Mach Speed Tumbleweed

A battle rages in silence. You don’t want to get involved–but you are, you realize slowly.

Exactly where is it 5am?

You don’t want to know.

No, I do. The sinking feeling. It’s not home, is it?

Told you you didn’t want to know.

Damn. Reno?

No, that was last night.

Montreal?

The night before.

Palm Beach. Not home. Home got away–again.

How many miles from here to home? Not distance–I get that–flown, I mean? How many more? Flight hours like matchsticks: light ’em off one by one, watch them burn down, then out. Slowly, in the glow, you get it: midway through a four day. Just what you didn’t want to wake to. But do.

So, that was last night: late, always, bone tired too from hotel sleep somewhere else.

That’s here, middle of the night here, before you messed it up. Spartan. Antiseptic. Do not disturb. A trail of clothes from the door to the bed–worry about everything else tomorrow.

Sleep, and it’s that dream again: you can find the gate, find the plane, but there’s no door from the gate to the plane. Which is the way home, of course. No way home–just the waiting place, halls of marked time and any old place.

Gertrude Stein nailed it: “there’s no there there,” in that space between places, the waiting–the island between going and getting there. Or getting home. There’s the irony: for those who make their living going, and carrying others who are on the way too, the idyll would be staying, not going, being home. No door.

So wake up then. Going to need goggles and a snorkel to wade through this one. Not the stuff you’ll think about later–the weather, the jet, the fuel. Rather, another day not home.

Good dog–you’re ready to swim in the deep blue.  People will ask you questions, like “What’s it like to be a trained dog working in the blue every day?” Or maybe they’ll have something equally inane more for each other than for you, like “we’ll let him on” or “we need him” as you try to slip by them going to the office. Funny stuff, right? More likely, though, they have to go to the bathroom; they want to share that with you, assuming you have a constant awareness of toilets and locations, like you do with bailout airfields and low fuel contingencies in flight, right? Funny stuff.

Just put all the pieces back together; everything back into the suitcase like the crammed heap that sprang out twelve hours ago. Kind of like behind the scenes Disney: Mickey puts on his fiberglass head with the permanent smile–then out he goes. Down to the lobby, out to the curb: vantastic! Off to whatever aeropuerto in whatever city.

Just get me to the gig. Snake through the masses herding across the wide-open plains, grazing, mooing; hoofbeats at a shuffle.

The ants go marching out again, hurrah. Step around, mind the Mickey head. Wind your way through; heft the bags, schlep the bags, onward to the gate. Show your ID: yeah, it’s Mickey. Let him on board.

Nothing purtier than precious metal, all eighty tons of her:

She’s your big ol’ dance partner, every song, every leg, and just like you: all about the getting there–but not staying. Folks trundle off, more trundle on; makes no difference. We do our same dance steps, carefully and deliberately without art. Over and over–same old song. You know the words:

We say Mass for the Earth, the litany of escape–then we leave, but everyone still in their pews, seatbelts on and tray tables stowed. Then the aluminum conga line–every-buddy-CON-ga– to the runway. This:

In this:

Into the blue, the higher the better: the sky is denim, comfy as jeans. Good for hanging out, soft, simple, warm, comfortable. The good feel when you put them on.

Unpressed and rumpled–doesn’t matter; a little faded, all the better. That’s cruising, ain’t it? It’s like Saturday against your skin. That’s the jailbreak from the suitcase–off with the polyester, and Mickey’s head; jeans, amen.

Soft and comfy as the sky and nearly as distant: nobody knows you without the Mickey head on, and that’s the best. You’re a ghost, anywhere, everywhere–somewhere where no one knows you, and in the middle of the night you won’t remember where anyway.

You just know what it’s not–home; and where it’s not–HOME. And just close your eyes because soon enough, once again: another passage. Sleep.

“. . . life is a watch or a vision

Between a sleep and a sleep.”

–Algernon Swinburne

Silver Wings Then Other Things: Part 3

This is Part 3 of the series putting you in the captain’s seat.

Want to start at the beginning? Click here.

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I love the smell of jet fuel in the morning.

Okay, maybe right before noon–I don’t bid early flights and since I’ve been here over 25 years, I don’t have to do the buttcrack of dawn flights anymore. But it all leads to the same place: ready for take-off.

And whether that’s your first solo or your most recent take-off line-up, it’s the best part of the world ever: nose pointed down the line, strapped in tight, slight bend at the knees so as to have easy rudder throw in either direction, holding brake pressure on top of the rudder pedals, waiting for release.

Calm. All the engine instruments are flat-lined like a comatose patient, breathing; heartbeat but not much else. Idle RPM on both the giant fan and the turbine.

These new jet engines are mechanical and technological marvels, gi-normous Swiss watch-like machines: tolerances to the thousandth of an inch, spinning at 30-50,000 RPM for hours, tirelessly, core temps averaging blast furnace heat all the while. Each engine weighs over two tons, but puts out 27,000 pounds of thrust, so with both at full power, you have 26 tons of thrust at your fingertips for take-off or whenever you need it.

The pair of CFM-56 engines will gulp down nearly a thousand gallons of jet fuel between take-off and level off, but the marvel is, even heavy-weight we’ll climb to 38,000 feet in about fifteen minutes.  That’s also attributable to the Boeing wing: they were wise enough to increase the size of the wing as they stretched the airframe. Not so with Douglas jets like the DC-9–they just added length to the fuselage and kept the original wing.

I like the feel of the fat, swept and cambered-up Boeing wing, which as a result of the lengthening has a lighter wing-loading than the stretched Douglas.

It just feels more stable and reliable both in the low-speed regime and almost more importantly, at altitude. So on take-off, there’s just a confidence you can bank on with the Boeing: it has power and lift to spare.

“Cleared for take-off” are the words you’re waiting for. Once you gang-bar the exterior lights, the First officer will call, “Before take-off checklist complete.”

You stand the throttles up and immediately, the CRT displaying engine instruments springs to life. The computers below the flight deck measure the throttle position and project where the RPM of both the giant fan and the subsequent rotors will be in a matter of seconds. They stabilize at 40%, then the actual rotor speed catches up as the engines snarl to life. Satisfied at 40%, I punch the take-off power button on the throttles and they move to the position that the engine computers say matches the temperature and the other parameters we programmed and will produce the thrust we’re expecting. I double check that they are within 2% of what I expect, then turn my eyes to the runway stretched out ahead.

It’s best to cast your eyes way down the runway so as to have a good peripheral awareness: engine failures will be most obvious from the initial yaw, plus, directional control at over a hundred miles per hour is best judged with a long view.

Now I’m steering with the rudder pedals, trying to just nudge the nosewheel–stay off the centerline lights with their annoying thumping–until between forty and seventy knots when the forty-foot tall rudder takes a good enough bite of the air to become effective at aerodynamic control.

“Eighty knots,” is the first callout, and it comes fast at take-off power. That’s the abort dividing line: up till eighty, I can consider aborting for various systems problems. After eighty, the abort response is different and because of the kinetic energy built up in our 70-ton freight train, stopping is much more critical a maneuver with serious consequences in terms of brake energy.

Plus, it’s not wise to try to arbitrate at over a hundred miles per hour whether a system indication stems from a failure that would affect our ability to stop: brakes, anti-skid, hydraulics, electrics.

That’s why I’m relieved when the aircraft announces “V1.” That means we’re beyond abort speed–and I’m thinking only of flying, even on just one engine if need be.

Almost immediately, the First Officer calls,”Rotate” and I ease the yoke back gently. Have to let the 737 fly off  and get some tail clearance from the pavement before smoothly rotating the nose up to take-off pitch, which is shown in my heads-up display (HUD). Off we go.

When I see vertical velocity climbing in the HUD, plus increasing radio altitude numbers, I simultaneously give the hand signal  (flat open right palm moving up) and say, “Positive rate–gear up.” The hand signal is in case my voice is blocked by radio chatter or other extraneous noise.

The HUD’s also showing me the energy building on the wing, plus the speed trend. Call for the flaps up before the limit speed, engage vertical navigation (“V-Nav”) at 2500 feet. Track the departure outbound, centering up the radial. I sneak peaks down from the HUD to the Nav display so as to anticipate the turns ahead. Roll into the turns easy–the 737 flies really tight and responsive–and carve out a smooth arc.

First milestone: ten thousand feet. Roll in some nose-down trim so as to accelerate beyond the 10,000′ limit of 250 knots. A quick check to be sure that the cabin is climbing and that fuel is flowing properly: above 10,000′ we can burn center tank fuel if we didn’t on take-off or if there was less than 5,000 pounds at take-off; less than 3,000 pounds now and you reach up and open the fuel crossfeed manifold and turn off the aft fuel boost pump.

Eyes back on the road. Trim. Smoothness. Coffee.

Before you know it, the chronometer says around 18 minutes elapsed time and the altimeter reads 40,000 feet. Trim it up, level and smooth, trim out any yaw, engage the number 1 autopilot. Check the fuel burn, the fuel flow and the quantity. Cabin pressure stable at the correct differential value. Nav tracking properly. Cool: we’re cruising.

So now, here’s you:

No, not just punching the time clock–counting fuel flow, measuring miles remaining against fuel and miles per minute. Print the uplink of the destination weather. Was your forecast correct? No, you didn’t do the weather forecast–you predicted what fuel you’d need on arrival for the approach in use. Kind of glad to have a little extra in the hip pocket, right? Conservative fuel planning.

Note the climb point and more importantly, the gross weight where that can occur. Pay attention; note when it arrives early and use it: tailwinds or headwinds shift the point, but track the weight.

Now it’s time for the P.A. Nobody cares or pays attention–especially the flight attendants who will ask “what’s our ETA” even though you just announced it. Whatever. It’s always partly cloudy, make up a temperature, read off the latest ETA, “glad to have you flying with us today; for now, sit back, relax” blah-blah blah, get ready for the approach.

Uplinked destination weather.

You know the arrival winds. You got the uplinked current weather and terminal information. Set up the approach in the course windows and frequency selectors. Yes, it can change while you’re enroute, but now is the time to set up the approach and get it straight in your head.

There’s the art in what you do: translate this schematic into three dimensional movement in pitch, bank and roll. Each approach has its own peculiarities–so start thinking it through now.

Meanwhile, however, just a constant flow of navigation, fuel flow and performance considerations. Keeping a fuel and navigation log, constant contact with Air Traffic Control:

That and maybe some of the catering from First Class provisioned as “Crew meals.”

The best catering of breads and desserts is out of Mexico and Canada, I think. But at any rate, it’s probably good to stay “calorized”  as a survival tool: time changes, sleep disruptions, long hours, extremes of climate and especially the prolonged hours in a low-humidity cabin–it all takes a toll, physically. And flight crews work in that realm week after week. At least you can buttress your health with the caloric energy you need. It’s not always available between flights.

Manage the fuel. Weather radar and traffic watch. Ride and wind reports, both from other aircraft and uplinked from our Ops center. navigation–course modifications, shortcuts, direct clearances, higher altitudes when we’ve burned off enough fuel.

So it goes for hours on end.

The nav systems are plotting a descent already. They have drawn an imaginary line from altitude to our destination and I can see constantly the angle and the rate of descent changing as we draw nearer. I’m going to induce the descent–with ATC clearance, of course–a little early, maybe fifteen miles or so depending on winds, to make the descent a little flatter and more comfortable in the cabin. Besides, the automation doesn’t account for ATC restrictions added to those already published. Let’s get ahead of the game.

HEFOE Check: Hydraulics, electrics, fuel, oxygen, engines; periodic checks, the mantra from the Air Force days–nostalgic, but appropriate still in an airliner at the top of descent. Which, I’ve decided in my mental picture of the descent angles, distances, speeds and times, is now.

“Tell them we’d like lower,” I say to the First Officer. He nods, instinctively aware that it’s about time to start our descent. This is where passengers in the cabin notice the slight decrease in engine noise and a bit of a nose-down tilt.

The shoulder harness come back on in the cockpit; headsets replace overhead speakers and boom mikes take over from the hand mikes. Approach plates are reviewed on more time; crossing altitudes and speeds, intercepts and radials. This is the fun part: translate the myriad of plotted out instructions into a graceful series of maneuvers culminating with a safe touchdown, then dissipating the kinetic energy of sixty tons thundering down the runway at about one hundred and sixty miles an hour, bringing the whole remarkable aircraft to walking speed, then to a gentle stop at the gate. Piece of cake.

Next week, Part 4: the approach and landing.

Silver Wings, Then Other Things: Part 2.

This is part 2 of a multi-part series putting you in the captain’s seat. Want to start with Part 1? Click here.

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Flight plan? Got it. Fuel load? Fine. Take-off data? Got that too. The ten-yard-long printout of notices and info and weather affecting our flight and route? Folded accordian style. Cup of McDonald’s coffee, black? In the cupholder by your right knee.

Something about that: a simple pleasure, that black coffee, plus an opportunity to make a donation to the Ronald McDonald House at the counter every time. I like the idea of doing something good for kids every time I pass by McD’s in the airport.

But also, in “the bubble,” it’s a cool luxury: taxiing out, steering with feet on the rudder pedals, minimal and exact responses to the required challenge-and-response checklist read by the First Officer–and sipping my coffee. The jet feels loaded up; weighty. You can feel the 112 feet of wing out there, the 40 foot tall rudder buffeted by gusts. Definitely an airship lumbering on the ground. Radios and official responses; taxi clearances and I say “okay” as soon as they’re given so my F/O knows I heard and understand.

Other than that and the radio chatter, silence. Because I don’t want anything on the Cockpit Voice Recorder (CVR) except for official, flight-related verbiage. There’s too much that could get screwed up, too much that needs to be checked before take-off to allow a layer of distraction. Plus, it’s the official policy: “sterile cockpit” below 10,000 feet. That is, no non-flight related talk, period. Saves the bubble, the concentration, for important stuff.

Sterile Cockpit.

Because here’s the problem with advanced flight automation: an input error, left undetected, can have disastrous consequences. A keystroke error can lead to faulty flight guidance commands, from the basics of pitch and bank to the routing errors. The only hedge against the hazard is diligent checking of all input. We did the route check at the gate, remember? Now we verify that the data-linked upload and our own inputs are valid: gross weight, center of gravity, fuel weight, take-off and abort speeds, climb speeds, every number associated with performance. That’s as we’re rolling, and as I’m ensuring we don’t violate anyone’s taxiway or runway space, steering with my feet–sipping my coffee, of course.

Ready for your eye test? "Give way to an RJ on Charlie, then taxi east on Bravo, short of Charlie 3."

Several numbers you must see, every time, before take-off–it’s not enough to have the First Officer read them aloud (“We planned 155,000 pounds, we’re actually 156,500 pounds . . .”). I will physically view the data-linked final weight numbers, I’ve already written the planned weight on my side panel clipboard as a reference, and I HAVE to see the correct number on the Control Display Unit screen. And at the same time, not taxi into the dirt or worse, any other jet. Not so easy at night.

But no worries–if it gets too hectic, timeout: “Let’s hold on the checklist here till we’re stopped.” Ever wonder why there’s a delay before take-off? While other jets are coming and going? Often, this is why. After leaving the gate, I’m completely detached from schedule constraints–we’ll get airborne as soon as all checks are thoroughly and correctly performed. As I tell F/Os when the tendency to rush starts to rear its ugly head, “We don’t get paid to rush. And if anything goes wrong as a result of rushing, no one’s going to be there to bail your ass out.”

Here’s where I like the silence, the bubble: no extraneous concerns beyond this flight. A departure path clear of weather and traffic. Verified speeds and weights in the flight guidance system, so the pitch and bank commands will be valid. But if they’re not, a mental review of what I know are the limits: greater than nine degrees of pitch up will drag the tail on the runway. Doesn’t matter what the flight guidance commands, my hands will not exceed a limit.

Waiting. Quick mental review of high-speed abort items: fire, failure, fear or shear. That is, after 80 knots, only an engine fire or failure, or my split-second judgment that I “fear” the aircraft is structurally not airworthy, or a detected windshear will cause me to abort the take-off before max abort speed, and after that–we’re flying with whatever we have.

I have options a hundred miles down the road, but also for liftoff: best single-engine climb angle, if we need it; left downwind to land south if we do. McChord 20 miles south with lots of runway. Fire and failure litanies. Mt. Ranier, all 14,410 feet of her, and where she is at all times.

Got it? 165 others are assuming that you do–so you’d better.

“American 116, line up and wait.” The tower’s direction. Real quiet now. Last minute runway checklist items. Ease in the power–there may be smaller jets behind us. Swing wide, line up on the center stripe; hold the brakes. Fire, failure, fear or shear. Minimum safe altitude. Engine failure profile. Initial level off altitude. No other thoughts. And no worries–this is gonna be fun.

Departure path is clear. “American 1116, cleared for take-off, runway one-six, wind one-five-zero at ten.”

“Rolling on one-six, American 1116.” All exterior lights on.  Another swig of java–we’ll get back to it on climb out–stand the throttles up; gages spring forward, then toggle take-off power on the autothrottles, hack the elapsed time button on the chronometer.

Both engines growl to take-off power–love that feel as they bite the air, compress it, mix in jet fuel and burn it, shoving us forward. Fifteen hundred miles to DFW–let’s get airborne.

Next Post: Part 3, enroute, and the landing.

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Silver Wings, Then Other Things: Part 1.

It always starts with the wings.

They go on the shirt first–don’t ask me why, tradition, superstition. Maybe it’s just transition: the next thing that goes into the left breast pocket is the laminated pix of the family. It’s the “leaving behind”–the part I hate about flying–but then not really, because they’re there all the time, both figuratively and literally next to my heart. Hate the leaving behind, but also embrace it: you leave concerns on the ground, not as a palliative, but rather because you have other things that need to be 100% in the forefront of your mind.

Picked that handy habit up from skydiving in college: you acknowledge what might be a little unsettling–you will deliberately step into nothingness 2,000 feet up, tumble like a rag doll (be patient) till you regain control, plunging straight down–because you need to be completely focused on what matters in the air. Acknowledge it, then leave it on the ground where it belongs.

Same deal now. Clear your mind because you can’t have a lot of drag on your attention when you’re hurtling through the sky. Epaulets next–need to throw those in the wash, they’re getting dirty from the shoulder straps resting on them in the cockpit–then we’re good to go.

Leaving is always such a downer for me. I like my life, home, family–“the road” as a crewmember is solitude, anonymous hotel rooms; airports, waiting, then periods of intense concentration on details you’ve done a million times, but they have to be done perfectly each time.

A recent ATSA study showed that over one third of all airline accidents occur in the take-off phase of flight, even though that phase accounts for less than 10% of an aircraft’s flight time. What that means is beyond the aircraft being at the lowest end of its performance regime in speed and maneuverability, mistakes in calculations and automation input errors of those performance numbers becomes an immediately dangerous situation as you try to lift off. So the painstaking crosschecks before take-off must be thoroughly painstaking each and every time, no matter what the hour or how tired you are.

Driving to the airport, you can and should actually pay attention to the sky: south wind, they’re landing south; that’ll be a different clearance and since we’re going north today, an extra few minutes. Those are fair weather clouds, must be high pressure; hope it holds through tomorrow. See? Your head’s in the game, you’ve left home–because you have to.

I stay in a bubble from then on, a little withdrawn by choice. Not engaged in anything social, although yeah, I can be glad to see an old friend or say hello. But I like the bubble of isolation so I can save the peace as a backdrop for the work that is to come.

Now comes the first of a bunch of decisions. The route today–why this one? Seems kind of north-ish for our destination. Look further: winds aloft, rides, turbulence. But how old is this wind data? I have a hunch it’s out of date at this late hour–there’s seniority, I don’t do the early morning stuff–and there’s a good chance that the higher altitudes have settled down. Still, I’ll take the additional fuel and if we can cruise higher, we’ll be fat at the destination. Because in my little pilot brain, the only time you can have too much fuel is when you’re on fire.

Flight Operations, below the DFW terminal.

Happy with the route? The fuel load? If not, a simple call to Flight Dispatch and it’s done. Check out the weather radar, first in Ops, but then right before stepping onto the plane on the iPhone app, “My Radar:” you can see the entire route of flight and the radar image of whatever’s going to be in your way.

Pushback’s in an hour–let’s not be too hasty here. No need to get on board and sit. The First Officer’s already there, doing the exterior preflight, then he’ll be doing the cockpit set-up. Better to stay out of the way, and to preserve the bubble as long as possible: just flight-related stuff now.

Lot’s of folks have been busy while you’re doing your preflight ritual. The cabin is usually a wreck from the inbound passengers, plus all of the catering has to be removed, then the new flight catering put into both galleys.

And there’s the periodic maintenance of the jet that needs to be done: required systems checks, some top off of oil and hydraulic fluid if noted by the inbound crew.

Time for a last call home to Darling Bride. She knows the drill, having been a flight attendant for 12 years: yes, you get to ‘travel,” woo-hoo, but it’s not like vacation travel. It’s more like being restricted: you don’t have your stuff, can’t do just what you want, and road slop–whatever you can forage at restaurants and the like–is the diet for three days.

Get that McDonald’s coffee now. That’s right, I like McD’s java, and now it’s a ritual. Sure, the number one flight attendant will make coffee if I ask when I board. But why board asking for stuff? Eighteen First Class passengers will be asking for stuff soon enough. Speaking of the number one, remember the first name. The number one takes care of the flight deck; the least you can do is say “please” and “thank you, [first name].” And maybe a cartoon on the flight info sheet.

Show your ID to the gate agents; “Yes, I’m the captain, let me know if I can help you with anything,” then board, squeezing past the passengers, one of whom will say something inane like “We’ll let you by, we need you” (gee thanks) or the like, but preserve the bubble, say nothing–except maybe “excuse me.”

Set up the “nest:” comm cords and headset plugged in, audio channels (flight interphone and PA only till taxi out), adjust the rudder pedals, then the seat height.

Your "cubicle."

Now the painstaking part: glass to paper. That is, the copilot will read off of “the glass” (the display unit for the nav system) all of the route points for the departure, enroute and arrival. They’ve been data-linked to the aircraft, now he’ll read off what the aircraft has and I’ll compare it to the paper flight plan, plus the ATC clearance which has also been sent to us via data link. Verify that it all matches up.

Ditto the performance numbers in the flight management computers: correct gross weight, center of gravity, temperatures, power selection, bleed configuration, cargo, passenger and  fuel weights. Did you read the ATSB article I linked above? It tells of a 747 crew in the middle east recently who input the gross weight as 300-and-some thousand when the “3” was supposed to have been a “5,” meaning the aircraft actually weighed 200,000 more than it was set up for–and no one in the cockpit noticed the typo. They all died.

Painstaking, tedious–every time, exactly correct. Do you “get” the bubble now? In the Air Force, most folks gave up trying to “chat” with me during pre-flight, for the same reason.

Then as now, as before jumping out of an airplane–leave all the chit-chat behind. There’s other stuff to think about and no clutter is better. As a buddy of mine said when we were brand new captains, “This ain’t a popularity contest.”

Preflight complete, catering off the aircraft, passengers seated, bags stowed, flight attendants ready and finally, the agent pokes her head in the flight deck doorway. “All set, Captain? Okay to close the door?” Me; “Yes ma’am, and thanks.” Ker-THUNK–that’s the entry door closing. Then “cabin ready,one-sixty, four flight attendants” from the number one. They want to be sure in an emergency evacuation you know how many of your crew to account for. That’s your job–accounting for everyone at all times: 160 passengers, 6 crew. Whump–that’s the armor-plated cockpit door sealed shut. “Souls on board,” which is the standard emergency info: 166.

Ah, now we’re on our own–just the way I like it. Full jet, full fuel load, ready to fly. My favorite time in the work day: the good part’s dead ahead: let’s go fly.

Coming next: Part 2, the take-off and more.

The jetbridge is gone, and we're on our own--at last.

Turbulence: A Moment of Silence, Please.

Can we talk for a minute? I mean crew to crew? If you’re not flightcrew, this may be boring. Sorry.

But still, let’s talk about not talking for a minute. Here’s the deal:

We’re flying along fat dumb and happy. Then, it gets bumpy. I turn the seatbelt sign on. What do you NOT do? Or more accurately, what do I wish you wouldn’t do?

Call the cockpit. Seriously. What we get more often than not these days is, bumps, then ding-ding. “It’s for you,” I say to the First Officer, even though I am monitoring the flight interphone in my headset. Then I get the thanks a lot look from the F/O who reluctantly picks up the phone.

But I already know what the flight attendant’s going to say: “How long is it going to be bumpy?” or worse, “it’s really bumpy back here.”

Sigh.

First off, besides being an inane question, it shows a real lack of understanding of what just happened, plus what needs to happen. To begin with, if we knew the turbulence was there ahead of time, do you really think we’d fly into it? And given that we didn’t know it was there, how the heck are we supposed to know how long whatever it is we didn’t know about is going to last?

And truly, is it possible that it’s bumpy in back but not in the cockpit, so you really need to call and let us know?

Worse, either of us having to answer the phone with “we have no idea” or “yeah, it’s bumpy up here too” only prolongs the turbulence. Why? Because here’s what has to happen to get out of turbulence.

First, I have to decide if we can climb or descend. Are we light enough for a higher altitude and at that altitude, what is the margin between high speed and low speed stall? That is, a higher altitude may be habitable in smooth air, but not in turbulence–yes, the charts are broken out into smooth, light, moderate and heavy turbulence because it affects both speed control and the airfoil. Given that we are in turbulence at this geographic location, there’s a darn good chance it extends above and below us here as well.

If the margin between high and low speed buffet–Coffin Corner, as it is known–is sufficiently wide in my judgment, then climbing is one option.

The other is descent but that has a catch as well. Yes, the Coffin Corner spread is more favorable. But now we have to worry about fuel burn, which is higher in the denser air of lower altitude–which is why we cruise at the optimum altitude for fuel burn and Coffin Corner spread. I have to calculate whether the increased fuel burn allows for sufficient arrival fuel to accommodate the destination situation–and that varies.

Going into Omaha? Seldom if ever an arrival delay. Atlanta? Chicago, La Garbage? Better have flexibility and loiter time–which means fuel. Plus, the destination weather: with a low ceiling and visibility, even Omaha isn’t a slam dunk.

The final gotcha about descending to a lower cruise altitude because of turbulence is the increased fuel burn it’s going to take to return to the optimum cruise altitude when it’s reported smooth again.

With me so far? Then we need to call air traffic control and find out the ride report and the winds at a higher or lower altitude. Why? because a higher (or sometimes lower) altitude can have a significantly larger headwind, which again affects fuel burn, never mind arrival time. Anyway, calling takes time, then it takes more time for Air Traffic Control (ATC) to find the info we’re asking for.

Once we know the winds and the reported ride conditions, it’s back to a decision about up or down, based on the fuel endurance and destination weather factors I just explained. That all takes time too.

Once we’ve determined the best option, we request a new altitude from ATC, then wait for them to coordinate a new altitude–which also often comes with a catch: sometimes, they’ll need you to turn off course to gain spacing from another aircraft either in the airspace we need to climb through or at the altitude we’ve requested. Again, more fuel. Can we do that?

And then there’s the climb or descent itself: it takes minutes even after the minutes of calculations, requests and clearances.

None of that starts till we’re off the phone with you. Because in a two-man cockpit, both of us must be fully in the decision loop, as well as the execution of the changes in altitude and heading. And even then, we may find the new altitude is not smooth either–in which case the whole process starts over.

You can trust me on this: once we encounter turbulence, we immediately go to work to find a better ride. But none of this happens while you’re calling us. And we’d do it whether you called or not–so don’t delay the process.

If you’ve ever flown with me, you know this: if I know of any turbulence ahead, I’ll call back and tell you to “grab yourself a buttload of jumpseat–she’s gonna buck.” If I haven’t told you and it is suddenly bumpy–grab yourself a buttload of jumpseat–and wait for us to start the process of finding smooth air.

We’re definitely aware of the turbulence and looking for smoother air. All we need is a moment of silence.

Dummy Air: Stupid Is As Stupid Does.

The DC-10 flight engineer was the first to reach the aircraft for pre-flight on a cold, damp Boston morning. Yeah, must be nice to be the captain and First Officer, still in Flight Ops, warm, drinking coffee, chatting with the flight attendants. “Hey, we sent the engineer out to warm up the jet,” they’d say, “he’s supposed to have coffee ready when we get on.”

Same gate, every week, right? Up the steep stairs from the ramp to the jetbridge. Inside, power up the jet. Start the auxiliary power unit for conditioned air to take the chill off of the cabin. Set up the Flight Engineer’s panel, pre-flight the cockpit. Then back outside, flashlight in hand, for the walk-around inspection of the aircraft exterior.

A pause under the tail, slightly aft and to the starboard side–there. No matter what the ramp temperature, in that one spot the air is a balmy seventy-five degrees: that’s where the APU exhaust reaches the ground. Warm jet engine air which strangely, always had the slightest smell of pastries. Wintertime in Chicago or Boston, you’d always see DC-10 engineers spending a significant part of their exterior walk-around in that one spot.

Schlep back up the stairs, punch in the door cipher code; inside to the mid-cabin door. Hmmmmm, waiting till the last minute, I guess the crew is. They’re the ones who will be frantic as 250 people pile aboard and they’re not ready.

Back in the cockpit, set up the nest: pubs out and ready, audio hookup; final cockpit prep. Done.

Waiting.

Where is everyone?

Oh NO: wrong airplane!!! It’s been on this gate every morning all month–but not today!

Frantically re-pack all the engineer pubs and tools. Power the airplane down, beat a hasty exit. Try not to tumble down the steep jetbridge stairs hauling the forty pound flight bag and an equally heavy suitcase. Scurry over to the correct jet–duh, they’re loading cargo on this one, stupid–park the two bags under the nose where you and they can’t be seen from the cockpit.

Quick exterior walk-around, then bound up the inclined steps, into the jetbridge. Squeeze by the boarding passengers, slip into the cockpit. Stow bags ever so quietly. Unpack engineer stuff casually, even though your heart’s still pounding from the Chinese fire drill between jets.

Up front, no one says a word. First Officer is staring off into space. The captain, a very distinguished gentleman of few words, taps his fingers idly on the control yoke.

I breathe a sigh of relief. Pulled it off. All’s well that ends well.

Not so fast.

“Well,” says Bob in the left seat, casting a sly grin my way. “Are there any other jets on the ramp you’d like to pre-flight?”

Busted. Never did make that mistake again. Well, thankfully I was only a flight engineer for a year.

*****

But fast forward now to my early days as captain, flying with one of my favorite First Officers who had earned the nickname “Deuce,” and now I’ll explain for the not-so-faint-of-heart how he earned that sobriquet. If you’re easily grossed out, consider ourselves done here–onto to more erudite reading; see you next post.

This means "stop," in pilot world.

Okay, you still here? Good.

Well anyway, as with flight attendants and felons, there are no “ex-Marines.” Once Semper Fi, always Semper Fi. That’s why in the ex-military frat I come from, Marines are great to fly with. They just never stop being hard-charging and fearless, which is a quality to be admired on the flight deck.

If we’re picking teams for flights or fights, I’ll go with a Marine pilot first choice any day.

“Deuce” won his nickname from a particular talent he had–are you following yet? Stay with me: “deuce” is the number “2.” Is this beginning to make sense?

Anyway, as is the Marine way, Deuce liked to establish his virility and prowess through what George Costanza referred to as “feats of manly strength.” In Deuce’s case that had to do with a certain bodily function.

The MD80 lav is like a barely sophisticated outhouse. The one item that differentiates it from your average porta-potty is the “splash pan.” That is, a flimsy metal plate on the bottom that opens like a trap door under any, uh, weight of any kind, depositing stuff into the swirling blue pool of degerm.

I know, “eww.” Anyway, my ex-Marine compadre claimed as his feat of strength that he could propel his nastiness hard enough to audibly knock the metal splash plate against the housing. The distinct metallic “whack” was his signature, and from the cockpit, there was no mistaking it.

For him, it was like a carnival game, with his own unique sledge hammer ringing the bell every time.

What can I say? Flying is a serious business, so it’s cool to have a little comic relief between crises. Again, Marines are the best for that. Duece “saved up” daily so he could whack the splash pan audibly, for me in the cockpit and of course, for everyone in First Class. Who da’ man? Deuce.

And yeah, after a month of flying with the Deuce, I did consider challenging him–but only for an instant.

Gawd--this is disgusting.

Gave up that idea real fast. Anyway, fast-forward to the 737, my new, twenty-first century jet. New lav, with a Teflon base and suction that if you were a fat guy sitting on the can in First Class and flushed, you’d get sucked into coach in an instant. No more swirling cesspool stinking up the forward end of the jet. But no more carnival-game splash pan.

I flew with Deuce on the 737. Great reunion–glad you’re on the fleet! Good to fly with you again. But what about that lav? No splash pan.

Deuce shrugged, older and wiser. “Doesn’t matter,” he said, “I had to stop doing the deal on the MD-80 anyway.”

What? Why?

He shrugged and looked away. “Gave myself roids.” Pause. “Huge roids.”

Nuff said. Semper Fi. And like the goofy engineer story, stupid is as stupid does.

See you next week.

Time and Space in the Passage Place.

There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
–T.S. Eliot

The Greeks saw time as a two headed monster: chronos, which is the moments ticking by, and kairos, which is the moment, the “aha” sledgehammer of revelation. Funny how one you count, the other you live. Chronus is the abacus and the sliding of beads; kairos the realization of self–and yet kairos takes a back seat to chronus in life as in flight.

Unless you fight it. Let me explain.

Here comes the god Chronus. The price of jet fuel is up 3.3% this week, up 9.6% over last month, and a whopping 26.3% over December of last year–with the price of oil rapidly rising as we speak. My life–and your flight–is counted in air nautical miles per pound of fuel; ANPP, as we call it.

I don’t care about gallons, because they mean nothing in the lift equation, which is what gets our eighty ton freight train into the air. I don’t care about dollars as much as I do minutes, which is what moves us from here to there.

Can’t argue with physics, chronus’s relentless thug. And while I know can’t forget chronus’s digital constructs of “now” and “then”  orchestrating the results of “where” and “when” . . .

. . . I have his relentless data stream from a dozen satellites crunched by another dozen on-board processors populating the abacus with characters accurate down to a ridiculously small margin, claiming “here is where and when you are breathing out and in.”

He’s got a picture for those who would track us, constructed from the ionic backscatter bounced off our riveted hull and scooped up by a scythe-like radar arc sweeping relentlessly, converting us into a dot inching across a black glass pancake.

And he has a cartoon for me that converts our 160 bodies of blood and bone into a white triangle on a magenta line, ever forward-facing, with a numerical count of the seemingly silent action of our passage.

And if it weren’t enough to reduce sky and earth to formulaic characters interacting in sums and differences, the twenty-first century chronus presents me a with a combined image of both the digital abacus and the dirt below–all in one cyber-mirage.

“See?” barks Chronus, dog that he is. “Wasn’t I right all along?” Yeah, he’s tidily accurate to within a few feet, even after a few thousand miles aloft. As if that were all that mattered: the counting of the beads. The passage of time. Like the passage itself didn’t matter. You just sit there–I’ll drag everything by you, tell you what you need to know, never mind seeing or the gods forbid, being.

And that’s exactly where chronus is a liar and a thief. He wants to bottle you up like a genie inside your head. He wants you to overlook your own being in favor of a place ahead or behind; he wants you to live in the “then” and forget the “now.” Use your head and not your eyes. And this is what he’d have you do:

Pretend you are elsewhere. Not notice the “here”–be all about “there.”  The time between here and there is of no consequence and in fact is best left alone or if need be, avoided with the deliberate distraction of Inflight Entertainment or digital connections (chronus has ’em, right?) that reach beyond where you are (inflight wireless connections!) in favor of where you wish you were. He’ll tell you that what matters is solely what you can quantify, what you can calculate, what you can reduce to figural representation.

What a crock. He has no soul.

What chronus would desperately like to hide is the reality that your time spent in passage is a passage itself. And like poetry, that’s not something you’re supposed to “get” –it’s what you’re supposed to live. Kairos is all about the eyes and the heart–not the mind and the head.

It’s the burning lip of death on the horizon, as the day heaves a last sigh that endures for a thousand miles through a long, long flight hour. Would be convenient to ignore the approaching sunset–hard on the eyes, isn’t it? But it’s underway regardless, a portent of the future painted in our “now.”

It’s Arizona sneaking into New Mexico on the dragon breath of a west wind, looking more like an uber-pastel than a omnivorous cloud of stinging dust.

Or consider–and look (LOOK HARDER, my T-38 instructor pilot used to say) at the aquamarine jewel embedded in the jagged Sierras.

Doesn’t cost you anything–give it a long look, and contemplate the deepness of blue, above and below and ahead. And aren’t we lucky, miles above the wall of thunder beating up the plains states right now? Enjoy: this is included in the price, because it’s not just the passage of time or miles–this is your life cruising by with the hands of the clock. We’re way too fast for the storms, but of course, not the clock.

But for kairos, that’s less important. In the moment of revelation, of living out the beauty of the passage, the limitations of time and place mean little.

But missing the moment means everything.

Flight–like life–is the intersection of kairos and chronos, and the trick is to balance the two: one endures, one is simply endurance. If you can’t tell the difference, or if you can and just need a reminder, it’s time to fly.

If you look–if you bother to look–the revelation is there for free: flying, in passage, where you really ought to “be.”

*****

I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves

Combing the white hair of the waves blown back

When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea

By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown

Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

–T.S. Eliot

Peak Experience

When I lived in Honolulu, over time I grew to take the visual for granted. That hit me one evening as I was taking out the garbage. Over my head, spread out like a splash of spilled paint, a furious crimson sunset vaulted across the sky.

Good thing I took out the garbage.

But that’s the way we get, isn’t it? Workaday world with an accretive ho-hum factor. What was wondrous becomes worn, routine and eventually, just another thing to do. If that’s the thing you always do.

Or maybe you’re a victim of circumstance. Used to marvel at a once-in-a-blue moon view of the gravelly dark volcano spine of Iceland during an Atlantic crossing or the blue sea ice sprawl of the Greenland fjords. Seldom did the weather or the route allow such a view, but if you were in back, you didn’t see it. That’s because the one time I made a P.A. telling the passengers to look off the right wingtip and behold the marvel below, it was only a matter of seconds before the flight attendant purser crashed through the cockpit door, livid.

“They all lifting their window shades to look out the windows!” she bellowed.

The horror. Not passengers looking out the windows at an incredible view; rather, the bloated and reddened face of the flight attendant chewing my ass. “Now they’re all going to want stuff! That’s why we’re running the movie!”

But still. This is where I’m a bad dog: I still will tell you when there’s something wondrous to see. Like yesterday–and here’s my not noticing the sunset till I take out the trash–I was hassling with an air traffic control clearance, a balky fuel boost pump, and crosschecking the weather radar when I happened to notice this right in front of my face:

Mt. St. Helen’s north face–blown off in 1981, buried in recent snow but the story’s clear enough, isn’t it? Stupid me for being heads-down, just another departure with a little fuel imbalance and navigation hassle thrown in. But there was more.

St. Helens’ big sister, Ranier looking stately as ever with a 14,410 stature of quiet dignity.  Almost missed that too, but truly, she’s hard to miss.

Especially if you’re allowed to look. Who’s stopping you? Well, who’s stopping me besides me? What is it about chores that take your focus until someone tells you to open the window shade and look? And life goes on nonetheless.

Further south: Hood!

God we have a lot of pointy stuff in this country, don’t we? In fact, take a look at the carpet of rocks that is the Sierras. I can’t even imagine the cajones of those who crossed this monstrous tract on foot.

And it’s not just the peakish stuff–we have magnificent ditches, too. The Grand Canyon sneaks up on you too, embarassing those who don’t notice until the trash is full that there are wondrous things silently waiting to suck the breath out of you.

And let’s nod to civilization. Now and again, a concrete ridge pops out of an undercast with man made peaks and valleys of vertical beauty:

Even if there’s nothing to see outside–there’s still something! Like these clouds which, from seven miles above, look more like sand dunes than anything, sprawling five hundred miles in all directions.

And you want dunes? We have real dunes too. If you were on the ground, this would be a nasty sandstorm in Arizona, wouldn’t it? But from the heaven’s eye view, this is a beautifully painted, delicate marzipan.

Is that just life or what? Isn’t it so that there’s much furious and breathtaking life spinning by below that we don’t even notice while we have our head buried in work and hobbies and distractions and stuff?

Sure, there’s always the office. Always work. But.

There’s more, too, isn’t there? Wheeling by silently, below, waiting but not caring if you look or not–it’s your loss, right?

Yes, that’s 619 knots–over 700 miles per hour.

Life comes at you fast, doesn’t it? Or more realistically, goes by way fast–whether you’re looking or not. Lift the shades, for god’s sake. Screw the fat woman yelling inside to close the shades and watch the damn movie. Worry less about the boost pump–we can balance fuel later–and take a breath between radio negotiations with air traffic control to look down.

It’s all going on, and going by, my friend. Have a quick look–because that’s about all you’ll get before it’s gone.

Holiday Travel Weirdness: The Jethead Chronicles.

What is it about holiday season travel that brings out such weirdness? I’m not just talking about the vagrant standing out in front of our favorite Seattle crew hangout with the helpful sign:

He also offered to be my “bodyguard” for $5, but I was with Ben The Dependable Copilot, and Ben’s about 6′ 2″ and weighs in about 220, so I passed. But still.

And even Pike’s Market Place was a little off the game today as well:

So just getting away from the airport doesn’t seem to limit the weirdness this time of year.

Now, at the airport, odd stuff is a given. That’s because odd people still have very little time and so must go by air, I suppose, to share their weirdness with family and friends.

Some folks just don’t get out much, but this being the holiday season, they’re of necessity heading to “somewhere else” and you know what the fastest way is from point “A” to point “B,” right?

Maybe there’s too much of a good thing on either end–eating, drinking, whatever. Problem is, airline crews are kind of stuck in the middle: between wherever “here” and “there” is for the traveling public, our workplace is the waiting room.

I guess folks just make themselves at home, or forget they’re not at home. Either way, our “workplace” is more bizarre than ever during the holidays as a result. The trick is to not only act like you don’t notice (step around the seemingly dead body for whom apparently stretching out on the floor is fine), but to try to act nonchalant when you do–which sometimes is difficult.

The on-board weirdness is predictable, with holiday travelers who are often infrequent flyers. Go ahead, mop the lavatory floor with your socks, Mr. Seldom Travels By Air. I don’t want to even think about it, but I am grateful that at least somebody’s cleaning that outhouse floor, even if the flight attendants are gagging when you do.

Or, go ahead and ask if there’s food on this flight. Has a nice, nostalgic ring to it, especially since there hasn’t been a meal served in coach this century.

I don’t mind for two reasons. One is because no matter how many times airlines, air travel organizations or even travel agents tell you that you need to bring your own food (and water if you want real convenience), you’d rather be surprised.

And second, the cockpit door is locked from the inside, so you can’t see what I’m eating anyway

Whoo-hoo: hot fudge brownies for the crew!

and really, you wouldn’t want to know anyway.  It’s pretty scary up front. Right?

No, honestly, what it is is peaceful. Darling Bride used to come up to the cockpit when we were flying at night and say how it was a cozy cocoon. It is, and I appreciate that–especially compared to what goes on in the back of the plane.

Phoenix glides by 7 miles below.

Gives you time and silence to put things into perspective. When you do, you realize that holiday travel is the best: it’s more than just business or even vacations. It’s families; it’s reunions and gatherings and children. It’s not just air travel, it’s yearlong anticipation of children and adults alike.

Our Chief Pilot–a true leader who voluntarily flies  on every holiday–uses this example to explain: The CEO of Revlon once said, “We don’t sell cosmetics–we sell hope.” Truly, what we do in these holiday travel weeks is just as magic: it’s hope for many, joy for the kids and for the adults who love them.

Come to think of it, weirdness and all, this is a great time of year to be an airline pilot, to fly families and friends to reunions and holiday gatherings.

I’ll be in the air this week–next week too, looking to make somebody’s travel as quick and easy as possible so they to can be with family and friends for the holiday. Really, it’s the least I can do considering they’ll mop up the lav floor without even knowing it.

The TRUTH About Flight Attendants.

You sure you’re ready for the truth?

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

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

My friend Melissa and her crew.

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

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

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

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

Thanks, Mom.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wet cleanup on aisle six.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And THAT is the truth about Flight Attendants.

Epilogue:

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

Coming next:

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

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