Snow Storm

Position: De-icing Pad; KJFK (New York)

Pax on board: 150



Why me? What have I done to tick off Zeus? Another major snow storm and I am in the geometric center of it. Everything in my world is at the edge of the envelope... Right side, left side, upside, downside.

Minimum fuel, maximum gross weight, minimum icing fluid hold over time, maximum snow accumulation, minimum braking action, maximum crosswind component for an icy runway, and on it goes... The thing that really worries me is the big-eyed children that look into the flight deck when their parents tell them, "Look, that's where the pilots are..."

I decided to be pro-active before we pushed from the gate, i.e., I called my dispatcher via cellphone. I asked him if he remembered a certain incident involving another airline in these exact circumstances. After a mini-review of the bad press that airline received, I told him that there is a strong possibility of that very thing happening on our watch. Outside, the snow flakes are as big as quarters and the visibility is less than 1/4 mile. According to my Pilot Ops Manual, that is heavy snow.... No, wait a minute; a little foot note at the bottom of the page. If there is fog with the snow (there is) then the snow gradient chart does not apply. It becomes captain's judgement... Oh, that is just great.

I will make it semi-official on the recorded line. I tell my dispatcher that I will be more than happy to try to get airborne (that is what I get paid for...), but in my opinion, we should think about canceling the flight. He puts me on hold for a few minutes...

"We want you to try."

"OK."

Twenty minutes later, Ice Man (two trucks) is blowing away the snow drifts (on top of the wings) with hot de-icing fluid. The snowfall is heavy; I don't care about the foot note. I tell the co-pilot, "This is not going to work."

Ice Man is starting to apply hot anti-icing fluid on top of the de-icing fluid. Fi-Fi's engines are idling, burning 33 pounds per minute. We are eleven minutes away from bingo fuel. I am thinking about the possibility of getting our same hotel rooms back. There is no way we are going to get airborne. We will be lucky to get a gate to unload the passengers.

Ice Man is finished and tells me we are clear to check the flight controls and taxi. The co-pilot says, "Boss, I think it is letting up a bit." He is right... The snow fall is less than heavy now. Instinctively, I look toward the runway. There is no one down there! This might work...

The tower clears us to taxi... The snow flakes are swirling in Fi-Fi's powerful lights. The co-pilot is reading the taxi checklist and I am responding as fast as I can while actually checking the switch, button, lever, or magic knob. I figure we have about three more minutes before the very expensive Type 4 anti-icing fluid becomes ineffective.

We are cleared for take-off; I look out my left side Plexiglas at the outer wing surface. It is shiny and green from the anti-icing fluid. Perfect! The runway forward visibility is 1/2 mile. It is the co-pilot's turn to fly... Yep, he is 25 years younger and has much faster reflexes. I give up the controls after we are lined up and remind him to clear the engines for at least ten seconds. This is to suck any de-icing fluid or snow through the engine that might be in front of the compressor fans. He brings the engines out of idle and holds the brakes by mashing on the top of the rudder pedals. Fi-Fi is not cooperating, though. She is sliding forward on the icy runway in spite of locked main gear wheels.

"I can't hold it."

"Let her go."

Brakes released and thrust levers to the forward stops. Holy Moly! The engines increase to maximum thrust in a few seconds and shove us back into our seats. The exhaust temperatures are amazingly cool. The noise level is higher than normal because of the cold air and snowflakes being ingested into the compressor section. Happy engines... happy captain. Go baby, Go!

I can feel the wings load up in the seat of my pants, always a welcome sensation in weather like this... Vee One Rotate. The co-pilot breaks the nose gear free and the mains follow. Before I can call out "positive rate" we are climbing in excess of 1500 feet per minute through a snow tunnel illuminated by millions of candle power. It is, well, simply amazing.

In a few minutes we are in the clear, underneath the star canopy, with the snow clouds falling away rapidly. Four hours, eleven minutes to the next runway as The Electric Jet continues to climb into the flight levels.

Life on the Line continues...