Fly early, or be late.

Fly early, or be late. Here’s why.

First, consider aircraft and crew access. On the first few flights of the day, both the aircraft and crew are beginning their first flight of the day. That’s important to you, because it means they most likely spent the night at the airport. So when you get there, they’re already at the gate, not coming in from a distant location, subject to arrival delays due to weather.

Some important advantages you gain early in the day:

1. If on the last flight the aircraft had any mechanical discrepancies reported, mechanics have had all night to perform any required maintenance.

2. The crew, too, is fresh: their FAA mandated maximum day is just starting. No problems with crew legalities.

3. The crew is together–not the cabin crew coming in from one coast, the flight deck crew from the other. They’re all starting from this particular airport.

4. The maintenance shift has just begun, plenty of time for mechanics to complete any work before shift change. More about that later.

5. Less gate delays: the aircraft is likely ON the gate, not waiting for the gate to become available, thereby delaying their deplaning, your boarding, and the swap of cargo and baggage.

Delays due to crew manning, maintenance requirements, and gate availability are much less likely EARLY IN THE DAY.

Next, think about passenger loads, because they do affect you. Here’s a chart of planned departure times and passenger loads from Denver to Chicago on one air carrier:

Passenger Loads Denver to O’Hare 2-27-10

Flight	Departs	Arrives	Passengers	Capacity
1	0700	0914	65	148
2	0755	1008	71	148
3	0845	1100	110	148
4	0955	1215	127	148
5	1100	1300	165	172
6	1135	1345	138	148
7	1210	1430	142	148
8	1255	1520	144	148
9	1340	1605	255	237
10	1450	1720	150	148
11	1535	1755	181	178
12	1650	1917	155	148
13	1800	2005	135	148
14	1900	2110	142	148
15	1950	2205	128	148
16	2055	2305	101	148
17	2130	2350	65	148

Note that before noon, the flights aren’t quite booked full, but after noon, several are overbooked. Why?

If you’re early, particularly in a mid-continent hub like Denver, DFW or Chicago, no one has been able to fly in yet to connect: the east coast flights haven’t landed yet, and the west coast, hours behind, haven’t even begun to board and dispatch. Which means less competition for seats with standby upgrades or overbooking.

But you’re not standby, you say, right? You will be if there’s a cancellation, especially of your flight. But look at the above chart–your best bet to snag another seat is in the morning. By the afternoon, a bow wave of standby passengers will have those flights packed to the gills.

Once the connecting flights from either coast or commuter connections from outlying areas add their passengers into the hub airport passenger pool, it’s a whole different ballgame. If arrival at your destination is time critical, or if you have a down-line connection the odds are more in your favor early in the day. Later, as the day goes on and delays, cancellations and stand-by lists begin to snowball, not so much.

Here are two other crucial factors that can be largely sidestepped early in the day.

1. Weather.

Sure, there are storms in the morning sometimes. But not the ones that result from the day’s heating and convection of moisture. But even if there is bad weather in the morning, if your aircraft is on its first flight of the day, at least it’s there–and so is your crew. Later in the day, your inbound jet could have to divert because of weather, tossing you into the standby line, or inducing a large delay. Crews, too, start running up against the FAA duty limits due to diversions. Don’t gripe–the FAA limits are for your protection as well as mine: you really want me on duty more than 14 hours for your landing?

2. Maintenance shift change. Why is this important? Simple: because an FAA-certified mechanic is performing licensed procedures on any aircraft. His signature goes on the paperwork certifying the maintenance action. It’s just not workable for one mechanic to do part of the procedure, then have another finish and sign for the entire job. So, if the first flights are at 6:00 or 7:00 in the morning, add eight hours and see when lengthy maintenance actions will probably not be started because they can’t be finished within the shift and so are likely to wait for the next shift. Which means you will wait, too. And I know what you’re thinking, but no–there’s no money for mechanics’ overtime in the sea of red ink flowing from the airline industry. The job will be done right, but you’ll likely wait.

Finally, I recommend you board early. That’s because of human nature: nobody’s going to do as they’re told and put one of their hand-carried items under their seat, then maybe one in the overhead storage bin. If you board last, it’s likely to be you standing in the aisle with a bag but no place to put it.

Other passengers will avoid eye contact with you, acting as if they DIDN’T already hog all the overhead storage space–but they did. And your bag is going to have to be gate-checked, whether you want it to or not. Choose a seat near the mid-point of the cabin if you can, which means the middle boarding call:

I like those emergency exits over the wing. Not only is there more leg room,  it’s also the smoothest ride  because the center of gravity and thus the pivot point of the jet in both pitch and roll are there. No, you won’t see much on the ground because the wing is in the way, but  you also won’t be the last group called to board, and thus be stuck with nowhere to stow your hand-carried items. You also won’t have to wait for the entire aircraft to deplane before you can get off–you’ll be in the middle of the pack.

Okay, got all that? Here’s a summary: early, early, early; booking, boarding, flying. You’ll have a smoother flight with less opportunity for delays.

Good luck, and by the way, don’t look for me at the airport when you get there early: I’m not an early morning person. Since the plane won’t leave without me, I’ll take my chances later.

Lake Tahoe

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Sure, it’s always funny till someone loses an eye.

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Haiti, Champagne–but “we are not dangerous.” Are we?

When the earthquake struck Haiti, I was about eighty miles south of the island, cutting limes. Of course, being on an enormous cruise liner meant that via satellite, the news reached our cabin as we channel surfed, me cutting limes to ward off scurvy and also for yet another round of vodka tonics before yet another late-seating formal dinner. While it occurred to My Darling Bride that there might be the possibility of a Tsunami, I was less concerned, figuring that the problem came when a giant wave couldn’t go around a fixed land mass and so just washed right over it. Seems like the ship floating on the surface would be fine, especially pointed away from the doomed island and making 24 knots in the opposite direction.

As if by on cue, Captain Giorgio Pomata came on the ship’s public address system. In labored, halting, thickly accented English, he promised there was no report or forecast of a Tsunami and ultimately, he proclaimed that “we are not dangerous.” Hearing that reassurance from the captain, it seemed that the ship’s 3,332 passengers simply returned to the wretched excess that is the hallmark of American cruising.

To that end, Princess Cruises had set up their signature “champagne fountain” in the grand atrium. The “fountain” is simply dozens and dozens of wine glasses painstakingly stacked in ever smaller tiers culminating in just one glass at the top of a pyramid so tall it took stairs and a scaffold to position Captain Pomata to pour the first glass, the topmost glass.

The "champagne fountain."

He dumped a whole bottle on the stack; it bubbled and slopped down the sides to “oohs” and “ahhs” from passengers, and likely groans from the staff who had to mop it up weekly. And although the full extent of the Haitian quake was not apparent from the early reports, still, I had the creeping feeling of discomfort at what was unfolding as a display of excess for the sake of excess on our little floating island south of the disaster site.

The point of the fountain, it became clear, was this: after the captain poured the first glass, you as a passenger could take a turn, climb the scaffold, pour some champagne on the bubbly, overflowing stack, and have your picture taken by the ship’s photographer which would be available later for $29.99. The champagne? Well, it basically just ran off and accumulated on the tarp spread below, ready for clean-up presumably by the crew who’d painstakingly set it up so we could slop perfectly good champagne all over it. We shook our heads and left the Grand Foyer for a quieter spot.

And that, then, is cruising as usual, preserved by the ethos of Captain Pomata whose authoritative words of assurance gave everyone what they needed to resume the blissful detached ease–and excess–that they’d paid for and expected upon embarking on the voyage. And the institutional import of the image began to dawn on me.

Captain Giorgio Pomata.

The captain probably couldn’t have cared less about the Champagne fountain, but most likely, despite the overlay of cruise excess, was very concerned–and responsible–for the safety of his 3,332 passengers in the wake of the enormous geological event a short distance to the north. Because he did his job and as importantly, physically and verbally (however painstakingly) provided a representation of doing so, we could all go about our voyage undaunted. Buzzkill.

Suddenly, I was back at work. And part of the job that no airline pilot can forget is both the charge of safe passage for crew and passengers, but also the representation that the whole deal–safety, comfort, security–is taken care of. The second part is easy: wear your uniform properly and act appropriately when you do.

The first part? Not so simple. First, the most obvious demand is safety. We spend a whole career training for this, working to improve, to keep our skills at the leading edge of the industry. I can only speak for my airline which like most, is dead serious about the training and competence of their pilots.

And if it wasn’t, I wouldn’t set foot in the cockpit, period. That’s guaranteed, by the way, by the operating certificate of any airline–or cruise line as well–and enforced with regular and random evaluations and observation from myriad regulatory agencies and from within the company itself.

It’s the trick that Captain Pomata gave forth so readily that’s difficult: his announcement that “we are not dangerous” was what we needed to hear. NEEDED to hear, which was sufficient, knowing that it was backed up by the years of experience, thousands of hours of training, and thousands more in practice.

In my thirty-plus years in the cockpit, I have at times landed with an engine shut down. In my career as an airline captain, I haven’t directly told the passengers, knowing that what they really wanted to know–and I could unfailingly provide–was that they “weren’t dangerous.” And they weren’t, thanks to the years and hours of experience and training I mentioned.

So what you don’t really need to know, don’t worry: I’ve got you covered. But what you don’t want to know, well, that’s more a matter of conscience.

The part that picks at the conscience, in the case of wretched excess at sea, is what I didn’t know was the agonizing tragedy unfolding  just to the north. I didn’t know because I didn’t want to know–that’s why we were at sea–and needed only to be sure all was well on our floating island.

At stake in the difference between what passengers needed to know and wanted to know was not our safety, but rather, our humanity. Beyond the remote possibility of a Tsunami, the real danger wasn’t in what we didn’t want to know, but rather, the risk of going about our vacation without a care.

The first cruise ship to dock in Haiti after the earthquake  created quite a controversy. Because what’s the balance between not knowing, not caring, or as importantly, not even wanting to know? Who’s responsible for cleaning up, whether it’s deliberately and frivolously spilled champagne, or the wreckage of a neighboring country with no infrastructure?

While many aboard that day had concerns over the Haitian dilemma, perhaps even that and the juxtaposition of festivities in our world going on regardless, many didn’t:

Ultimately, we docked and returned to the real world, and there it was, full blast from every form of news media:  the colossal tragedy and continued need for rescue. Met some really nice folks on that cruise and I wonder if they felt the same pangs upon reentering the real world on dry land and realizing the full extent of the disaster we’d so glibly sailed by. I’m sure they did.

In that regard, I’m proud that my airline was the first to return to Haiti following the quake. Not because it made “business sense,” because with damaged ground facilities and canceled passenger travel plans, it probably didn’t.

But it was sorely needed to reopen the bridge of commerce and humanity to that unfortunate country. And with each flight came tons of relief supplies and thousands of dollars in aid donated by my fellow employees. Not because they had to, but rather, because it was the right thing to do.

Which leads me back to the captain’s reassuring words. No, we were “not dangerous.” But, given the choice to know or not, to look away or not, to stand aside or not, in the face of disaster playing out in a nation cast aside by colonialism, are we “harmless?” Champagne poured and spilled aside–that’s the real question and the answer has less to do with safety and everything to do with humanity.

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The truth about airline ticket prices.

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

Jerry Jones.

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

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

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

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

"YTBSM."

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

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

A snack bar price list at "Jerry World."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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View from above: “Where am I?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Airline Captain: It’s all about the prestige.

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

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

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

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

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

"Honey, I'm home!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

Other crewmembers might have lower nutritional standards

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

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

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

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

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

plus that of your fellow pilots

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

"Get out of my seat, old man."

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

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

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

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

Employee lot, DFW, February 11, 2010.

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

Car in driveway = roommate made bail!

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

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

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

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

Deja Crew: Once and Again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Olympic Update:

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

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“Far Away” revisited.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The glamorous airline lifestyle.

It’s not just the glamor that makes this job great–it’s the little unexpected “extras.”
Even though we landed last night at 11pm and don’t leave till 3pm today, my crew and I are still at “the short layover hotel” in Raleigh-Durham. That means close to the airport but worse, limited food options.

In this case here at lovely Raleigh-Durham, that means The Wyndham.

Wyndham RDU: in the middle of nowhere.

And this is how I find my room

which is why I don’t have to set an alarm. There will be vacuuming no matter what I hang on my door

Hotel Housekeeping manual: "This sign means vaccum incessantly here at 6am."

Anyway, avoiding the $25 breakfast “scarf-till-you-barf” buffet, I made it till about 11:30am, then had to break down and resort to the dreaded hotel restaurant for a $14 sandwich.

You like plastic plants and elevator music? Of course you do.

Not to worry: with your 10% airline crew discount, this is only going to be a $14 sandwich, with tip.

Decent, huh? Turkey Reuben, fries. What could possibly go wrong now? Look close:

What’s a little fried hair, right? Kind of gives new meaning to their marketing slogan:

I just think maybe a brunette, or some auburn highlights, would be better with fries, don’t you think?

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Airline pilots are overpaid–or maybe not.

Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Meet your congress!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No, we’re not defenseless in the cockpit:

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

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

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

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

2. Mile High Club? Seriously?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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