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

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

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

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

The "champagne fountain."

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

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

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

Captain Giorgio Pomata.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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The truth about airline ticket prices.

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

Jerry Jones.

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

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

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

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

"YTBSM."

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

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

A snack bar price list at "Jerry World."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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View from above: “Where am I?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Airline Captain: It’s all about the prestige.

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

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

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

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

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

"Honey, I'm home!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

Other crewmembers might have lower nutritional standards

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

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

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

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

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

plus that of your fellow pilots

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

"Get out of my seat, old man."

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

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

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

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

Employee lot, DFW, February 11, 2010.

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

Car in driveway = roommate made bail!

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

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

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

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

“Far Away” revisited.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The glamorous airline lifestyle.

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

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

Wyndham RDU: in the middle of nowhere.

And this is how I find my room

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No, we’re not defenseless in the cockpit:

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

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

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

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

2. Mile High Club? Seriously?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The eagle, the courageous and the blind.

How’s your vision?

You can see clearly if you know what you’re looking for. And you’d have to know what you’re looking for to see the most significant thing in this picture.

It’s a light post, right? Just a big old light stanchion, in this case, on the ramp in the gate area at Orlando International Airport. Is that it?

Look again. Hard to see, but on top of that light post, patiently, quietly and with silent dedication to his task: a bald eagle.

He’s pretty well known among the ground staff and many of the flight crews who pass through the airport. I look for him when we taxi in; he’s usually perched there between flights, something I can relate to, but most folks at the airport don’t know he’s there.

Probably they don’t know because they’re too busy attending to their own travel, their own vacation or business or whatever reason they’ve come to the airport. Not surprising, really.

Unlike the solitary eagle, this is hard to miss and in fact this is mostly what you see in the Orlando airport. But more important than the overweight sunburned vacationers is what makes the magnificent eagle  so difficult to spot: quiet pride, dedication, deadly strength, deliberate discretion, maybe even a camoflauged exterior that blends in with the surroundings. Qualities that like the perch on top of a light stanchion are difficult to see unless you know they’re there and are willing to look hard to see them.

But I do. Maybe because I look with different eyes, because I care about what the solitary dedication and quiet pride in an obscure picture can show you if your eyes are open and focused.

Maybe since unlike most travelers, I’m not there for my own purposes, and as with the Orlando airport, I’m there a lot and so I see things, I take time to look for things others passing through don’t consider. Like the eagle.

A light stanchion, a pay phone, saying goodbye to families–you just have to look, and care. But I have to say, it’s more than just seeing what’s in front of your face. What you don’t see, but which if you care, you know is even more important.

I see this too. On our airline ramp, as one of our fallen eagles makes his way home. Not from vacation, or business, or whatever reason most people fly these days. But from sacrificing everything in the world for you, me and the unseeing regardless. Whether or not we care, or see, or know. The price is paid daily, by our best, brightest, youngest, most courageous and dedicated.

I don’t have a picture of this, but I can’t forget the image of our ground crews as reverently as humanly possible, removing a soldier’s coffin from my jet’s cargo hold, then solemnly placing it on a special, curtained cart to proceed to a waiting, devastated family downline. I don’t have a picture, because I’m usually standing in reverent silence near the cargo hold.

I stand on the ramp, escorting the military escort who stays faithfully with the remains in transit. Then, after paying my respects, I go upstairs into the terminal once again. And that’s the part I hate.

Because there in the terminal, no one knows what’s going on below, on the ramp. No one sees the eagle, no one looks; everyone’s about their own vacation or business or trip. If it were up to me, the flag draped caskets would be raised into the terminal and solemnly carried through while every unseeing self-absorbed passenger in the lounge put down their cell phone or iPod or laptop and stood in quiet respect for the best and strongest among us sacrificing all so that we might go about our travel, our lives, our future. But that’s just me.

I guess it all comes down to what you see, and what you look for. Anyone can see the eagle, and everyone should. Thank God, it’s there regardless.

Donate time or money to the U.S.O., the organization that cares for our military men and women: click here.

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Just don’t ask . . . and I won’t have to lie to you.

God almighty, the brain cells I extinguished in the Hofbrau Haus.

After I graduated from college, I had almost a year to cool my heels before going to Air Force flight school. So, I ended up in a job as a desk clerk in a hotel near Munich. I’d had six years of German in school, could read and write German pretty well, but there were two major problems:

1. I didn’t really know squat about German history in general or Munich history in particular.

2. I realized that even though I knew the language, everything out of my mouth sounded to the Germans like what I hear from the guy in my yard with the leafblower who I can hardly understand.

This was a problem because as part of my job, I was supposed to lead city tours for guests who requested a guide. My boss “Frau Doris” gave me a cheap info book and shoved me out the door with camera laden guests. I came back six hours later and told her I couldn’t lead any more tours because I really didn’t know jack about half the stuff we were seeing–and that the guests were asking about.

“No problem,” she said,  glugging down her daily liter of vodka–really, she never would have hired me had she been sober. “You just make something up.”

“What?”

“Yes, just make something up. They won’t know.” She fired up another cigarette. “And by the time they figure it out, they’ll be 6,000 miles away. So what do we care?”

I’ve stored that away in my Important Realization File.  And many tourists now show their pals pictures of the distinctive architecture in Munich:

Those twin minarets are a result, they tell their friends smugly, of the Turkish invasion of 1200 b.c..  Well, at least that’s the first thing that came to my mind when they asked. But sooner or later–and 6,000 miles away–some knowledgeable person gutting it out over their boring vacation pictures would finally say, “What?! There was never a Turkish invasion of Germany.” What did I care? It shut them up at the time.

I bring this up to illustrate a point: most of the time, if I don’t know, it’s probably because I really don’t care. So, it’s better if you don’t ask me in the first place. Yes, this extends to in flight.

I don’t want to spoil anyone’s childhood or anything, but here’s the truth: my P.A. in flight–you know, the “this is your captain speaking” cliche they use on TV but is kind of useless since I actually have a name–is canned because it’s easier for me to do over and over ad nauseum. So, I make up a few cities we’ll be flying over, add our flight time for an ETA, and the weather is always “partly cloudy” and whatever temperature I guess it should be. Then when we land, if the weather’s garbage, you will have to accept that this is the part that’s cloudy in my “partly cloudy” report.

Don’t even start with the “what are we over” crap either. Here, you tell me:

Okay, what street are you on? Can’t tell? Either can I–and this is what I’m looking at to navigate your jet five miles above your city or state or whatever. No wait–there it is!

Right? Are we good now? And yes, it’s partly cloudy–this is the part that isn’t cloudy. Plus whatever temperature I make up because it’s kind of a pain to convert degrees Centigrade to Fahrenheit.

The actual weather at our destination? Here you go:

Isn’t “partly cloudy” a lot easier to deal with? We’re going anyway and I’ll handle this when we get there.

Now, I could go on all day about Munich fables, plus don’t even get me started on the translations! Once, after drinking with a guest, he–okay we–decided that it would be funny if I wrote his wife the note she needed for a hairdresser in town and in German, made it say “bitte mein kopf rasieren.” Which means “please shave my head.” Seemed pretty funny till she returned with a crewcut. Thank God it was a weekend so Frau Doris was drinking at home and couldn’t fire me.

Maybe you want to stash all this in your “Important Realization File” and reflect on it briefly before you reach for the call button to ask for information.

Any other questions? If I don’t know the answer, I’ll sure find out for you. Or more likely, just make something up. Still want to ask about our arrival time? Didn’t think so. Now you’re catching on.

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Sent in by an alert traveler, this begs the question, “Anyone feel a draft in here?” plus, of course, “what were you thinking?”

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Today was a good day for recording and mixing. Do you want comatose, or Spinal Tap? Both, you say? Here’s the former

Tempest (Think ocean, storm, rocks, waves . . .)

And here’s the latter

Monstrous (Fire up that bong)

Reality, childhood, and Orion waves.

The intersection of my laziness as a person and my seniority as a pilot is this: I seldom fly early mornings, which means I often fly at night. Since our flight schedules are based on seniority and I’m not a morning person, that’s usually my preference.

In all my years of flying, staring at a night sky like black velvet strewn with jewels of varying sizes and colors, I’ve come to find what seem like old friends in the simpler constellations (remember, I’m lazy) like The Dippers, the “W” of Cassiopea, and on most nights Orion. No matter what’s going on in the cockpit, no matter what’s transpired that day, there they are every night, brighter than ever once you’re at cruising altitude and above most of the atmosphere tainted with smoke and smog and the detritus of civilization as well as nature’s continuous slop of fires and volcanoes and disastrous what not.

It’s a touchstone of distance, too, the way they lay out in the sky depending on how far and wide you’ve flown. Down in the South Pacific, the Indian Ocean, and below the equator, the stars are all up there but at impossible angles and positions, not because they’ve moved, but because you have, having flown so many thousands of miles past your usual perspective on Earth.

I was telling this to my sweet third grader last year, describing how no matter what, when I’m flying in the northern hemisphere, I can eventually find my old friend Orion, “The Hunter,” usually over my left shoulder in the eyebrow window of the cockpit, steady as a faithful old friend. Then I know where I am in the world, in the sky, in reference to my celestial compadre.

Without a heartbeat’s pause, she asked in wide-eyed wonder, “does he ever wave to you?”

And I hated myself as a parent the very instant my mouth spoke the words, “Uh, no, honey; it’s just a group of stars in a pattern.” Because without meaning to, I’d done the adult thing, contributing unwittingly to the piece by piece dismantling of the childhood wonder I’d just been blessed to wander into. Like any imaginative child, she knew nothing of impossibility, rather, only what she could dream based on what she could see.

Me, on the other hand, after a thousand views of that night sky could only see what is, or at least what I know after childhood dominated by dreams gives way to reality dictated by fact over years and years of making a living in flight. I couldn’t see anything anymore with a perspective given over to knowledge of the impossible rather than the childhood belief in all possibility.

Maybe that shift in belief versus reality is inevitable, so maybe what I’d said was merely a part of the necessary exit from childhood, softened perhaps because it came from a parent who cherished her and her precious grade school years.

But more likely, I’m afraid, this whole incident highlights the coldness of adult-based reality: you give up your sense of wonder and with it, claim a heartless confidence in what you know, period. Then rather than living life as a dream of wide-open possibilities, time becomes a painless yet numb sleep walk from work to days off to work; lather, rinse, repeat.

I don’t really have an answer for this conundrum, and maybe there isn’t one. Clearly, the whole notion of constellations was born of some ancient but adult imagination and endures in modern times despite a millennium of science that proves all of it to be groundless in fact. Maybe that’s the whole point: it’s not that facts don’t matter because really, they do. But perhaps they coexist because there’s value in dreams, maybe even more so for the soul, than in reality.

That’s the lesson I’ve learned: my parenthood can be a bridge between the two for my precious child. I’ll strive to listen carefully and answer more slowly, with careful regard for what’s possible rather than the adult eye for what isn’t. I’ll try that perspective, too, at night at high altitude, stargazing during cruise. Not so much looking for Orion to wave at me, but grateful for the knowledge that in a child’s mind, he just might. Anything beyond that is really not important.