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.

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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.

From Sea Level To 737 Captain: Day One.

Day Zero.

Which means tomorrow we start the flight training course to transition from MD-80 captain to 737 captain. Nervous?

No, that’s not the right word. Concerned, maybe, because it’s only your job, right? Career? Paycheck?

That’s all associated with the official stuff–certification, check rides, type rating; none of it actual flying. So it mostly goes into the nuisance category.

But the idea of starting anew, another jet and all that goes with it: that’s a big deal. Basically, in about three weeks you’ll go from never having set foot in the 737 cockpit to performing a Cat III landing from a 50 foot decision height to the FAA examiner’s satisfaction–in the aircraft, with passengers on board. That’s no small challenge, unless you’re just plain stupid. But like the nuisance category of things to accomplish, the pilot in you says yeah, we can handle that, too. Always have, always will.

So with a healthy concern for the job and the paycheck, respectful of the challenge, grateful for the opportunity, and with confidence that we’ll work through the obstacles successfully–let’s get on with it.

 

Pulling the MD-80 stuff out of my pilot bag, making room for 737 pubs. Of course, the cartoon pad stays.

 

Day One:

How many times have you made this drive, through those gates, past the guards, and then front and center at the Flight Academy? And how many times for a new jet? Three, maybe four times?

Always aware of and grateful for what an opportunity this is: if you wanted to buy it on your own you’d have to spend $12,000 to $15,000 for the training and the rating you’re about to get. Lucky for you the airline says, “Yes, we’ll get you ready to fly our $50 million dollar jet. And we’ll pay you to train–and then to fly the jet.”

And here’s where it starts:

Basic classroom, schematic on the wall, computer based training front and center. Meet the First Officer who’s going to be paired up with you throughout the course. He’s an ex-Marine (they’re always great to work and fly with) who got bumped off the larger 767 because everything’s based on seniority–and he’s not senior. So he’s assigned this training.

Meet the ground school instructor. She’ll take the two of us through the first ten days of ground school, familiarizing us with the aircraft systems and their basic operation, plus some of the procedures for the various phases of flight. Today, that included the 737 doors in the full scale mock-up.

Practice opening the overwing exits (how smart of Boeing to design an emergency exit that opens outward under its own power?) and all of the cabin doors. Fire extinguishers, life rafts, all the emergency equipment.

More systems introductions in the “Star Wars” trainer which has touch screens to operate all of the flight deck systems for basic familiarity with placement and function.

For now, it’ll help with “switchology:” where are the controls for the myriad systems and how do they respond? How are they actuated? Slow start to a full schedule, but then you’ve already done much of the Computer Based Training (CBT) on your own.

Last thing for the day is the pile of manuals and checklists required to do the job:

Took a while, but they’re all sorted into the correct binders with the dividers where they belong. And you’ve actually started studying.

That’s Day One, and Day Zero, too. The former is much more comfortable than the latter, because at least we’re under way.

One down, twenty to go. And a three hour systems exam. Plus an oral exam, a simulator rating flight with an FAA examiner, then 35 flight hours and another FAA flight examiner.

Soon enough but for now, one day at a time. Stay tuned: regular updates to follow.

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.

September 11th: Where Were You, Where Are You?

It’s difficult to remember, but hard to forget: where were you when the World Trade Center fell? And as importantly, where are you now?

The first question takes you back to a time that’s growing dimmer, but no less painful. The shared stunned looks where there were seldom looks exchanged: at a stoplight, from one car to another, the look of incredulity between drivers as if to say, “what just happened to us?” There was, for that moment, an “us” between random strangers struck at the same time by the horrific events as they unfolded.

Then the common denominator that mattered was both the pain of reality and our citizenship in a nation under attack. For me at that moment, sitting in a flight simulator giving flight training to a new copilot who would in short order be furloughed as a direct result of the 9-11 attacks that ravaged my airline and ultimately, the entire industry, the reality was ugly: jets commandeered, fellow crewmembers murdered at their duty stations. Our sleek, beautiful, powerful jets which we always used for good turned into missiles by dark forces intent on bad.

I’ve always liked the fact that our jets carry the flag on every tail, that our name says “American” in bold letters. And even though that’s probably why our jets were selected by the terrorists for maximum psychological impact, that very fact was also their downfall.

The flag and all things American were reinvigorated from the east coast of this nation to the west. More than just a glance between stunned drivers at a stoplight, the entire nation seemed to rise in dedicated opposition to the terrorism and extremism that cost thousands of innocent American lives.

Several flight crewmembers I know decided to be done with flying as a result of the infamous attacks, and I don’t fault them for that. It’s not like when we were in the military, where it was accepted as a fact that yes, you could get killed flying a mission. Our 9-11 colleagues weren’t on a military mission–they were just doing their jobs when they were murdered.

But there was never any question, at least for me, about getting back into the cockpit and flying again, even knowing that the terrorist threat still existed. It’s a different world now in flight, with security being a constant challenge to a degree unheard of before 9-11. Maybe that’s one positive change, although working under such a threat has changed the profession in ways I don’t always like.

But I believe my part in the opposition of terrorism is to refuse to let the dark forces win. We will fly coast to coast because we can, we want to, we have to. We don’t bow to threats and violence, as a nation or as a flight crew. We fight back for what’s right–which brings us to where we are today.

The fight goes on, and with it comes a huge pricetag in lives and loss. That’s the part of where we are today in the post-9/11 world that worries me.

Because except for on the anniversary of that awful day, there’s little day-to-day remembrance of the important people: not only the thousands whose lives were taken on that day, but also those given since then to keep the rest of the nation safe. That, in my mind, should not be something to “remember” periodically. Rather, that should never be forgotten–ever.

We see the remains of fallen fighting men and women passing from one coast to a hometown on our jets every week. We honor them the best we can. And like most flight crewmembers, we keep alive the memory of colleagues who were killed in the first battle of the war against terrorism.

Never mind the partisan politics of the war on terrorism; the squabbles over the mosque near ground zero, or opposition to the war on terrorism.

Today is about remembrance and appreciation for those fighting the war, those who have lost their lives to the enemy and those carrying on the fight today. That’s what’s most important to me and to many others on this day of remembrance . . .

. . . and every single day of the year, in every single moment in the air.

Stupid Layover Tricks: Sharks In Death Valley.

You know how things make sense when you’re doing them but in hindsight, you have to ask yourself, what was I thinking? Well this is one of those times. Being on the road, flying about 200 days a year, it’s really not surprising that it happened on a layover.

Had a Tuscon layover a couple summers ago. My big plan was to get in a good run early, before it got too scorching hot, then some pool time.

And here’s the thing about layovers: that was my plan, I was looking forward to it, it’s what I told myself ahead of time when I was feeling that “I-don’t-want-to-be-away-from-home” pang before a flight sequence: it’ll be fine, a good run, decent Mexican food for dinner.

Great plan. But a problematic jet engine screwed it up: we departed a couple hours late, which meant a late arrival in Tuscon. Add to that the excessively long time it took to get the hotel van to pick us up and by the time I was ready to run . . .

. . . I was pretty well screwed: the temp was over 100 and climbing as the afternoon wore on. The hell with the temp, I decided–and it really was becoming hellish–I’m not going to be denied my run. The whole layover depended on it! I could start out and if it got too hot, just stop and walk back.

So I set off from the hotel running. Found some back roads with shade and honestly, even at 109 degrees, with the shade, without any humidity and at a slower, more cautious pace, the run was more comfortable than back home in the upper 90-degree range with boiling humidity and scorching sunshine. So on I went, carefully, for twenty minutes through a mostly residential area of town.

After twenty minutes, I took a walking break for a minute to take my heart rate: no real problem. And I felt fine.

So I reversed course, hugging the shade as much as possible, heading for the hotel. Then I got that gnawing feeling–and it wasn’t just the heat–that I wasn’t alone. The whole time it had seemed as if I was running through a ghost town: not a creature, a person or pet in sight. But still, I knew I was being watched. I turned around . . .

Creeping along behind me, maybe fifty yards back, a police cruiser. When I stopped, he did too. I started running again, he started creeping along behind me. Finally, I turned around and walked back to the police car. One cop, and he didn’t get out of the car. The window slid down silently.

“What’s up?” I asked.

He tipped his shades down. “Couple people have called 911,” he answered nonchalantly, “figure you must be crazy.”

He let that sink in. Guess there’d been no signs of life outside, but inside the natives had decided only a mental patient would be out running in the afternoon.

“Well I’m almost done,” I said, pointing at the hotel in the distance. “I’m feeling fine.”

“I can’t stop you,” he said. “But it doesn’t seem like a good idea to me.”

I went back to running at a measured pace, but the cop had been a buzzkill: what if he’s right? If the hidden, 911-dialing residents were right? “We gotta ‘nother dumb tourist down,” he’d say on the radio, staying in the car with the furiously blowing air conditioning, “wet cleanup on aisle six.”

Me, road pizza. That’s how it happens–one minute you’re running, the next your heart explodes in the 109 degree heat. Now came the mind games, like when I’d swim laps between bouys in the Pacific: now and again you’d catch a glimpse of someone on shore, pointing. You just knew they were pointing at you, yelling, “Shark!” Which you couldn’t hear . . . but which you’d certainly feel any minute. Yes, I know Death Valley is not in Arizona; but was the shark thing all over again.

Made it to the hotel and started a walking cooldown. The cop car did a u-turn and vanished into a side street. Disappointed? No CPR, unless it was too hot for that. No roadkill.

Regardless, the thrill was gone, probably for both of us. I grabbed the cool beverage I’d had icing down as I ran . . .

. . . then entertained second thoughts about the run. Okay, maybe you can’t always force things in extreme temperature. Maybe the run could have waited till Boston (hate the traffic!) the next day.

Like so many things you look back on in life–and layovers–you have to wonder: what the heck was I thinking?

“Say What?”–The Passenger Chronicles.

It’s really not that hard to go unnoticed in flight. In fact, it’s probably more the rule than the exception: most of the time, the flight crew won’t remember you at all. Often, that’s a good thing.

But if we DO remember a passenger, often it’s because either alcohol or inexperience–or both–are involved. Here’s an example.

About halfway to Calgary, the interphone rings in the cockpit. Seems we have a slightly intoxicated passenger in the back. Never a good thing, something that we wish had been left at the gate but it’s not always possible to detect before flight.

Is he a problem, I ask? No, the flight attendant tells me. It’s not his behavior, it’s what he’s saying.

Huh? Is he being obnoxious? Abusive?

No. He’s kind of bragging.

Okay, I’m confused. What’s the problem? “Well,” she continues, “he’s bragging to the guy next to him–who happens to be an airline employee–that he managed to get through Customs in DFW with a load of cocaine from Amsterdam. And U.S. Customs didn’t find it.”

Hmmm; to think he almost made it to Calgary undetected. Almost.

It’s actually fun to have something to do on a long flight like that. I typed in the basic info on the data link control head. Our dispatcher called ahead to Calgary to coordinate the appropriate reception committee for our clever yet too chatty passenger.

Customs officials and the local police force were happy to pick up where U.S. Customs left off with Mr. Chatty. And while it’s always nice to have someone meet you after a long flight, I’m not sure this was the kind of attention he anticipated. But I guess passengers figure we’re really just ignorant and unconnected once we get in the air. In reality, we’re in constant communication with a full range of folks on the ground eager to help in any situation that might arise. Ah, well, live and learn.

People also distinguish themselves with some interesting ideas about aviation, too. After a long flight to the west coast, an elderly gentleman poked his head into the cockpit during deplaning and gave me his wise counsel.

“You know,” he said seriously, “you shouldn’t keep that beautiful sunset all to yourselves up here.”

Yes, going west, it was a beautiful sunset. Right in our face for about four hours, actually.

“And the full moon rising in the east,” he continued, “people should get to see that, too.”

Great idea. Right? Wait for it.

“Why don’t you make a series of turns in the air so passengers on both sides can see the sunset and the moon?”

Why didn’t I think of that? Besides the fact that we aren’t a sightseeing tour, I don’t want to waste an ounce of scarce fuel zig-zagging across the country and besides, the constant stream of jets smoking up on our tail won’t like the idea much either.

“Yeah, great idea,” I say, then add everyone behind you would like to get off the plane and in addition, you’re an idiot. Well, that last part was in my head.  “Maybe next time.” My first officer rolls her eyes.

Finally, my favorite, except for the smell but that’s not an issue in a blog.

In flight, I shouldn’t be hearing male voices near the cockpit door under two circumstances. One is when I know I have an all-female cabin crew. That’s because in the Post-911 world, we don’t allow congregating in front of the cockpit door, except for our flight attendants going about their duties. Some are male.

But on this day, I had an all female crew. And we had the second condition that would prevent any male voices from being up near the cockpit:

The seatbelt sign was on. So no one other than crew should be anywhere but buckled into their seats. But I heard the male voice near the door. And a female voice, too. I called to the back.

“Everything all right back there?”

“It is now.” Hmmmm. “I’ll be up in a minute to explain and maybe vent a little.”

Okay, I’m good with that. And the male voice had vanished.

Later, we talked. She told me a “large,” hairy man had spent a lot of time in the lavatory, then ended up standing in her galley–doing some odd calisthenics. That made it difficult for her to do her job.

I had to ask. “What exactly was he doing?”

She nodded. “I asked him that.” She seemed a little annoyed. “He said he’d tried to fart in the lav but nothing came out and there wasn’t enough room to work it out.”

So he stood in the galley, hoping to coax out his gas. “Venting,” I guess. Nice.

Sigh. Maybe it’s just the decline of public civility, or the prevalence of affordable air travel. Either way, it seems like much of what you hear in the air paints a grim picture of both air travel and an ever-growing segment of the traveling public.

Ultimately, I’m just glad the flight deck door is locked from the inside.

Nightshift: Meditations From A Dark Sky.

There’s a soundtrack especially for this text.

Click here to download the music, adjust the volume, click play, then return here to read.

Ah, the sun: sneaky devil.

Puts on the same show twice–once at dawn, again at dusk. One’s the same as the other, only in reverse; one followed by darkness, the other brilliance. How are you supposed to know which is the real deal, which the rerun? What’s the day’s main event, darkness or light?

It’s a different world once the sun sinks into the far west leaving the sky empty cold and black.  Happens slowly in a showy way as if the dazzling exit can somehow justify the expectation of an equally brilliant return in a matter of hours.

It’s a major league show no matter where you view it from but especially from six or seven miles up. Because even if the sun sets behind you, the sky spreads the news, repainting the image in case you missed it.

Topside, a quick brush from the crimson lip burning away behind you slaps rouge on the towering boomer ahead. But the sun’s not quite done, still spreading the gold above and over the gathering darkness. That’s the cool thing about a perch seven miles high: you can see the night sneaking in between the sun’s angle over the curve of the earth and the actual horizon.

Twins abound: look at the ghosts below, clouds and their doubles. Like magic, darkness mimes light, twin schooners in flight.

Racing away from the sunset, trailed by the hulking shadows of thunderbumpers behind pointing ahead, monstrous cloud stacks thunder east.

But we’re way too fast in a jet to be caught. But do you think any of the ordinary mortals below see the sunset striated with bruising blue fingers and will put two and two together hours later when the thunder booms and lightning streaks away?

Closer look? Sometimes the sky is so thick with boomers there’s no choice but to pick your way through the darkness with our x-ray vision at least giving you a fighting chance.

Sure, you can slip between the big-shouldered thunderstorms, but they let you know who’s boss and why it’s important that you don’t get too close.

It’s not that I only appreciate the sunset at the expense of the sunrise–I don’t. It’s just that I find little reason to get up early enough (yeah, I used to have to) to see what I know is replaying later anyway.

This could be either, couldn’t it? Except that I’ll tell you that it’s heading west, as we all do. Maybe that’s the point of the light show at the end of the day: reminds you of old times, of the past, of mornings when this tired day was new and all things were possible, all things ahead. That’s all behind you at sunset.

And that’s where everyone’s headed, eventually. Follow the trail, enjoy the show. Not sure, but I think it’s nature’s version of the Faustian cataclysm in Renaissance drama: sound and fury, flash and fire.

Exeunt.

Then darkness. Silence opposing the dwindling flash, swallowing the glaring echo of day’s brilliance. All that’s left is the veiny glow of feeble ground lights allowed only after sunset to inscribe a a place on earth.

Sometimes it’s the darkness itself that provides a backdrop for a place born and bred of night. Only dazzling when not competing with the sun, when the absence of light takes away the blemishes and without shadows, grounding everything as if there were no tomorrow, as if it weren’t hopelessly locked between nightfall and dawn like the underworld.

Sometimes, it’s just a nameless town, a place marked by the headlights like strung jewels inching through arteries that map the topography.

And then I always wonder, looking down, who are all these people, and where are they going? What are they doing under their artificial light, earthbound and not noticing the night?

Or maybe they are looking at the sky, seeing our twin strobes as a satellite whizzing soundlessly by miles overhead. Maybe they wonder where we’re headed, who we are way above and so soon, at our jet speed, far beyond the horizon and into the dark unknown.

Either way, we’re all headed traveling the same road. Sunrise, sunset; flash and fury; darkness, dawn, darkness, dawn, the parade goes on and on.

Same show every day: evening’s about darkness, morning–light. Despite the crushing certainty of night, everyone bets on the dawn and no one’s leaving before the last encore.

And so, life goes on; day to day and always. Crafty, that sun is.

Steven Slater, Dental Hell and the Death of Civility in Air Travel.

The outrageous JetBlue incident last week brings back memories. And they’re not necessarily good.

Used to be when the last squadron jet of the day’s flying reported in on the tower frequency, a very surly Bad Jimmy Williams would step out of his Operations Officer cubicle and without a word, he’d open the padlock on a large refrigerator in the back corner of the Flight Ops lounge, glare at us waiting Lieutenants, then stalk off.

That signaled  that the “Beer Box” (presumably derived from “ice box”) was officially open, which also opened the lounge for an impromptu happy hour and flying story session. After beers all around, we’d discuss the day’s flying and eventually the conversation would meander into all manner of B.S. stories.

Although he wasn’t a pilot, Dr. Love (yes, that was his real name) often would wander over from the Dental Clinic, knowing he could poach a beer or two before heading home. Which was fair, because he lived near us and we drank plenty of his beer whenever possible.

For whatever reason, he felt like he had to add a dental war story to the absurd flying tales being spun and although that was largely irrelevant, one thing he said I’ve never forgotten.

“Well,” he drawled, contemplating his half empty beer can, “I used to be so careful when I was doing dental work on a patient.”

The room fell silent. What the hell could he possibly say next? Please make him say and I’ve only gotten more careful and caring as time goes on, because we all have to go to the Dental Clinic sometime.

“But you know what I learned?” he asked, studying the Budweiser label (there were only a few brands of beer available there on The Rock in the South China Sea). He paused for effect. “I learned, people heal. You don’t have to be so careful.”

Note to self: never see Dr. Love at the Dental Clinic. But beyond that, there’s a real point:

Dr. Love deliberately contributes to everyone’s lore of dental hell. Which only perpetuates the problem, reinforcing not only the fear of dentistry, but also escalating spiral of outrageous dental tales.

People only want to tell a story about a “horrible” dental experience. No one wants to tell–or hear–a story about a pain-free, simple dental procedure.

The same is true for air travel nowadays: everyone needs to tell a horror story now at happy hour. Ten hour tarmac delays with no food, crying babies, and overflowing toilets (not physically possible unless there’s actually over fifty gallons of human waste added during the delay) and passengers dying.

That’s the stuff of legends, and perhaps Steven Slater is the new “Dr. Love.”

On the day he snapped, cursing a passenger on the P.A., blowing an escape slide, grabbing a couple beers and sliding off the jet, Slater negated the day’s work of his peers–just like Dr. Love did for his dental clinic and fellow dentists.

Because on that same day, thousands of flight attendants were treated rudely by thoughtless, boorish passengers.

But they didn’t snap. They didn’t blow a slide. And though many likely wanted to, they didn’t curse their passengers, at least not out loud.

Instead, they did their jobs, under trying circumstances with unreasonable passengers and onerously long work days. You didn’t read about the flight attendants who that day–like every day of the year–perform CPR on a passenger in cardiac arrest at 30,000 feet. Nor the ones who helped the very young or very old with the extra attention that they need above and beyond the normal passenger services so that they can get where they need to go safely.

No, the headlines were only about the one flight attendant who blew up–and quit being a flight attendant. Which I say discounts and devalues all those who didn’t. Those remembering Dr. Love’s “healing” philosophy project it onto the thousands of dentists who do care about their patients.

And the thousands of passengers who were treated kindly by their cabin crew nonetheless have their radar scanning for a Steven Slater rogue to spin into a cocktail yarn or a “Good Morning America” interview.

That’s life and moreover, that’s popular culture. Don’t get me wrong; I know thousands of flight attendants nationwide cheered the actions of Slater. But in the fantasy sense of wow, what a great gesture. The public is too often rude, surly, inconsiderate and they get away with it.

Because  in air travel, this:

Has given way to this:

. . . and so this

Has devolved into this:

Funny stuff for tall tales, late night talk show monologues and silly YouTube tribute songs.

But a sad commentary on both popular culture and those who comprise its storytellers and listeners. And even worse, it’s an accurate commentary on both the traveling public and the norms of behavior en route.

Every profession has its Dr. Loves. Unfortunately, the rest of the profession suffers the derisive connotation of the rogue’s actions  regardless of the reality of their work, which pales against the backdrop of popular culture that rewards outrageous behavior.

Not sure what ever happened to Dr. Love or what will become of Flight Attendant Slater. But both are hard to forget, for all the wrong reasons.