Flight Level 390

Time- 11:25 P.M.
Position- Miami, Fl.

During initial flight deck preparation in Miami, my excellent co-pilot discovered an insidious hydraulic malfunction. The A-320 has two main hydraulic systems and one ancillary
system for emergencies, powered by an air turbine that falls into the slipstream and is driven by a folding propeller that extends to full diameter once clear of the fuselage. It is one of the coolest things I have ever seen. Anyway, one of the main hydraulic systems has developed a bad sensor leading it to believe it has low fluid level, which is not the case. Yikes!

Does the airline have a low level hydraulic sensor in Miami? As a teenager would say, "Uh, no..."

Can we borrow one from another airline? "Uh, no... Never heard of that problem before."

Is Starbucks open? "Uh, no..."

Are 150 passengers getting rowdy? "Uh, yes..."

The wife of my youth tells me to go to my happy place in situations like this... And that would be on a beach in Mexico. My wife is wearing her tiny bikini and handing me a drink with a little umbrella. Oh man, I am feeling better already.

OK, back from the beach... I get paid to manage situations like this, so, Captain, get with the program.

P.A. microphone in hand: "Ladies and Gentlemen, if I could have your attention please...

It is fifteen minutes before midnight, and I am walking back to my airplane across a windy ramp in Sin City. The flight release paperwork is rolled tightly to keep it from whipping in the breeze. To the west is a bright finger of light stabbing into the night sky from a pyramid shaped casino. I wonder how many of our passengers helped pay the electric bill. The grin on my face is from a discussion I had with one of my favorite Captains, also, retrieving his flight paperwork. The one who said it would be a cold day in Hell before he flew Sparky is scheduled to begin A320/319 ground school in a week.

Sparky is a common nick name for the Airbus Industries jet, also known as the Electric Jet, Fifi, and the Dark Side. There have always been a group of pilots at this and, for that matter, every airline, who resist the Airbus as if it were possessed by evil spirits. Yes, it is a different way of flying, but after a few years in the Electric Jet, a pilot begins to think, "Yeah, this is cool." There is an evil rumor about age and Airbus ground school... A pilot in his or her fifties will be overwhelmed by the Airbus flight logic. My buds who teach part time at the school house tell me that is not true if the student will study. The problem stems from older pilots who do not want to exert themselves mentally. Change is hard for some folks, but change they must if they are to survive as an airline pilot. The old turbo-jets with basic flight decks are being phased out at all major airlines.

My compadre, forced to change aircraft, is freaked out about Sparky and her wicked ways. This guy flew freight in the Electra L-188 for years before flying passengers at a major airline. I told him that compared to the Electra, the A320 will be a piece of cake. I assured him that with all his friends who are Airbus pilots, we will make sure he gets all the help he needs to complete training. He is a popular and well liked Captain by all who know him.

I cannot help but to laugh about his predicament. A cold day in Hell has arrived... Never say never.

The sun's light at 39,000 feet, over eastern Kentucky, is pure white and incredibly brilliant. It confuses my feeble brain to consider the forces behind that light.

Our sunglasses are on... Ninety minutes to Boston.

Yesterday, the sun set in our 12 o'clock , and now, a few hours later, dawn's light in our 12 o'clock... And so it goes in the life of a night pilot. Two heavenly torches are rising in the east, Venus and the Moon, ahead of the sun. Eight miles below, still asleep, is Louisville, Kentucky, where the local time is 4:30 A.M. Thirty minutes from now, when most of the alarm clocks start going off, we will be 300 miles down the airway. Are we able to pass through their dream continuum undetected, or are we leaving a wispy trace of our presence? Such are the things I think about on the backside of the clock. I better ask for more coffee... Quickly.

Our route took us south of Kansas City, missing a very large area of thunderstorms. The atmosphere is in turmoil this morning, caused by complex frontal activity. This, in turn, has killed out tailwinds. We are going to be 15-20 minutes late, no matter what. We depend on those winds to make our times eastbound. All flight planning is done with historical data, then adjusted for realtime conditions. Flying at the speed of heat (maximum forward velocity), we still can not make up the lost winds. So, I have decided to fly at ECON (pilot talk for least fuel burned vs. distance over ground vs. schedule requirements). One ton of jet fuel in my pocket is better than ten minutes less flight time. The good news... The westbound crew, sans headwinds, will be early at their destination. The force is balanced...

Our inertial navigation platforms are concentrating hard on Richmond, Virginia. That will be our turn point to parallel the coast on a northeasterly track to Boston, our destination. The co-pilot is cleaning his sunglasses... A good idea. The sun will crack the horizon in about fifteen minutes.

Two more hours to Boston...

Great Spirits have always encountered violent opposition from mediocre minds.

_ Albert Einstein


That rushing sound, is it the hordes at Le Bourget,
Swarming past the barriers and lights
To scavenge my Spirit, and lift me up
Into the air that only heroes breathe?
Or is it the age-old sigh of stones,
Known to those who pace the shingle
And the swirled black sands that wrap
Impossible islands in a shawl of waves?

_ Gerard Van der Leun


Seventy-nine years ago, Charles Lindbergh pushed the Wright Whirlwind's throttle to the forward stop setting into motion the grossly overloaded aircraft and a future that the young airmail pilot could not imagine in his wildest fantasies. Thirty-three hours later, after a harrowing journey across the North Atlantic, he landed in Paris with fuel remaining in the Spirit's tanks.

The flight was an unbelievable feat of airmanship against impossible odds. I have read every book written about this flight, yet I am still amazed... A small fabric and metal kite against the weather and vastness of the North Atlantic, with no help from modern navigation technology.

Several years ago, my wife and I flew over the North Atlantic in an A-330 to visit Dingle Bay, Ireland... Lindbergh's first landfall. Words cannot adequately describe the feeling of standing in that place. He was only a few miles off course... How did he do that?

It pains me to no end when I read or see reports dragging the memory of this great aviator through the mire of half truths and the innuendos of history, authored by the lapdogs of the PC police. Charles Lindbergh was not perfect; actually, far from it. What he was, though, was a rugged and fearless individual of his time. Prior to his history making flight, he had survived years of flying the mail in open cockpit bi-planes through the worst weather the mid-western skies had to offer. On two occasions, he ran out of fuel in instrument flight conditions which forced him to leap into the abyss, hoping that his parachute would open.

Obviously, it did.

I have been blogging about life as a line pilot for two years and two days. It has been interesting, to say the least. In that two years and two days, I have flown in heavy weather, operated in extreme crosswinds, wondered about how much ice a transport category aircraft can really carry, made three or four terrible landings, lost two comrades to the final checkride, attended four retirement parties of close friends, and worried as a very close relative spent one year in combat.

All in all, though, life has been good... Very good. Borrowing from a common saying among line pilots at my airline, "The blogging will continue until moral improves."

As soon as the main gear and nose gear retracted and latched into the wheel wells, it was as if I had never been on leave at the frontier. Time is a cruel master to those of us who live by the second hand. The ability to disassociate one's self from the clock is, unfortunately, very difficult.

So, I traded a leather (horse powered) saddle for an electric ( jet powered) saddle and am flying leg number two (Sea-Tac to Lost Wages) of a three leg day. The wife of my youth ran the pre-departure checklist before I drove to the airport:

1. Identification around neck.
2. Tie, belt, and epaulets.
3. Wallet with money, pilot license, medical certificate, radio operator certificate.
4. Hat (optional, but I am old school).
5. Flight bag, overnight bag, laptop computer.
6. Geezer glasses, sunglasses.
7. Cell phone.

Several years ago, while my wife was traveling on business, I reported to work sans Captain's epaulets. A flight attendant friend of mine asked me if my wife was out of town. I said,"As a matter of fact, she is... How did you know?" She pointed out my missing epaulets. Yikes! I ran down to the pilot's locker room and borrowed a set of co-pilot epaulets from a friend, since there were no Captains in sight. I doubted the uniform police would actually count stripes, but they would definitely notice missing epaulets. To this day, when I see that flight attendant, I always remind her of the "Day of the Missing Epaulets". Little incidents, such as this, make such sweet memories.

Yep, back in the electric saddle and climbing through 23,000 feet for 29,000 feet. Seattle Center promised higher altitude after we clear traffic ahead. The second hand is ticking...

We returned to the land of road rage, political correctness, and security cameras with some regret and a little bit of hesitation... "Honey, we could quit our jobs and move to the ranch", I said as we drove the 800 miles to Gotham City. Then we looked at each other and laughed at the thought of us becoming middle-aged cowpersons.

Spring is a busy time for cowboys. It is the time of round-up... Days that are fast disappearing as the cowboy life is increasingly viewed as politically incorrect. Nevertheless, I will always be fiercely proud to be the son of a cowboy. And, after driving 800 miles to the frontier with the wife of my youth, we have put aside the ways of the big city for the hard tack existence of the cowboy... For a week.

My sister, a cowgirl extraordinaire and ranch foreman, has given out the assignments for the day. I am to prepare the corrals for the cattle which will be arriving in about two hours. My wife will ride a horse today helping gather the cattle. I am secretly thankful my boots will stay on the ground today, because, even though I work out (almost) daily, I am too soft to ride horses in a working capacity. Tomorrow might be a different story, though.

I pre-flighted my wife's horse and saddle, helped her get on board, as she is very small, then reviewed a couple of things about horses with her. We only ride a few times a year, so I want to be sure to review the most important items. I was raised horseback; she was not. As the cowboys, er, I mean cowpersons, rode away, I began my assigned chore of preparing the corrals.

Overhead, a few contrails of high flying airliners winging across the deep blue New Mexico sky. I might know the crews... So amazingly cool!