrun: you’re in the drink on both ends. Is the runway ever wet when they say it’s dry? Icy when they say “braking action good?”

And with the inherent challenges at the capitol’s flagship airport, you’d expect topnotch navaids, wouldn’t you? Well not only do they not have runway centerline lights or visual approach slope indicators (VASI) from the south, plenty of the equipment that is installed doesn’t work on any given day. Here’s the airport’s automated arrival information for Thursday night:

Just a couple things to add to the experience, right?

So let’s review. If you’re flying into Reagan–and I’ve been doing it all month–to stay out of the headlines and the lagoon, calculate those landing distances conservatively. The airport tries to sell the added advantage of a “porous friction overlay” on the short runway that multiplies the normal coefficient of friction, but accept zero tailwind (and “light and variable” is a tailwind) and if there’s not at least 700 feet to spare–I’m going to Dulles (several deplaning passengers actually cursed at me for diverting) without even considering reentering the Potomac Approach traffic mix for a second try at National.

Think through the last minute alignment maneuver and never mind what the tower says the winds are, go to school on the drift that’s skewing your track over the river and compensate early: better to roll out on final inside the intercept angle (right of course) because from outside (left of course) there’s no safe way to realign because of the excessive offset and low altitude. A rudder kick will drag the nose back to the left inside the offset, but from too far left, you’re screwed.

Once you’ve landed, now you face reason number 3:

3: The northbound departure procedure. Noise abatement in places like Orange County-John Wayne are insanity off of a short runway with steep climb angles and drastic power cuts for noise sensitive areas. But DCA has an even better driving forces: the runway is aimed at the national mall which is strictly prohibited airspace.

Again, no problem in a lumbering prop job–but serious maneuvering is required in a 160,000 pound jet crossing the departure end at nearly 200 mph: the prohibited airspace starts 1.9 miles from the end of the runway. We’re usually configured at a high degree of flaps (5-15 versus the normal 1) so you’re climbing steeply as it is–in order to prevent violating the prohibited airspace, you must maintain the minimum maneuvering speed which means the nose is pitched abnormally high–then you must use maximum bank to turn left 45 degrees at only 400 feet above the ground.

What do you think will happen with the nose high and the left wing low if you take a bird or two in that engine? Are there any waterfowl in the bird sanctuary surrounding the airport? Would the situation be any different with a normal climb angle with wings straight and level?

So what’s the payoff for this complicated, difficult operation?

It’s a nice terminal. Congressmen like their free parking at National. And they’re way too busy to ride the Metro to Dulles, despite the bazillion dollars appropriated to extend the metro line from the Capitol to Dulles, adding another twenty minutes to the airport travel time is too much for our very sensitive congressmen to endure.

I think that’s about it as far as pluses and minuses. Fair trade, considering all the factors?

That’s for you to decide for yourself, but hang on–we’re going anyway. Just don’t chew my ass when I land the jet at Dulles instead of Washington Reagan National. Because for all of the above reasons, you probably shouldn’t have been going there anyway.

More insider info? Step into the cockpit:

These 25 short essays in the best tradition of JetHead put YOU in the cockpit and at the controls of the jet.

Some you’ve read here, many have yet to appear and the last essay, unpublished and several years in the writing,  I consider to be my best writing effort yet.

Own a piece of JetHead, from Amazon Books and also on Kindle.

Lt. JetHead: Something Special In The Heir.

I never claimed to have served in the military. Rather, I was an Air Force officer, like my father before me and my son right now. Said Lt. Jethead recently returned from from three years of duty in Europe where he’s amassed thousands of travel miles and as many hours of adventure in faraway lands. When he related this bizarre airborne experience in the skies over eastern Europe earlier this month, I told him he HAD to write it up for the JetHead archives.

A note of warning: this ain’t a tame ride, which you wouldn’t expect from a twenty-five-year-old for whom life isn’t, in W.M. Rossetti’s words, so much a bit in the teeth as a spur to the flanks. And I haven’t and won’t change a word, so if you have delicate sensibilities–just don’t read any further. Here’s a safe, convenient redirect–click here.

Still reading? Good. Here it is:

It started with a dance, the choreographed rhythmic movements of the three scorching blondes in the aisle. I don’t always watch the safety briefs but the mid-cabin Flight Attendant had commanded my attention.  She did not keep your gaze, she took it. One excruciatingly tall heel on each side of the aisle, a stern smile, and perfectly in unison with her colleagues, emergency instructions were delivered. This must be the “way it used to be.”  As we often say of the girls in Ukraine: “the only thing higher than her aspirations are her cheekbones.”

Aerosvit flight 13 is climbing to a low cruise from Kiev Boryspil to Odessa, Ukraine and after taking a few moments to appreciate ummm… What I’ll call the skillful distribution of drinks and snacks, I dove into my already-started Kyiv Post.

To demonstrate the veracity of this story, here are my qualifications: none. I’d tell you I’ve flown thousands of times, but the truth is; I haven’t. I’ve sat in the back…and done nothing… (Usually F, but “the back,” nonetheless) while someone else has flown me thousands of times. A certified ass-sitter. I’d offer the 60 some hours of single-engine piston time I have, though that’s also irrelevant when you’re sitting in 25C, and the “I’m a private pilot and I KNEW something was wrong” doesn’t fly either, pun intended. Or worse yet, I recently heard someone feign importance with that disgusting sentence, but referred to himself as a “GA-VFR pilot.”  Go ahead; tell the FAA you’d like “one general aviation-visual flight rules, to go please”. Incredible.

So now you know I don’t know what I’m talking about, I’ll tell you about repeatedly clearing my ears. I became extremely uncomfortable and began all the tricks to equalize pressure. I was fruitlessly jawing so hard it was embarrassing and I turned in towards the window as to not show off my gaping grill and 7-day old road breath to my co-pax. After setting my newspaper on my lap, and jawing my gaping grill and 7-day old road breath at my good friend Joe in 25B, the oxygen masks dropped. We exchanged looks thinking it was just another Ukrainian malfunction of life…but we were brought back by the shouts in Russian and my personal safety demonstrator diving from the aisle for dangling rubber.

All of my training in ass-sitting has taught me to firmly pull the mask towards me to begin the flow of oxygen, first put on my mask, then help small children and those around me. Joe, you’ll have to wait. Trendsetter I am, I was the first in my row to firmly pull one of the four masks toward me (there are four in case of lap children or someone in the aisle.)  The video makes it sound like there’s a chance you might not “start the flow of oxygen” but unless you’re very tall this probably is not the case. The mask falls a few inches, and it’s not the O2 line itself that needs a tug, that might even be dangerous. Rather, it’s connected by a thin wire, holding the mask in place, and connected to the system, starting only the masks that have been firmly pulled.

Masks on, O2 is flowing. Or is it? A thousand safety briefs and videos are now bouncing in my slightly hypoxic head. Is it “even though oxygen is flowing the plastic bag WILL not inflate?” or “MAY not inflate.” I think I settled on WILL not for some reason. Now we have a problem, my bag DID inflate, so much so it looked like packing material that would startled your cat if popped. What to do…my bag’s inflated…crowd sourcing shows Joe’s bag is paper flat. He’s sucking wind (presumably, at this point) a la Seabiscuit. I would later find out he had the same internal conundrum and figured HIS bag was the problem because it was different than mine. He later told me he was considering swapping his mask for the unused fourth in our row, an idea that crossed my mind as well.  Using my ravishing common sense, I assessed that not only was I still alive, but conscious as well. If it ain’t broke… I would later learn that the whole reason for the “bag MAY not inflate” speech is because of a flight where pax tried to switch masks, as we were thinking, and passed out. While I don’t know Joe’s exact reason for not swapping out, and would love to tout my continued smartness, as a decorated combat veteran with more time in Iraq than you spent in jr high, and the bronze star to prove it, he makes good calls.

Tingly toes, fingers and some passed out neighbors, I am remembering: “breathe normally.”  Got that, I’m keeping myself calm and taking normal breaths. I’d also learn later the bag holds oxygen you’re not breathing in, as well as while exhaling — hence my punching bag, and Joe’s sad sack. Next time somebody needs a “wasting oxygen” joke, it won’t be about me. Joe is rustling in his pocket for his camera, my chemistry prowess (a C- in Mr. Listort’s 10^th grade chemistry class, which would have been a D except that he never wanted to see me again…) thinks this might be a bad idea: static, oxygen, etc. At the very least I must have given him a look that said “poor form” and the camera went down, for now. In retrospect I’m sure there is much more static and electrical activity taking place than a digital camera…and if we had gone down like Helios 522, all I did was deny investigators images of the almost dead.  We were now on our “emergency descent” from FL240, and while not exactly the most lethal altitude, somewhere between Kilimanjaro and Everest, I appreciate a good sense-of-urgency, and it seemed I could have walked down faster.  Nothing to do but trust in Boeing, as I’ve been instructed numerous times by Capt. Jethead, I’ll calmly wait it out, happy to be flying American and not Tupolev.

The flight attendants are walking down the aisle, speaking in Russian two or three rows at a time, inciting a cascade of yellow masks up, over, and off dizzy heads. I reached my hand towards the aisle, “In English, please.” Commanding the kind of attention Air New Zealand would hire Richard Simmons or body paint for she curtly mentioned we were “below safety level.”

I noticed we never turned around, and I hear a PA regarding “Odessa” and “apologize for en-kon-veen-yance.”  In some twisted way I’m relieved we continued on, what a hassle getting on a new and functional airplane would have been.  Thank you to a culture of instant gratification for making me so impatient. Turning to investigate some raucous Russian conversation behind me, two rows back some guys are passing around a bottle of wine. A gift from Aerosvit? Where’s ours? A smuggled 750ml bottle and wine key? Who cares. Applause erupts as the mains touch tarmac again in what was not a smooth or straight landing. You idiots…we’re still in one of the most dangerous phases of flight…

Rounding out the experience we board a dilapidated bus, bottoming out over every bump on tarmac that could be a huge tile floor, with grass for grout. Kicked off near the fence line I found a new meaning for gate; literally, an open gate to the sea of gypsy cab drivers not allowed in the terminal that we were also not permitted to enter. A local article would claim passengers were offered precautionary medical checks. Any US or major European carrier would have offered this, refunds, skymiles, you name it. The cold former-soviet reality: “Ve delivered jou alive, vould jou like something else?”

Your "gate"

 

Dog days at the plush Odessa airport

Greedy Westerners we are, we did want more. A short stay in the near-Turkish quarter of Odessa, then a harrowing, yet pressurized short seven hours on an overcrowded Moldavian minibus to Chisinau.  On Sunday after doing battle at the Chisinau bus station, fighting to avoid not only Transnistria, but also the smugglers route that goes much further west, near Romania, on our way back to Odessa.

A quick bite at a favorite fish restaurant, not only serving seafood favorites, but allowing you the full goldfish effect of everyone staring at your westerness, and we’re on our way back to the airport progress forgot. The analog arrivals and departures board would have you believe you’re in the train station.  A repeat performance of the same shaky bus, delivered us to the same parking spot, to the very same aircraft, UR-AAK.

Excuse me, is this my flight?

Poetically sitting in nearly the same seats, reading the same Kyiv Post, there’s no better way to get back on the horse.  The best part of the character building experiences this weekend – both in the air and with 27 people on a bus designed with 19 seats, while dodging livestock and frequently stopping to sell auto parts brought across the border – was not as my obnoxious friend (we’ll call Brian, because that’s his name), shouted, “You had no choice, you couldn’t get away!” True, but not only could we not get away, we asked for this. We bought and paid for those tickets on a Ukrainian carrier, and spend about $6 on that bus ride, where the lone Americans were shoved in the back.

Unable to come to a consensus on why we love traveling the back roads of Eastern Europe, we often use the adage; travel expands your boundaries, tests your limits. I believe it’s safe to say this weekend we crashed headfirst through those boundaries.  One of our favorite comedians, Nick Swardson, frequently jokes he wants to start a game show with terrible prizes, such as; live wolves, trips to Iraq, etc. The prize leading the victorious contestant to question; “did I lose?” So why the hell are we in Moldova…did we lose?

*********************

I was hesitant at first to write about this dull story, but at the urging of the creative team over at Jethead, and a sudden burst of energy after reading a sign telling me to kiss my smelly ass goodbye in two languages on my final intra-European flight, I succumbed. After all, this doesn’t happen every day, despite the hairy situations I’m often in. I’ve thrown around the idea of starting my own blog to document the mundane details of bribing Bloc policemen, eating pigeons in Morocco, hitchhiking in Ladas older than me, staying in the crosswalks while in communist countries, and the like. For now the world will have to settle for this short installment, and another guest post at the exciting blog of the beautiful GoingGigler.

Finish your business with dignity and die, survive covered with humiliation and.... Decisions, decisions...

September 11th: One Pilot’s Remembrance.

Say March may take September,
    And time divorce regret;
But not that you remember,
    And not that I forget.
    –AC Swinburne, 1864

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There’s a strength born of remembrance hot-forged in the fire of regret, a bitter pill scarcely outweighed by the power of redemption in the act itself. In the case of September 11^th the scale barely tips, but it’s upon us again nonetheless.

With it comes not only the resurrection of a grievous wound but also the poking and prodding at the scar by so many interested less in creating remembrance and more in selling the effect. That’s why now as I did immediately after the contemptible acts, I avoid the sensationally maudlin media coverage of old footage and new outrage, of pained loss and revisited dread.

Because it’s an unworthy intrusion for my colleagues who share the view from above 30,000 feet in more than just the passing from one point to another, flown today with a reverence made all the more poignant by the losses of that day. We know the reality of flight shared by all who fly for a living, including those we lost: no one is worthy of the priceless privilege. In fact, no one is even equal to the honor and the blessing of piloting a jet—and so, we reason, it might just as well be us.

And that plus the long and relentlessly demanding road that leads to the secure side of the cockpit door, a grueling process of weeding out and exclusion so unyielding that as many quit as are eventually eliminated, never mind those who are killed along the way, leaving the lucky few who are left with a worshipful respect for the words “head for the jet.”

That’s the moment when a lifetime of both personal and professional endeavor pays off in the solemn ritual of preflight, then the ultimate privilege of lifting a miraculously complex and capable jet into the air with hundreds of trusting souls on board.

The most insightful among us are keenly aware of the collective rather than individual triumph in the power to launch thousands of tons of metal and bone miles above the earth at shotgun speed, precisely, deftly, safely.

For in that moment flies a hundred years of American ingenuity, of engineering and manufacturing genius, of industrial diligence and commerce and financing to support not only the multimillion dollar jets, but also the mobile society shrinking the vast borders of the great nation, granting—actually, mandating—free access and choice and opportunity, coast to coast. That’s the best and brightest story of civilization this world has ever known.

The tragic irony is that the bond of trust we as pilots share with the public, the very essence of the free access to travel and leisure and commerce became the loophole through which those who oppose what we as a nation stand for breached the boundaries of civilized humanity to commit a despicable act.

But while they succeeded in one act, they failed pitifully in their unworthy cause. With courage and great resolve, the men and women who fly the jets returned them to the sky within days. The American spirit rebuilt, redesigned and secured air travel and the nation returned to the air resolute, undaunted and in greater numbers than ever before.

We returned to the cockpit, to flight, because that’s who we are as pilots. But Americans returned to air travel because freedom, opportunity, choice, prosperity and ultimately, worldwide access defines us as a free and open nation—and I am one pilot forever grateful to the flying public for that indomitable spirit that did not and will not yield to fear in general or a contemptible act in particular.

A decade later we fly yet another generation of even more technologically advanced aircraft with greater capacity and even longer range, bringing ever more distant shores within American reach. That fact stands as a testimony to the ultimate fortitude of freedom and decency that undergirds humanity despite the occasional hateful attempt to the contrary. And every flight since that day serves to honor those who lived and flew that American dream to their very last breath.

So I choose to remember that—and them—at the appropriate time, place and altitude, with equal measures of humility, gratitude and renewed hope. In the days approaching the infamous anniversary, the wayward news media—lost in the wasteland between entertainment and reporting—will twist and wring the painful memory for the sake of a buck.

Regardless, quietly and at altitude, flying the jet nonetheless is all the remembrance I need.

Captain C.L. Manno
American Airlines

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But rose-leaves of December
    The frosts of June shall fret,
The day that you remember,
    The day that I forget.

–AC Swinburne, 1864