Stupid Layover Tricks: Sharks In Death Valley.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s up?” I asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Say What?”–The Passenger Chronicles.

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

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

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

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

Huh? Is he being obnoxious? Abusive?

No. He’s kind of bragging.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Great idea. Right? Wait for it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Everything all right back there?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nightshift: Meditations From A Dark Sky.

There’s a soundtrack especially for this text.

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

Ah, the sun: sneaky devil.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Exeunt.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because  in air travel, this:

Has given way to this:

. . . and so this

Has devolved into this:

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

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

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

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

The Sky’s On Fire

To add audio to your experience, click here, start “Waltz in Blue,” adjust to a comfortable volume, then return here to read. Enjoy.

 

 

You can see this, right? I mean if you look:

That’s plain as day–well, late day–when it’s stuck in your face and you open your eyes. In fact I’m half blind squinting  straight into the arc weld shrinking into itself on the fringe of night, folding up the day and running off to the west. But that’s not all that sunset is nor all that’s whisked to the west and away.

Comes up like that too, doesn’t it? It’s the early time, bright golden light warming wings for flight, leaving the dew but taking the chill.

Fresh painted colors so blazing vivid because they’re new, and not just to the day, but also the season: it’s early summer. What a down-to-earth thing, this whole waking up to simple flight in every furious color of the rainbow. The hive’s alive, isn’t it? Launch to the four winds.

And worker bees don’t care about duration. Rather, it’s all about the flight; the getting and carrying and going then putting down. To get and carry some more, crisscrossing the landscape with studious intent. The sky’s full, abuzz, worker bees everywhere.

That’s the engine driven by daylight, roused by the sunrise–alarm clock!–always moving once warm and awake the swarm spreads east to west in the sky. Later is better, to me: I’m senior in the air, which means I don’t get up early any more to fly.

Sure, I vaguely remember “back in the day” when I did, when the coolest thing was dawn on the flight ramp, among the flock of big metal birds fueled and ready to split the air with the roar of jet engines. But this is now and I sleep later since I can; so yeah with the relentless hands of the clock, the dawn is behind me now and almost a piece of nostalgia anymore.

Guess folks leave the nest less wide-eyed the more wake-ups you stack end to end. Slower? Less color? The more comfy chair for you then?

Early, late–whatever the time, you HAVE to fly, to leave the hive eventually and take to the air. That’s what the day brings with the arc of the sun from the first sliver in the east that vanquishes the night. Those were the days, when dawn meant a new day of discovery, not just covering ground. Whatever happened was almost incidental, choreographed by others bigger and further along in their sunlight arc.

And when the light is brightest, the world at it’s hottest brightest best, it seems like moving is all anyone does, and so you fly too, making your rounds in the sky.

Follow them! Move, and move fast, from flower to flower; it’s what you have to do, what everyone does: noon is no time to rest. So we fly, like everyone else. Yeah we do.

So back to my original question: you can see all this unfolding, right? The greater significance of the flight, the ground crossed, the sun chase we never will win? Or am I seeing it because it’s in my face, but for you, only a sidelong glance.

You’re flying too but even though you’re going straight ahead, your only view is from side to side. You aren’t beak-to-beak, chasing the sun, tending the fires and logging the run.

The sun goes down slowly sidelong when you can’t see it slip lower, measuring it not only with the horizon–

–but also with the colors as they fade in the sun’s march with which we can’t keep up. It’s the subtle consolation prize from the lateness of the day: gold, goldeness as if lovely parting gifts: thanks for playing.

You can hardly remember the boldness of late spring cardinal colors–who gets up at dawn anyway, if you don’t have to–in the expiring light of day that slants and shrinks away.

Then you can almost do the geometry and see the arc quietly closing in on the horizon. Or maybe you don’t. Maybe you don’t have the pointy end horizon view, or don’t want to.

You have faith in where you’re going and on the way there, a glance outside is enough to see that we’re upright, that you’re still moving blossom to blossom, at least forward. And that’s enough for now anyway, right? Always that “now,” did you notice that?

But sunset’s about “then,” not now; “there,” not here. How many times enmeshed in our busy-bee flight of right now do we really think about “then?” About where that fireball’s headed, taking with it the warmth and the color and the day? Not just the end of flight, but the end of flying?

Colors fade, motion ceases, eventually. Not everyone flies past the golden sunset, you’d have to suppose but who really knows? I just fly the jet for you and though I often wonder what everyone does when they get “there,” I’m too soon taking off again, taking others wherever “there” is for them.

Look, it’s not my place to tell you how to bee–I’m still trying to figure that out myself. I just wanted to give you a heads-up on the revelation that you can only get from the front.

Yeah, the sky’s on fire. But that ain’t all that’s burning.

“Waltz in Blue” is original music by Chris Manno.

Copyright, Cyber-Sonic Music 2010

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Air Bear: Beware.

Early in my career as a bear, I learned a valuable lesson: reality is flexible, but only from the outside. So not for me, of course, but for those who see me. Let me explain.

That’s me at fourteen years old, wearing a bear suit for minimum wage. My brother had been the bear before me there at “Cartoonland Restaurants, Inc,” mercifully now defunct and swallowed up by larger fast food chains. No more live bears.

And that’s the problem with flexible reality: whatever people see, you get to be–like it or not. And I kind of did, at least for the pay, but minimum wage made even that a little iffy.

Because it was four hours at a whack of sensory deprivation: I could only see a small bit straight ahead from the mesh covered nose.

So it was far from fun and games from the inner-bear perspective. On top of the sensory deprivation and boredom was the external expectations. And not not just talking about the kids who figured, based on the cartoons, that Yogi could take a punch to the nuts. Rather, it was the manager who, from inside the restaurant itself, monitored and critiqued my every move.

On the loudspeaker that blared over the “pick-a-nick” ground: “Bear, move around. Bear, get off the bench. Bear, give out balloons at the carry-out window.”

There was no rest for the bear. Except on the hour, when child labor laws required I be give ten minutes which I took as my brother did: in the walk-in freezer.

There I could take off the unwieldy fiberglass bear head and cool down for a minute and most importantly, have a moment of peace amid the silent burger patties, the produce, and the dairy products shelved there. Plus–you can see it there–the white bucket.

That was the “special sauce” for the burgers. It was also therapy for the bears. As my brother explained, sure, they could hound you over the loudspeaker, drivers on the main drag could honk and yell obscenities, kids could whack you anywhere they wanted to.

But in the coolness of the freezer, silent save a whirring fan and condenser, payback: open the sauce bucket, expectorate; close the bucket.

Then on the hour, back outside for more sensory deprivation and relentless hounding from the loudspeaker.

Life was not as happy-go-lucky from inside the Yogi suit as it was from outside.  And yet, that was the reality for those who enjoyed the restaurant, both adults and kids. Until the day I inadvertently backed into the barbecue pit with its fake logs but very real gas flame. Then the same dull, nagging voice from the speaker: “Bear, you’re on fire.”

And I was, or at least the Yogi suit was. That was pretty much the end of my career as a bear.

Fast forward about fifteen years and a new costume for me: airline pilot. Long after I’d traded the bear suit for an Air Force uniform and ultimately a flight suit, I traded all that in for the current four stripes and wings of an airline captain for the past 19 years.

Mostly fun from the inside and out, but it has its days of dark challenges, long hours and hot airplanes that make one wish for a few moments alone in the walk-in freezer.

But that’s not the only connection between fast-food, costumes, reality and the guy in the suit.

I stopped at McDonald’s in the airport recently for a cup of coffee to go. Had a buck out, ready to pay the usual seventy-some cents. But the clerk says, “that’s one-twenty six.”

Huh? Have you gone up? It’s usually under a dollar. “No,” he answers, with a sly grin, “that’s the senior citizen rate.”

Bear, you’re on fire.

How differently things looked from inside the costume. How flexible, and merciless (I really was on fire) the reality from without. The next time I got charged seventy-four cents for coffee, I saved the receipt. Damn.

This time it was me who’d been fooled by the costume. I felt the same as the day I’d put it on the first time, but that was twenty-five years ago. Well, there’s the flexibility of reality: it depends on which side of the costume you’re looking at it from, and what you’re willing to believe.

I’m not the guy in the bear suit any more, not the young guy in the pilot suit either, except for some days, depending on who’s manning the cash register: some simply charge me for coffee. Others say just give the old bastard his senior rate coffee.

But either way, bear suit or flight suit, seventy cents or a dollar twenty, in flames or not–I’m still just me. That’s reality.

And since I discovered all this as usual at a fast food restaurant, how about a quick break in the walk-in freezer? I’ll cool down and while I’m at it, check on the special condiments. Won’t take but a minute, then I’ll be back out in character with that same secret smile, good as new. Why the smile? Never mind reality–use your imagination.

Unfriendly Skies and the Avoidable MidAir Collision

Apparently, the skies above our nation have become less friendly recently.

The Washington Post recently reported on a dangerous trend in aviation:

The NTSB is investigating almost a dozen midair near-collisions that have occurred nationally since it began to mandate that they be reported in March. They include an incident 24,000 feet over Maryland on March 25, when a Continental Airlines 737 came within about a mile of colliding with a Gulfstream jet. The traffic was under the direction of a controller who had been on the job for almost three years after graduating from a college program. She was still in training.

Not only are there frequent and harrowing near-misses between aircraft all over the country, there also seems to be an increase in the number and frequency of such potentially deadly conflicts.

Some critics point fingers at the FAA, saying that there is a higher than historically normal number of inexperienced air traffic controllers replacing older, retirement-age controllers. But that’s only part of the story behind the worrisome statistics.

As one retired Air Traffic Controller told me:

“I agree with the basic premise that the skies are NOT getting more safe. I worked over the years in the DFW area, ABQ, SoCal and BWI. Positive radar control is more work for the controller and a few more miles for the pilot but is infinitely more safe than utilizing visual separation (italics mine).

The problem is that the FAA is tasked not only with the safe operation of our skies and airports, but also with the expeditious movement of aircraft. Oftimes these two goals are at odds with each other.

Controllers are under constant pressure to move the tin quickly — crews and aircraft costs, schedules, weather, physical space on the tarmac — all these and other issues require the controller to get planes on their way as quickly as possible. It’s like the old card game of War — deal those planes off to someone else as fast as you can!”

This firsthand look behind the Air Traffic Control curtain is unsettling at best, but the crux of the problem–or likely the optimum solution–is in this key statement:

. . . the FAA is tasked . . .  with the expeditious movement of aircraft . . . controllers are under constant pressure to move the tin quickly . .

Add to that the pressure commercial airlines put on both Air Traffic Control and airline pilots to minimize flight time and thus costs, plus throw in the Aircraft Owners and Pilots Association, the private pilots’ lobby group, and their constant and unthinking opposition any flight restrictions and the result is an ever more crowded airspace with resistance to control techniques that increase costs and restrict aircraft movement–but provide the highest safety margin.

From a public interest standpoint, the issue of  “expeditious movement of air traffic,” recreational flyers’ access to airspace, and airlines’ operating costs are secondary to one overriding priority: flight safety.

Key to flight safety in a crowded sky is aircraft separation–which is clearly safest when verified by radar identification.

And therein lies the rub.

In order to move more traffic faster, the concept of “visual separation of aircraft” is used by controllers under certain circumstances. That is, if an aircraft reports visual contact with another aircraft, that pilot can accept the responsibility to maintain separation from the conflicting aircraft.

This frees up the controller: no longer are the aircraft and their separation the controllers’ responsibility–no longer are they separated and kept apart by radar monitoring and the controller can move on to other tasks. From the viewpoint of the FAA management, this is “moving the tin” expeditiously and at a higher volume. But for controllers?Essentially, they’re doing the same thing I’m doing: carefully guiding an airplane through crowded terminal airspace. Whether that means 50 aircraft landing and taking off per hour or 60 per hour makes little difference to both of us–the key is that it’s done safely. The pressure on controllers to issue–and pilots to accept–visual clearances serves only to increase the rate of traffic flow, but introduces a measure of risk to achieve that goal.

What’s the problem? You tell me:

This is an actual on-board display of air traffic. There are multiple aircraft converging with yours–some from above descending, some from below climbing, and many approaching from different angles. Plus, the Air Traffic Controller is looking at a regional, compass-oriented one-dimensional picture; you’re looking at three dimensions with you at the center, looking forward in your direction of flight–and you’re moving, usually in more than one axis.

Think there may be some ambiguity in traffic location for you, the controller, and the other aircraft? If you are warned about an aircraft at “one o’clock,” can you be sure which one is the conflict?

I can’t. Not with any certainty, and knowing that simply not accepting clearance and thus the responsibility will mean ATC will continue to ensure radar separation is the safest bet–for me, and for my 140 passengers. Visual flight clearance in a crowded airport terminal area is a bad, unsafe idea.

Radar separation essential. Takes a bit longer. Doesn’t provide expeditious flow. Restricts the recreational pilots’ freedom.

Ensures your safety. Fair trade?

Notice too that I said “I can’t be sure.” The “I” here is a professional pilot with 32 years of experience, former Air Force pilot, 25-year airline pilot and 19-year captain and over 17,000 flight hours. If I can’t be sure, what are the chances he can be:

With the minimum of age, experience, currency and proficiency, he can take responsibility for the lives of hundreds of passengers by saying, “Yes, I have the traffic and will maintain separation.” If he’s actually looking in the right spot for the right traffic traveling at over 200 miles per hour above or below or even behind him.

What’s safest for him, and me, and you is this: positive radar separation. Not “visual” or “pilot separation;” rather, a qualified radar controller monitoring traffic and issuing instructions to both aircraft to ensure positive separation.

The answer is all about dollars, as usual: the FAA budget strains to provide controllers, airlines constantly seek to lower operating costs, recreational flyers watch their costs go up and demand freedom and access to all airspace.

It’ll cost more all around–in ticket prices, the FAA budget, and recreational flying costs.

Realize what’s at stake here and stop the widespread use of visual clearances in crowded airport traffic areas. Our Air Traffic Controllers are the best in the world–give them the staffing levels and training and pay required to do their job. Ignore the howling voices demanding less restrictions; budget for it, pay for it and ensure the safety of our ever-more crowded airspace.

I think we’re all worth it.

Flight Lessons for Real Life

Most of what I’ve learned in over 17,000 flight hours–usually the hard way–applies on the ground in the big picture of life as well. Here are two primary lessons you can rely on whether you’re in either place:

1. There’s nothing more useless than runway behind you. The concrete behind you can do little good for you when things “change” and suddenly you have less space than you planned on to get up to speed. In real life? Forget shortcuts=start at the beginning: don’t waste any parts of the runway. Sure, First Officers tell me all the time, “we don’t need all of the runway–we’re light.” Yes, jet is lighter than planned so we don’t “need” it mathematically–until an engine ingests a bird at 35,000 rpm and destroys itself.

Then suddenly those mountains seem higher and like the end of the runway, not so far away. What does that mean in real life?

What did you take for granted? What precaution did you skip for convenience or because on paper, it didn’t seem necessary?

Personal decision? Nobody else’s business what you do as far as “precautions” because it’s your life? Well, does that apply to me too?

I’ve had passengers tell me they “don’t worry” about flying because “when your number’s up, it’s up.” I remind them that when my number’s up–theirs is too.  Because whatever applies to me applies to you when you’re on the jet I’m flying. And so it’s really not about me–rather, it’s about the hundreds a day who pay me to do what I do perfectly and in their best interest. Never mind what’s easy or convenient for me.

You?  Think there’s anyone depending on you and the decisions you make in the course of your life? Family? Business?

Okay, even if you don’t have the classic four piece set yet–when do you think is the time to do the preparation they’re counting on in order to have a smooth journey when they come on board with you?

What monumental yet tedious preparation would be nice to have behind you–rather than empty runway–when the challenges ahead demand every iota of advance preparation? Does it really matter down the runway what you might have skipped out of convenience a couple miles back?

So you tell me: do we really need all of that runway? Wouldn’t the mathematical minimum be sufficient? Can’t we deal with things later or if it’s easier now, not at all?

2. Don’t trust the weatherman. Why? Because he doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Specifically, he’s looking to the past, predicting future outcomes based on historically similar circumstances. Two problems with that: first, you’re going to be dealing with the weather in the future, not the present and certainly not the past. And the weather guy will be the first to say, “things change.”

Second, no one has succeeded yet in crossing any bridge before they come to it–and the weatherman ain’t going to be with you when you do. Those who depend upon “experts” making predictions of future  outcomes based on past events will find themselves ill-served and alone if they base crucial decisions on a forecast–of weather forecast, financial, political or any critical issue. I prefer the simple way: assume the weather is going to be awful and prepare accordingly. What’s the worst case scenario, and how to I bail myself out when it comes to pass? Then, if the weather’s nice–oh well, we’re safe, happy, secure.

But if the weather’s awful: you’re a prepared. No one rewards you for fortune-telling; being ready for everything makes you the genius everyone was counting on you to be. As with number one above–it really isn’t about only you.

Experts can predict a forecast that suggests that umbrellas aren’t really necessary. We know how that goes . . .

If you rely solely on the predictions of those outlining the future by peering into the past, you could be in for an interesting fight for your life well down the road.

Okay, that’s it for me nagging. The point is, most of what has become a culturally normative standard of individuality is completely irrelevant in the life or death business of flight. Looking for motivation? Or, have someone who needs a little push in their life because of the way the life plan affects others? Feel free to forward this post to them:

Diligence is dull stuff, on the ground or in the air. People count on their pilot to do what is prudent and safe no matter what effect that has on the “free choice” or convenience of the pilot. I affirm the commitment passengers expect when they strap in behind me. It’s all a part of the duty that comes hand in hand with the privileges inherent in the position at the controls. Anything less is simply unworthy of the trust others who count on you have placed in you–in flight, and in life.

. . . and okay, here’s the rest of the Chris Farley “motivational speech:”

H20: Above and Below

H20: Above and Below.

Ride the sky home.

There’s a song in my head and it won’t go away. It comes at the top of the slide,

a sloping seven mile glide, ever downward and south toward home. Bound for DFW from the west coast, the captain’s voice my own, says “we’re eighty nautical miles from touchdown in Fort Worth; be on the deck at half past.” and on it drones with the same spiel as ever, but the music gets louder each mile, drowning it out.

It’s a tedious trip west to east to south, like the ride from The Stockyards to Tanglewood, or God forbid, the Far Southwest side on Bryant Irvin where any time of day, never mind rush hour, it seems like forever: there’s just no hypotenuse. East to west, or north to south but not north to southwest in Cowtown, not without a lot of pain and aggravation. But come down easy, that’s how you get home. There are no shortcuts.

The mayor once said with a hang dog tired face it’s so bad you could change a tire in a Cowtown traffic jam and not lose your spot, and he wasn’t even talking about trying the mythical hypotenuse between the North Side and the southwest Mecca of Hulen and Tanglewood. Really, it’s not so far away but just hard to get to yet home is definitely worth the trip.

When I cross the Red River I feel like I’m in the neighborhood and the red dirt pancake of the Panhandle starts the song of home in my head. It’s those comfy notes your hands just know, a cozy riff you can get lost in like a half-awake morning in the Paris Coffee Shop, more aware of what it’s not—and it’s not a modern chain shoveling breakfast—than the bald light, melodious clink of silverware and bracing aroma of strong coffee that it is. Newspapers and linoleum and waitresses who call you “hon” and the comfort of an old tune not redone, not over done; rather, the original from way back when. That’s the music that when you play it, you transcend fingers and frets and keys and notes, simply cruising along with the melody.

A hundred plus people follow me down in the back, some coming home and humming the same tune. Picture my wife’s Paschal mafia: they graduate and scatter to the four winds—but they return sooner or later. So there are the inexorable five year milestone reunions at Joe T’s or the Stockyards Station or anywhere Fort Worth that’ll hold the returning classes; hugs, backslaps, “so good to see you!” but because so many seem to move back eventually, and we see them weekly anyway at Thom Thumb on Bellaire, what’s the big deal?

But that’s everyone humming along—no one needs sheet music; like the song in my head, they probably don’t even know they’re doing it. That’s the song of home you get to sing aloud now and again with others who know it.

We slip between big-shouldered thunderheads marching out of the west toward Fort Worth, casting a bruised blue shadow across a red sky sprawling east like a dome you can see best atop Reata, the bustling crisscross of Sundance Square below. Storm’s coming with one inch raindrops plopping an inch apart, but nothing’s perfect and who knows? Maybe it’ll hold off till we get there, and we need the rain nonetheless.

Things look bigger the lower you go and now the swaths of green and brown and lakes of blue define themselves like individual musical notes on a scale but now you don’t need them: there’s DFW and you’re cleared to land. More hands and feet on the controls, working less with science than art, riding the familiar tune whose beat is like that of your heart. Close your eyes and see the flow of red tail lights snaking down the main artery to Fort Worth.

Slower, down to earth but still, the music will carry you home. The steel and glass on Main and Commerce rise straight backed and tall, waiting. Patience, slowly, mile by mile, the music will carry you home.