Bees and Flight, Darkness and Light.

Special Note: here’s a soundtrack designed for this essay–you can click on it to play it, then return to this window to read for “the full Monty” if you like.

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Daylight is the fountain of youth, and there’s no shortage of seeming noonday above it all westbound.

That’s the way we go, backs to the east and the dawn that’s gone, west to the sun as fast as we can.

We’re younger back there and some of it’s hard to remember: dawn is the time of half awake, of coffee poured and routines started by rote and necessity that give way later to more elaborate undertakings.

Takes time to get your eyes open, to acclimate to the world in general and flight in particular. We’re younger, earlier, closer to the dawn; smaller than now but taking flight nonetheless. Doesn’t seem so long ago until you look back, and then the earlier flights are clearly a different time with different people.

The shine of everything, the newness before a thousand times over makes each seem more like an extra lash of the minute hand rather than a special moment. That was an era of firsts, of an undercurrent of discovery and faith that the cycle would be ever more new and larger ways to fly.

And all of them would last forever. Of course they would, it’s just from that particular momentous “now” that races behind us, linked inextricably to the dawn from which we’re always outbound, they did last forever–it’s just that we didn’t.

Inch by inch, our westbound flight does what we hardly notice as we follow the sun: things change, even as they stay the same. And there’s the conundrum of westbound flight.

The more we repeat the things that were “new” and exciting “firsts,” the less they are that and from the standpoint of time, the less room there is for truly new and exciting as we do diligence to the process. Family. Income. Lifestyle.

Running the machine composed of the endless gears of all that shiny pioneering, they require time and effort that limits the discovery that brought them into our time in the first place.

Still it’s ever westward, tailwind, headwind, bumpy or smooth–we’re on our way, keeping the sun as high as possible over that world of rare, short shelf life newness.

Yet there are those who fly who care little for the clock and the sun that at its highest arc warmed wings best for flight; even the key to navigation in relation to the westbound sun matters little though the routine flight is spectacular and with great purpose.

There’s no fear in this flight, oriented by the sun yet oblivious of the fireball’s second by second dip from the top of the sky, slinking to the west. No thought for the hazards that also awaken with the new day, disguised with jewel-like adornment that is night’s mourning of dawn’s heat, promising nothing but doom.

Relentless, westbound just the same, with lessening notice of the good or bad as the remarkable is subsumed into routine by repetition, blossom to blossom, noon till sundown and onward we fly.

Takes a herculean effort to not give in to the opiate of monotony. Almost have to pinch yourself, remind yourself exactly where you are. To acknowledge that the flight itself is as significant as the destination, maybe even more important: this is the now that’s fleeting, that is relegated over the shoulder toward the vanished forever dawn.

Face it: the cloud swing is moving, just as the sun is, ever west. Looking ahead, it may not seem so but looking down, the illusion is clear.  The gears turn now, but not forever and never the same as “back then.”

Because like the bee’s wings, they cool and move more sluggishly in the diminishing light. Not such a ready flex or easy reach as the day fades, but it’s still easy to underestimate the power of light and loss in the creeping of darkness. As time goes on, that requires more deliberate effort for any creature transcending the automaton-ish, hive-centric bee’s life.

If you do, you won’t be fooled by seemingly carefree flight that is borne more of indifference than courage.  Because what he doesn’t know–but you do–is this: the sun will win this race, fleeing westbound and eventually, leaving you without a shadow. The molten gold near the end is beautiful,

but darkness waits just beyond and as Swinburne warned, “. . . in the end it is not well.”  Bees go somewhere at night and eventually, don’t fly any more. If the sun shines brightest on the liveliest, then this is truly “the rest” of life.

To know or not know that ending won’t matter as much then as it does now while there’s still daytime left. Never mind the bees buzzing unconcerned around the fountain of youth, that’s the promise of light.

Soundtrack: “Stormy,” Chris Manno–Lead, Bass,  Drums.

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The bee’s story: I was heading to breakfast in Nashville yesterday, getting ready for another day in the sky. Looked like he was doing the same, which got me to thinking. I’m lucky he didn’t sting me for sticking the camera in his face, but he seemed more interested in his collection business than in me. Or maybe he wanted to be part of this story . . .

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Air Travel Triage: Save Your Flight–And Your Sanity.

Just did a “pleasure” (for a guy who flies 170 days a year, that’s a stretch) trip to a major west coast city. Returning home, I was all set to board my flight when the earlier flight–still at its gate–was declared “out of service for maintenance.”

Oh no: passenger stampede.

That’s right, now everyone wanted to get on my flight–the next available–probably to protect their downline connection or to keep a tight schedule at their destination. Being standby myself, or even as a confirmed passenger, this is a major problem. So, now what?

Here’s where you can and must do travel triage if only to save your sanity, never mind your trip. Think.

You must plan ahead, and use your head:

Be aware of what’s going on. Sounds simple, but you’d be amazed at how many airline passengers, when faced with a major snafu such as a cancelled flight or weather divert, simply draw a blank: what next?

Here’s where awareness is crucial: I saw another aircraft being towed to the gate of the maintenance-cancelled flight. Then I heard the agents at that gate make a brief announcement, “We have located a new aircraft for this flight.”

Still, the stampede was on to the gate of the next flight.

Again, be aware of what’s going on: the next flight’s aircraft was at the gate, but you could clearly see that there were still bags coming out of the cargo hold. They were still unloading cargo from the inbound flight.

By contrast, the replacement aircraft being towed to the previous gate was completely empty, having been parked on the ramp or in a hangar. Which aircraft would be ready to depart sooner?

If you have a downline connection, that fact is key and you need to know this, you will know this, if you’re thinking and observing.

Still, if you must get on the next flight, you must change your boarding pass. Want to stand in the slowly creeping line to rebook? Or worse, as happens with some airports, be sent back outside of security to the ticket counter to rebook?

What’s the alternative?

Do you have the airline rebooking number? Not the airline’s toll-free number, the rebooking number. There’s a difference and you’ll need to find that number before you travel. It’s likely on the airline’s website, but if you can’t find it–call their regular toll-free number. Of course, this will be a frustrating exercise in phone tree navigation at exactly the wrong time if you’re trying to rebook, wasting precious minutes as others grab the few available standby seats ahead of you. So do it ahead of time and pre-program the number into your cell phone.

Then forget about the line–just call, and when you do, here’s another piece of crucial information: what are the departure times and flight numbers of follow-on flights? Tell them what you want–and decide on that before they answer.

A monitor gives you the best realtime information–and there are a dozen on-line services that will display the schedule on you phone or PDA for free.

Don’t hunt for a monitor, which will not likely be near whatever line you need to stand in for a new boarding pass–either write down the list of flights for the day ahead of time (so last century, really), or pre-program a flight monitor into your handheld device (welcome to the new millenium!).

Then you can call the rebooking number and specify exactly what you need without playing twenty questions with the reservations agent.

That way, you can accomplish whatever data changes must be made in order to receive a new boarding pass if you must change flights without waiting in line. Okay, you might do this while waiting in line just to be sure you’re not overlooked, but when you do reach that harried and overworked agent handling the long snaky line of irate passengers, all he or she has to do is print your new boarding pass and hand it to you. “Next in line please . . .”

No matter what, be aware of what’s going on. I quietly moved over to the gate of the maintenance-delayed flight, requested a seat on it and was given a boarding pass. Several other passengers did the same and discovered that thanks to the stampede on the initial announcement that “this aircraft is out of service,” this replacement plane would now be way less than full, with more room for the rest of us to spread out.

By contrast, at the next flight, the only seats to be had were middle seats and every seat on the plane would be full. Plus, whether those refugees from our flight knew it or not, their luggage would NOT be on their flight–it would still be on the original. Meaning their checked baggage would be arriving when we did–not when they did. Care to wait for your bags? Or, do you trust that they’ll be waiting for you at baggage claim when you get there?

Of course, unlike in this case, there may not be a replacement aircraft available. Which makes it all the more crucial that you have the re-booking number and flight schedule info: there are few standby seats on any flight these days. What you accomplish on the phone will grab you a seat even before those in line ahead of you could get one from the agent.

When we pushed back, I glanced at the refugee flight next door: still loading cargo. In essence, the passengers who fled to the new gate really would have been better off sticking with the original plan, plus they wouldn’t have been sitting in a crammed-full jet waiting to push back. And if they were really astute, they’d be dismayed to watch us push back ahead of them, with their checked bags on board, to arrive ahead of them.

So much for connections, and for expediting their travel. All because they weren’t aware and didn’t pre-plan their trip with all of the assets available at their fingertips:

1. Observe and listen at the gate and out the window of the terminal.

2. Have access to current schedules and flight numbers on a PDA or even a hard copy list.

3. Have the re-booking phone number available and use it to avoid lines and to speed whatever reservations changes you might need as quickly as possible.

That’s travel triage, but also, that’s common sense, something that sadly, seems to be in short supply at the airport. If you have the information you need and the assets to employ that information, you will be literally miles ahead of the crowd.

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:”

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.

“Are we there yet?” Trust Me: You Don’t Want to Know.

Being the captain, I think I hear it more than most but all flightcrews get a fat share of the “are we there yet” question–especially at night. I might hear it from a bored F/O with a tired butt aching from sitting in the cockpit for hours, or often a call from the cabin from a flight attendant wishing the time until deplaning was an hour or two shorter because passengers are asking them that question over and over.

And I usually answer, “yes we are” and add “open the door and plunge to your death” but only in my head for that last part. But the impact of the question comes not from the answer–in my head or what others hear–but rather in the reality: we don’t really know where we are.

Seriously–and I don’t really care.

Sure, I could press a couple buttons and get a present position reading down to a tenth of a degree of both latitude and longitude–but that reading would look like a car’s odometer with the tenths place rotating as we moved: by the time you can read the position, we’re not there any more anyway.

And at night, there aren’t any visual cues outside to define an approximate position (there’s the Mississippi!) or even direction of flight (the sun’s off our right wingtip, it’s afternoon–we’re headed south) to orient oneself. So it becomes even more glaring that in the absence of any real or definitive position, no one seems to mind plunging through the darkness at the speed of a shotgun blast in a metal tube with thousands of moving parts.

Powered by dual blast furnaces turning gears and wheels at 50,000 rpm. In air so thin you couldn’t breathe and so cold you’d turn blue in a minute. What a curious detachment there has to be in order to step aboard and not worry about where you are for two or three  hours in unsurvivable conditions.

Like that last breath you take before jumping out of an airplane miles up, there’s that confidence that never mind this moment, soon enough we’ll end up where we expected to and presumably, in one piece. I’m not sure if this belief is borne of faith or convenience.

I’ve seen from the cockpit the groups of people and cars below watching us landing and have often thought, as they park and wave from the exact spot where we’d impact if we landed short, that it was the former–a greater faith in the institution of piloting and aviation than I have. Which is a convenience item–bored? Let’s go watch airliners land.

But having lived the human side of piloting from behind the scenes for thirty-some years, I have my doubts, which I’ll share, followed by why I have faith nonetheless. The important thing is not the asking of “are we there yet,” which translates to “how much longer?” but rather the leap of faith that ignores the fact that where we are is not significant.

The very nature of travel–like life itself–is an extended process. While there’s always a point of embarkation in both, the waypoints en route are significant only in relation to the end of the route. How close is it? How soon? And is it where I meant to be?

Which brings me back to the giant step out of an airplane into empty miles below: we’re really counting on the positive result at the end more than the process of getting there.

So here’s the secret: the important part is not where we are, but rather where we’re not. For that, we pick a defined point and measure from it to plot our relationship to the known. For me, it’s always north. In this hemisphere, no matter where I am in the dark or daylight or weather all that matters to me is where North is. Then I can position myself in relation to the Big North, the pole, where I’ll never go but which will always define where I am by comparison.

I’ve done my freefall then looked up to see a tangled mess of a parachute above my head, hard brown dirt racing up from below at terminal velocity. And besides a fleeting thought cursing the chute packer–at least till I recalled packing it myself–the only significance of my unwinding altimeter was not where I was, but rather how much time I had until I inherited the Earth in a big way. And so I really didn’t want to know “are we there yet,” figuring the end would be apparent enough when it happened.

And because I had more important things to worry about along the way–like  pulling the reserve chute ripcord but holding it in tight, then with one end-of-the-world throw downward, hope to God it billows roundly in hundred mile an hour slipstream sufficiently below me to brush aside the tangled mess above me. That would separate me from the ultimate “known” I spoke of above, truly the “there” in the journey that comes only once. And let me tell you, when you’re close to the edge, you suddenly don’t want to ask that question.

Which returns us to the matter of faith or convenience. What you believe in truly is a convenience: from below, spectators watching a plane land or sky divers tempting fate always think they’re immune and immortal since they’re uninvolved in the process. How much more so the passengers in a jet? Even asking demonstrates how little they know of how close to the edge they really are.

And that’s the convenience of faith: you have to believe in the safe passage or you probably wouldn’t take the journey. Never mind the risks of standing in a landing aircraft’s path, much less riding one down. Don’t even think about plummeting from the sky with only your wits and just one backup between you and the hard earth calling you down hard.

That’s life and while yes, I said “you probably wouldn’t take the journey,” you are nonetheless on your way. No real meaning to where we are en route save where we are vis a vis the end of the journey. You can close you eyes and have faith in your own north and where you are in relation to it. You can trust in the choice of conveyance en route. But it’s only if you ignore the perils of the journey and the ultimate destination that you you can ask the foolish question, “are we there yet?” Because really, you don’t want to know the answer.

The good news is this: I’m awake up front; station-keeping at 500 miles an hour and I’ll always know where north is. You can relax in back because I’ve got the clock measuring our fuel and mileage and the right course set in relation to true north and ultimately, a clear focus on throwing the reserve out as effectively as possible to ensure our landing in one piece if need be.

That’s why I really don’t care where we are, only that we’re safely on our way to exactly where we planned to be. And the “plunge to your death” addendum I’ll add silently after your annoying question “are we there yet”–which is really asking “how much longer”–is born of firsthand experience, so trust me when I tell you on both counts: you don’t want to know.

Keep your north in mind always, and know where you are by comparison. Don’t curse the guy who packed your chute–just be sure it works or if not, you have a backup. And if you live your journey fully, you won’t need to know where you are in relation to the end.

That reality is beyond faith and convenience–rather, that’s life. Enjoy the ride. I’ll keep you on course en route, but you really won’t need me to tell you when we’re there.

So do me a favor: just don’t ask.

Flying the Summer Chameleon

We’re flying creatures of the season, consciously or not. Unlike birds, though, despite the plumage, we transcend the simple “south in winter” edict and scatter to the corners of the globe in summer. But like landscape, we seem to brighten up as we warm.

Maybe it’s because there’s more leisure travel that the colors are brighter. Perhaps folks match their demeanor with their color scheme–dead serious drab dressy for work,

Bust let’s cut loose a little on vacation, right? And the destination, not the journey is the matchup:

It’s that place you hold in your mind’s eye that’s the wardrobe match-up.  Sure, that might clash a little en route, or maybe it’s even supposed to

at least not as long as there are no natural predators around. Mostly, though, we seem to ignore the “now” part of getting there and picture ourselves wherever we’re going. Which is fine–I do it too

But the part that would be a shame to miss is the color en route. Because it seems like around early to mid-May, the landscape wakes up too and furious colors erupt as if making up for lost time. There are parts of the country whose colors may stay roughly the same, but the bright light of a tilted earth in this hemisphere’s summer casts a more brilliant spotlight deepest colors.

Same on the surface, too, if you stop and look. In the flight crew business, surface transportation in a strange town is typically on foot–which gives you time and proximity to take the up-close look at the colors of summer. Lousiville goes all out with their flowers

Block by block I stumble into someone’s flower beds, finally awake and blooming. Not to say, though, that the Big Picture landscape from altitude is any less dramatic:

The badlands of Utah and Arizona seem to gain their second wind in Spring, with deep colors that from miles above seem to be painted with a heavy brush.

When you’re walking (or running, although I have to retrace my steps with camera for anything cool) it’s easier to notice the little details of beauty that are the careless by-product of Spring and summer.

Just a few days (and in my case, a few thousand air miles) later, the fury of the yellow dots fade (I checked) but for this slow moment, what could be brighter?

Even just the sky alone is puffed up with swelling ocean moisture heated by sunlight then boiling up into towering storms, shoulder to shoulder daring you to either top them or go a hundred miles out of your way–which we often have to do.

That of course adds to the colors on our radar map display as well, another sign of the season.

But that’s okay–a few hundred extra miles in a week is no big deal, and the view, as with the short-lived flowers, is worth appreciating while you’re there. And the closer you get to the ocean, the more rambunctious the towering cumulus gets.

In hot weather, flying in Florida reminds me of the South Pacific where the thunderstorms were so tall you couldn’t even see the tops–you just went around them.

And before things get too ungodly hot, a morning walk in the California desert still gives a burst of color if you look.

That’ll be gone by the end of summer. And so will the flying chameleon: it’ll be back to the drabness of bundled layers, colder weather, duller light and subdued colors.

But until then, while you head for your brightest vacation spot, don’t miss the bright chameleon en route both on the ground and five miles in the air. Sure, keep that destination image in the forefront of you mind as you travel, because that makes the trip seem easier, doesn’t it?

And while I take you where you need to go, I’ll be seeing this . . .

. . . but since it’s summer and the season to enjoy a colorful excursion, I’ll be thinking this:

Safe and colorful travels, whether at 2 miles per hour or 500. Enjoy.

Inflight Survival: Foodishness at 30,000′

First off, let’s get one thing straight: inflight survival’s not about eating in flight–it’s about not being hungry.

If you’ve been off the planet since the mid 1980s, you may not know this, but unless you have been on another planet, you realize that no domestic airline serves food in Coach.

They’ll sell you something that is somewhat “foodish,” but remember what I said: the mission is to not be hungry in flight. If you are, you’ve failed the mission already: you didn’t eat before the flight, and/or you don’t have an efficient stash of caloric emergency input.

My stash emergency stash in my flight bag.

This is all pocket-sized, crush-proof, non-liquid stuff that will go through security without any problems. No, it’s not really “eating;” it’s doing what I remind you is the mission: not being hungry. Forget the idea of “eating” in flight. Well, unless you’re in the cockpit.

But even then, there’s still the same problem passengers have in back: you’re not getting anything to eat until a certain time in the schedule of the flight–not necessarily when you need it. Hence my stash.

And further, at least in the cabin, you’re going to wait also for the remains to be collected of whatever “foodish” thing you’ve paid for.

Here's a $7 United Airlines "buy on board" snack. How's the potted meat dinner working out?

Given that you’re already crammed into about 2.5 cubic feet, do you really want to sit with your trash and wait for the pick-up cart which is waaaaay after the “serving” cart selling the buy on board junk?

So plan to calorize before you board. Yes, this means you’ll have to spend some money in the airport. Reality check: you indicated through your demand for WalMart pricing on an expensive product (your airline seat is not cheap to produce) that you would not pay for the lunch on board that you know have to buy in the terminal–deal with it.

Even that, though, as I said is a hassle to drag on board along with your hand-carried stuff. The containers are flimsy, the food messy, especially when you’re crammed into you middle seat between one who’s coughing and sneezing all over your food, the other drooling over and eying it longingly.

Forget the messy on-board sky picnic in the filthy passenger seat (no, they seldom get more than a quick wipe off, if that, hence the flight attendant nickname for the passenger cabin, “The Flying Petri dish.)

Now, let’s think of the second survival need: water.

Buy it, bring it, drink it. Do we have to go over the serving cart lecture again? How you don’t want to wait while that trundling inchworm creeps up and down the aisle? In survival school, they teach you to drink your water and ration your sweat. That is–stay hydrated. Don’t wait. The aircraft atmosphere is at about 2% humidity which will dry you like a raisin insidiously: when you notice that you’re parched, it’s too late.

Buy the water in the terminal, schlep it on board, drink it pre-emptively. Yes, you may get to spend some quality time in the filthy on-board out house. But you’ll feel better in flight and at your destination.

Let’s recap:

1. Forget about eating on board. If you must, eat the high cal, uncrushable, minimum mess, compact snacks you were either efficient enough to buy ahead of time, or if not, at least you were smart enough to buy at any airport news stand. Don’t bother with the elaborate carryout.

It’ll be a huge mess, which will irritate those passengers crammed in next to you, breathing all over your food. Plus, you’ll have to sit with a pile of garbage till the inchworm cart creeps past your row.

Bring efficient caloric items that will stave off hunger until you get off the plane.

2. Bring water. And drink it pre-emptively. Sure they’ll eventually get to you with the serving cart so you can have your whopping 4 ounces of liquid. But you need more.

Drink it before and during the flight to stay ahead of dyhdration which causes fatigue and headaches, two things you don’t need when you’re traveling, right?

It’s a jungle up there, trust me. But you can make it survivevable if you think ahead, and think rationally: never mind eating in flight. Calorize, hydrate, and survive the trip so that you can enjoy your destination and maybe, find some real food.

You and Zeus and a Bug’s Eye View

If the devil’s in the details, a birds-eye view is a double edged sword in what you can see. Take a look.

Picture this world through a bug’s eye, crawling across a massive green waxy leaf on his way to wherever bugs go in their daily business: sun warming spindly limbs, a day ahead, a day behind this one no different than the last; on we go . . . wait. How the hell did I get stuck here?

Too late. Missed the details obvious from above: the fat dew drops refracting the sunrise into a thousand jewels suspended in a gossamer web. Web, get it? Spider web, certain death–wandered right into it with your head down. Crawling across the ground can be like that: no big picture, connect the dots beyond the here and now; creep along and don’t look up. From the God’s-eye view, far above and really aware? The double-edged sword: you can see things but do little to warn anyone.

Look down. Cowtown! That’s home. Jewels of golden light suspended in an urban web–see the Cat’s stadium lights blazing away in the bottom right corner? A thousand little cheering voices unheard but you know they’re raising a ruckus you’d enjoy if you weren’t a few miles above. You get the view like Zeus’s Daemons, but no voice to warn of the spider.

Which you get to see from where you are.

This giant storm anvil is sailing east to hammer the city and rain out the Cats, sending a thousand ant-like creatures scattering to their cars. They could see the shadows towering and blotting the setting sun–if they looked up and west. If they could see beyond the Klieg lights ringing the field like dew drops on a spider’s web.

If you look carefully from above sometimes you can deduce the story line below.

See the red emergency lights on the northbound freeway lane in the bottom right? Trouble in the ant pile: someone missed the dew drops or the anvil above and came face to face with the spider. Somebody’s not getting home when or how they envisioned and if you look miles north on the road you can almost picture an empty driveway and a phone about to ring.

Typhon, a Greek vision of a Daemon.

Ancient Greeks claimed Daemons were sent to earth to warn mortals of danger, yet we’re anything but earthly, cruising above and right on by at unearthly speed, more like Plato’s darker version of Zeus’s guardian spirits. We’re granted the magic carpet view from above, but altitude and speed come with a vow of silence as the rolling tapestry scrolls away the past in seconds flat. We look ahead, and down.

Somebody’s today was painted with a rusty brush.

Looks hot and dry and rugged; hard to imagine but you know someone did creep right across that rock pile foot by dusty foot not even that many years ago. They took on faith or word of mouth what we can see miles ahead: water.

It had to be there or that would be pretty much it for those creeping bugs, right? You can see that joyous revelation flying east to west: notice how many mountains hide water on their western flank and when they do, how many cities pop up between the mountains and the water. You can see in your mind a raggedy knot of pioneers pausing atop the mountain saying, “Thank god! Water. We’re staying.”

Albuquerque tucked between the mountains and the Rio Grande.

Just nod your heads, fellow Platonic Daemons. We have miles to go and more to see in the silence of our Zeus-like jet flight above the rolling story board of time and place. Time only to notice individual leaves and dew drops and mountains but not a moment to linger on any.

Because here’s my clock, and it rules our ride:

Fuel flow is Godlike in the sky world. I keep the fires burning that shove us through the air high above the world even Plato would have trouble envisioning. And two jet engines are burning like a glass furnace, spinning the turbines at over 32,000 revolutions per minutes and sling-shotting us through air so thin we barely make a sound to those miles below.

You can tell them about it later. Our view, like our ride, is fast but temporary. I know, you weren’t here to look, but rather, just to ride from a certain here to a particular there.

And maybe the view is a sideshow, but the truth isn’t.

Beyond the magic of flight is the genie that is scale: how much more can you see if you can claim the Zeus-view? What’s the mountaintop-valley-river reality in life waiting to be noticed, to be brought down to Earth in a bug’s life? What don’t we see when we’re crawling across a Manzanita leaf or an asphalt spaghetti bowl that would just make all the difference?

I could be Zeus’s good Daemon with the P.A. in the air and point out the view and the viewpoint. But I’d tend more toward the Platonic evolution: what you discover yourself, you own. So I won’t say much.

But the sky-high Daemon view is full of devilish details just for you–for now, for as long as our fuel burn permits. But after you think about it for a while, from now on.

Because when you look with a wider, higher viewpoint, there’s a whole new world buried in the details, right? Might look beyond the bright lights and dew drops and save yourself from being stuck nose to nose with the spider.

Between Flights: Faith and Blood Among Strangers.

After landing late and schlepping downtown to Kansas City Westin, woke up to a beautiful Saturday. A green fountain was my first clue that the huge courtyard between the hotel and the Hallmark Center had been transformed.

Whoa. We’d landed in the middle of Kansas City’s Irish Fest. Not in March–say, St. Patrick’s Day. Rather, in early September. You just never know what opportunity you’re going to find when you travel for the sake of the flight–or in my case, my job–instead of for the destination. Who knew there’d happen to be a huge and seemingly cool event at our doorstep.

My First Officer and I sized up the roped-off plaza: food, beer, bands, and a growing crowd. Way cool. But a $9 entrance fee?

Darn. We only had a few hours till we had to be back in the air. Definitely no beer tasting, and nine bucks for a few hours? My F/O shook his head. Not worth it.

Then I noticed the opportunity tent.

“C’mon,” I said. “We’re volunteers.” He looked at me dubiously. “Let’s go sign in. We can volunteer as well as anyone.” Scam, I’m sure he  was thinking. Well, maybe a little.

“You go ahead,” he said, heading back inside. Shrug. I walked up to the volunteer sign-in table. “Jones,” I said, then waited.

A woman with a huge computer print-out didn’t even look at me, but scanned her list. “Are you the Jones with, uh, with, uh . . .”

“Yes I am.”

Still not looking up, she put a check mark by one of a dozen or so “Joneses” on her list. She handed me an extra large T-Shirt emblazoned with “Volunteer,” and said “Go over there and get your admission wristband.”

In a matter of minutes, I was inside the Irish Fest with a small guidebook (“Where’s the face painting?” Check the book–“Make a left by the stage”) and a couple of hours to browse around.

Although I had volunteer “coupons” for free pizza, I just had to buy one of the steaming brats grilling at various booths. Good music, good food, give a few directions here and there but largely, just enjoy the sunshine in the ever-growing crowd. So what’s the big deal? Opportunity taps you on the shoulder, give a little help, enjoy the big picture.

When I related this all to my F/O at altitude that evening, he seemed a little wistful. “Should’a joined you,” he concluded. And being the smartass that I am, I recall telling him, “That’s the problem with volunteerism these days: nobody wants to help. And you really miss out on a rewarding experience.”

He rolled his eyes. Yeah, quite a stretch. But you take the good and the bad as it comes–this was a windfall.

Fast forward to last Friday, May 14th. This time, fate had plopped us down in Norfolk on a beautiful sunshiny Spring day. We had fourteen hours scheduled off-duty, then would fly one leg back to DFW. Home for Friday night and for me, Saturday morning with Darling Bride and youngest daughter’s academic competition, plus a band session with Night Flight in the afternoon. Perfect plan.

Until fate stepped in to trash everything. Crew Tracking called me a couple hours prior to our departure time: “Sorry captain, but thunderstorms at DFW have forced us to cancel your inbound flight.” Great. Home tomorrow early, maybe?

Catch the tail end of my daughter’s academic competition, and maybe most of the band session? “And I know it sucks,” the Tracker said cautiously, “but we’re going to need your crew to stay there and fly home tomorrow night.”

Thank you, cruel fate. Everyone on the crew had plans and people counting on their arrival home that night, but it is what it is, and you do what you know you have to do.

Now with forty rather than fourteen hours off duty, we developed a contingency plan: free concert at the fountain on the harbor that evening; dinner afterward. Vendors were selling adult beverages in the park. After the first two at five bucks each, we modified the plan: F/O would go for his run then meet us there (great band playing), #2 flight attendant and I would walk a few blocks to a deli and pick up crew beverages to enjoy at the park. Others had brought coolers with drinks; no one seemed to mind.

Heavy get-out-of-town Friday rush hour was shaping up downtown as we walked the two blocks past the battleship Wisconsin moored near the heart of Norfolk. I heard the unmistakable boom of a traffic accident not ten yards from where we walked.

Under a green light, one car had stopped, and the car behind him had plowed into him from behind. The rear car stood with a crumpled front end in the middle of the intersection. Not a safe place.

I dodged across the traffic and approached the driver’s open window. Probably stunned; let’s get you out of this intersection.

“You okay?”

She was not okay. Maybe no seat belt? Regardless, her forehead was gashed wide open and blood was everywhere. I actually didn’t know anyone could bleed so fast and so much. Open the door.

“Let’s get you out of here,” I said, pressing a cloth she’d found onto her forehead. “Walk with me–I’ll help you.” Through traffic, to the curb. Elizabeth, my #2 flight attendant directed passersby “Call 911.” Several dialed. I laid the woman down on a short brick wall, cradling her head with my arm, holding pressure on her gaping laceration. Not a good thing, I thought silently, to be drenched in the blood of a stranger, but you do what you have to do.

“Help is on the way,” I told her. “You’re going to be okay. We’re going to stay with you till help gets here.”

Elizabeth moved her wrecked car out of the intersection. The wall was near a bus stop and to be frank, a crowd of people waiting for the bus that were of the type who’d make me walk fast and not make eye contact. But not today. “Can someone find a first aid kit?” A man rushed off toward a store.

A tranny-looking woman dialed the victim’s husband’s number on her own phone. A man offered his rolled up shirt as a pad.

An Army nurse walked up and began to take vital signs. I shady-looking guy produced a scrap of paper and I told her, “Push the top button on my watch”–my hands were busy–and she took down the heart rate, her medical history, setting up the ambulance’s arrival.

It seemed like forever crouched on the hot pavement, holding her head, telling her by name that she’d be okay. One police car, then eventually three more arrived.  Don’t move her head. A look at the gash–looked clean to the bone–more pressure. Have to stay this way till the ambulance gets here.

“You’re doing good, Jennifer. Deep breaths.”

At long last–maybe five minutes, but it seemed longer–the ambulance arrived. “You’re not going to like this,” an EMT said, “but we’re going to put a brace on your neck to immobilize it.” On cue, I slid my now red arm out from under her head and let the EMT crew hold pressure.

Jeez–stiff back. Hot pavement. Elizabeth put the woman’s purse on the gurney. “These guys are going to take good care of you,” I told her, squeezing her hand. “You’re going to be fine.”

Off she went; we waited while the police, who’d taken both of our driver’s licenses, finished their reports. Buzzkill.

Finally, the police thanked us and sent us on our way. I used the deli restroom to wash now dried blood off my arm.

“Pinot Grigio or Sauvignon blanc?” I asked. Didn’t really matter to me.

We made our way back to the park. Hooked up with the First Officer. Great band, beautiful night, lots of families and children, many running around in the fountain.

My daughter got third place in her competition; the band played without me. Fate? Opportunity?

You just have to take it as it comes, good or bad. But what I got out of it was twofold. First, the kindness of strangers in that moment of suspense between disaster and official response renews my faith in humanity. And second, I have the knowledge that in a stranger’s moment of hell, there was a calm voice and an arm to rest her head on.

Unlike my Irish Fest volunteer T-shirt, the reality won’t fade with time. And that’s what really matters.