Thanksgiving Day 2006

8:00 PM Eastern Local

After a short overnight (actually, an overday), we are back in the flightdeck. Behind us are 150 east coast folks going to the west coast. I have spanned the Empire so many times in the past few days, I cannot keep track anymore. The airports are standing room only, but I have not seen any fights or other bad behavior, yet...

We are up against the aircraft's range limitations, a common occurrence in the winter. The headwinds are strong and the west coast weather is bad, so an alternate airport is required. This translates to no holding fuel and very little taxi fuel. The fuel tanks are completely full. It is raining and the cold winds are buffeting the aircraft as we taxi toward the end of the runway, about number 20 for take-off. One eye on the fuel quantities as we taxi...

9:30 PM Central local

Airborne for two hours; the headwinds are strong, as forecast. Fuel situation is pretty good. The route takes us over Kansas City, then northwest, toward Portland. The winds are too strong for a direct route along the Canadian border, so we had to take the southern route... More miles, but less fuel burn. Four more hours...

ETP (equal time point) 2 hrs. 51 min./2 hrs. 51 min.

We are halfway to our destination. Fuel on board is OK. We can make one approach, then fly to the alternate airport to refuel. Outside, absolute darkness underneath; no lights at all. Above us are beautiful, clear and concise constellations. Some star charts and a watch is all I would need...

11:30 PM Pacific local

Our destination is less than one hour away. Thanks to modern tech miracles, the co-pilot and I have been watching the weather closely. It is very windy at Portland, and raining. The crosswind is perpendicular to the runway surface, which, of course, is wet. The maximum recommended crosswind to land is about 43 m.p.h. Here is a perfect example of a Catch-22 type scenario that the line pilot faces on a routine basis. If the landing is successful, then the boys (or girls) are brilliant... If the aircraft slides off the wet runway into the mud, well, then it is, "What made you think you could land in that wind Captain?"

Thanksgiving Day 2006 (12:10 AM Pacific local)

The control tower cleared us to maintain two thousand until established, cleared for the ILS approach runway ten right. Surface winds one nine zero at thirty two gusting thirty eight. At 2,000 feet above the ground, winds are 50 m.p.h. blowing across the right wing. The crab angle to stay on the localizer (runway lateral radio beam) is substantial. The aircraft is rocking and rolling coming down the glideslope (runway vertical radio beam). Finally, we are underneath the clouds and can see the airport, but it is not in front of the nose. It is to the left side of the nose at about 10 o'clock because of the wind correction angle, or in pilot talk, crab angle. Our aircraft landing lights are two bright light spears piercing the rain drops. I said, "This is going to be interesting."

At 500 feet above the runway, the wind is losing velocity to about 40 m.p.h. directly across the runway. I have to look around the windscreen side post to see the runway; I will remove the crab angle immediately before the tires touch. The turbulence is getting bad; a go-around is now becoming a strong possibility. Two hundred feet... The rain can be seen blowing across the runway. A lighted windsock, to the right, is fully extended, and perpendicular. One hundred feet... Still holding the crab angle. The runway's surface looks like a wet mirror. Turbulence is giving me a hard time; I have merged mentally with the aircraft's control system and am making rapid, subconscious corrections counteracting the turbulence. My conscious thoughts are weighing the pros and cons of attempting the touchdown. Fifty feet and thrust levers back to idle... Hold the crab angle... raise the nose a few degrees. Twenty feet and left rudder pedal to the floor/ right wing down, but not too much, i.e., do not drag the right engine cowling. The fuselage is now, momentarily aligned with the runway. The right main gear touches first, then the left falls onto the runway... Spoilers are up and the lift is blown away with the rain drops. Easy baby, easy... Don't even think about sliding. I pull the reverse thrust triggers, mash on the toe brakes at the same moment. Both of us are thrown forward into the five point harnesses... Very cool!

The stress is leaving my mind and body as we taxi toward the gate; it feels so good. It is dark, windy, and the rain is blowing across the taxiway. The clouds begin to glow as another airliner is coming down the glideslope, then it slices through the cloud bellies into the clear... An amazing sight. The rampers are holding their lighted wands against the wind guiding us in... Yellow rain suits wet and shiny.

The last of the passengers are walking toward their loved ones, as we are gathering our bags and tucking the aircraft in for a wet, but deserved rest. One of the flight attendants asks me if, " I think we will be able to find any restaurants open for turkey dinner." I already know that we will be eating turkey, for sure, at the hotel. We all agree to meet at 3:00 PM for dinner...

Life on the line continues...

The Trickster

I had last Thanksgiving at home, but this year, no way. Bidding these big holidays free from duty is tricky unless one is at the top of the seniority list... The very top. This year the trickster won and I am sitting in the flight deck watching the rain fall in Seattle. We just shut her down and are unloading 150 holiday travelers; lots of children excited about seeing Grandma and Grandpa. Outside, heavy rain and darkness... In front of us, with their faces pressed against the terminal building glass, are scores of children waiting to board. Their grand parents are still on the other side of the Empire; a place for which we shall depart in about thirty minutes.
The weather forecast for the east coast: howling winds, low cloud ceilings, and more rain; perfect Thanksgiving weather.

I lost the toss for the post-flight inspection in the rain, so my hat is pulled down low and leather jacket collar up as the big aluminum bird is dripping cold rain on my head. My flashlight beam is full of fast moving, cold drops of water. The brake fans are cooling the wheel assemblies and providing a nice blast of warm air, of which I take advantage. The fueler is hooked up and pumping, the rampers are throwing bags in the rain, the catering trucks are backed up to the rear doors. The ramp chief, a guy that I have known for decades, sees me warming my feet in the column of warm, dry air. He walks up to me and says, "Hey Captain, how's your Thanksgiving going?" It was funny and we both laughed large... "Well", I said, "It's a bit wet." We made small talk for about 30 seconds then parted company with well wishes for the holidays. I leave the warm air and continue the post-flight in the rain.

Grandma is waiting...

Goose Hunting

Day #2 of a 4 day
Position: Overnight hotel facilities, Sacramento, Ca.
Time: 3:00 A.M.

We departed the east coast of the Empire in the early hours of darkness, after a two hour weather delay caused by torrential rain. The night's route took us to Sin City for a quick stop. During the post-flight inspection, my co-pilot spotted a gash in #1 main gear tire (first tire on left side of aircraft). We must have hit something on take-off or landing. Our Sin City night crew of mechanics responded instantly with heavy hydraulic jacks and a new main gear tire. They jacked the left side of the aircraft three inches off the ground and changed the tire within 30 minutes; our second take-off was only 1 hour and 10 minutes behind schedule.

Level at 28,000 feet, we poked at our crew meals and made a routine check of the Sacramento weather while we ate our company provided cold chicken. The mini-printer spit out my weather request after only two minutes. I can eat and read in the flight deck at the same time, something the wife of my youth will not allow at home. She can't stand food stained paper at the table. So, holding a chicken wing and the weather report in my left hand, I installed the mandatory geezer glasses with my right.

Suddenly, I lost my appetite: 1/4 mile visibility, fog, and low cloud cover. My eyes went to the fuel tank quantities... 12,800 pounds. That would be enough for one approach attempt, then a bingo fuel run to a close-by alternate airport. Obviously, the good weather forecast was blown. As expected, the email alert light started flashing... A message from Mother. KSMF wx down. What is FOB? (translates: Sacramento airport weather going down. How much fuel on board?)After several more emails, we decided Reno would be a good landing alternate for our fuel situation.

At 100 miles distance, we listened to the updated weather report directly from the airport. Visibility was down to 1,000 feet (i.e., how far down the runway you could see if you were standing on the runway surface. This sounds like adequate visibility, but at 160 m.p.h., it is not a lot). Air traffic control asked us, "How many cats you got onboard?" (Cat stands for category, which describes the low visibility landing capability of a particular aircraft. Airliners, typically, are Cat 3 capable, which translates to very little or no forward visibility requirements.) I answered, "We've got three cats onboard."

Most airlines, including mine, do not trust co-pilots below 1800 feet runway visibility, so I was legally bound to take over flying pilot duties. This is a rule that puzzles me... In the right seat is a 27 year old hot shot with perfect vision, perfect hearing, quick reflexes, and an agile mind capable of multi-tasking. Instead, the old guy with geezer vision, ears ringing from 30+ years of aircraft engines, so-so reflexes, and a not as agile mind, gets to do the flying in extreme low visibility. The theory is that the Captain's experience makes up for less than perfect physiology. OK, I'll buy that, but the Captain should be the deciding authority on who flys the approach.

I reminded the co-pilot, that I would have to fly the approach. He graciously offered the controls to me 75 miles from the outer marker, but I told him to take us to the outer marker and I would take over from that point (the outer marker, a radio beacon underneath the approach path, is about where the approach procedure begins...). Entering Sacramento airspace, the approach controller told us the visibility was holding at 1,000 feet. I was feeling better about the fuel situation. At 10,000 feet, the co-pilot extended the speed brakes shedding energy into the night sky. Sacramento was a glowing blob of yellow light beneath the low clouds. Flaps were extended to 10 degrees at 240 m.p.h.; 15 degrees at 225 m.p.h.; landing gear down/flaps 20 degrees at 210 m.p.h. Approaching the outer marker, I took over the flying pilot duties. I called for flaps to 40 degrees at 190 m.p.h.; the co-pilot announced that the landing checklist was complete. We checked in with the control tower crossing the outer marker, they in turn cleared us to land. Life was good... Briefly.

In the fog, gear down, full flaps, engine power stable, all lights illuminated; at 1200 feet above the rice fields, our landing lights illuminated a V-flight of geese, flying IFR, on a compass heading of about 180 degrees. The A320, moving at 160 m.p.h., overtook them from four o'clock high. We penetrated their V formation before they, or I, could react.

WHUMPWHUMPWHUMPWHUMP!! The strikes were incredibly loud in the flight deck and we could feel each and every impact, in extremely rapid succession. The co-pilot said something like, "We hit 'em!" I looked at the engine gauges for any sign of ingestion...Nothing. No compressor stalling; I made a blanket statement of, "We're OK. Engines are fine. We did not ingest any. Thank God! We'll continue the approach."

A minute or so later, the main gear tires smoked on the touchdown zone markers. I taxied slowly in the fog until we approached the terminal building, where we could no longer see ahead of the aircraft. Our ramp personnel came out to the aircraft with their flashlights and walked us in to the gate. I moved the engine master switches to the OFF position and told the co-pilot, "I don't know about you, but I'm ready for a little nap." It was 2:30 A.M. I called Mother and reported the bird strikes, then started on the paper work, an evil necessity.

A few minutes later, the co-pilot and I walked around the aircraft looking for damage. It was so foggy, that our flashlight beams looked like phasers. On the left side of the aircraft, underneath the wing and the engine pylon, were large areas of blood splatters, tiny pieces of body parts, and feathers. Embedded in the landing gear, other body parts. It was a mess... A mechanic, also piercing the fog with his flashlight, yelled, "Hey Cap, you got a goose hunting license?"

A fair question, considering...

Standby Instruments

Day #3 of a 4 day
Position: Eastbound over the Great Plains of the Empire
Destination: Boston
Altitude: 37,000 feet
Passenger count: 150
Crew: 5
Hitchhikers: 3 ( 1 flight attendant and 2 pilots)

All seats, including fold down jumpseats, are full. Our A320 climbed to 33,000 feet in 20 minutes, then we burned the fuel load down until we could coax her to 37,000 feet. All is well in Captain Dave's world... Knock on wood. Boston weather is marginal, but we have alternate airport fuel and 20 minutes of uh-oh fuel. My co-pilot, a young hotshot, with cat-like reflexes and 20/15 vision, is the flying pilot. Two hitchhiking pilots are sitting behind me; one company B737 Captain (a friend of mine) and one co-pilot from another airline.

The riding co-pilot has never been inside an A320 flight deck before. She is duly impressed with all the Star Trek inspired magic. The 737 Captain, turning my crank, told her that the A320, an electric jet, is famous for inflight power failures, which would, of course, render the smoke and mirrors useless. This is total bravo sierra (BS). The Airbus Industries design is robust and reliable under the most difficult of flight conditions. Even if a Klingon warbird lasered the ten separate flight control computers, we still have the standby instruments, which have their own power source, totally independent of the whiz bang technology. That would be an airspeed indicator, altimeter, old time artificial horizon, and an electric compass with two needles that point to radio transmitters. During the Jurassic age, I flew freight through terrible weather on a daily basis with exactly those instruments and thought nothing of it.

Well, that's OK... I can talk trash as well as my Captain buddy. We still have two hours to trade aircraft related insults. Secretly, I love the B737, since I flew it for a decade. It is manufactured by the same folks that gave us the B17 and the B29. However, it is necessary to maintain the illusion of A320 superiority, if only for entertainment purposes. I remind him that we A320 pilots get hot food that is actually edible.

And on it goes as the sun sets behind us...

Packing T-shirts

My Dell laptop, which survived my failure to follow SOPs for handling laptops on the line and a subsequent fall onto the steel plate jetway floor, is out of maintenance with the minor write-up (cracked case) cleared and signed off. I will now write on the chalkboard 100 times:

I will never ever fail to secure my Dell laptop in it's computer bag again.

A four day trip is looming... I must get back to packing t-shirts.

Maintenance write-up

My excellent Dell laptop is in for maintenance with a minor write-up. FL 390 is holding at 20,000 feet, left turns, 10 mile legs with plenty of fuel. Stand-by please...