Into the Light...

Position: 200 miles north of KSLC (Salt Lake City)
Altitude: 38,000 feet
Compass Heading: 185 degrees
PAX on board: 137
Winds Aloft: 310/95 (From the northwest at 110 mph)
Fuel Flow: 5500 pph (pounds per hour)

So far, it has been an unsettling trip. When I checked in for this airborne odyssey, one of my partners in political incorrectness, looking kind of sick, was getting off the elevator and said, "You aren't gonna believe whose picture is on the wall."

The Wall... It is where the Chief Pilot's office puts photographs of pilots who have flown west for the last checkride (died). New photos are there often and it is usually, "Hey, looky there. I used to pull gear for him way back when," or (tragically) "I don't remember him," or similar verbiage. I have never seen a female pilot on the Wall, hence no her.

When the elevator door opened, I could see six or seven pilots crowded around the Wall looking at the latest photo. My eyes locked on and tried to make out the little 2 inch square airline I.D. photo copied onto an 8 x 11 sheet of paper with about ten lines of writing below the grainy photo, always starting with "We regret to announce...", but it is to far away. As I walked toward the group of pilots and the tiny photo, the smile came into focus. Oh God, please don't let it be...

Gut check time... It was him. I could not believe it. What the heck happened? None of the gathering knew anything. The Chief Pilot's office was still closed at that hour of the morning. I read the words under his smiling face; a boilerplate death announcement.

We started at this airline together in the same basic indoc class; he was senior by one number. He had just retired from the Air Force, which made him older than the average new co-pilot, and, frankly, smarter. I liked him from the first second I saw him; he was one of those guys with a magnetic personality that attracts other people like moths to a flame. Very unassuming and he loved to act not so bright. He always told me that he was an imposter, i.e., not really a pilot and had been very lucky to have not been caught yet. He grinned like a Cheshire cat and if he was in the pilot locker room before you, it was wise to stand to one side when you opened your locker door. He was well known for booby trapping the lockers of his running mates, me being one of them.

His second retirement party was at one of the biggest sports bar in town and the whole motley crew showed up for the potentially incriminating event. He maintained, to the end, that he had never had a pilot's license and had fooled the USAF and a major airline for over 39 years. Good Lord, I will miss him...

Last night, in Edmonton, I worked up the nerve to call his home. One of our captains, serving as the family spokesperson, answered the phone. I asked, "What happened?"

After a run on a treadmill... Heart attack and lights out. He had run on a treadmill four or five days a week for decades.

My co-pilot is a young guy and has never heard of him. How is that possible? He was famous, or possibly, infamous. Oh, well... A different generation.

We lifted off the runway in Edmonton, flaps at 18% and reduced thrust, well before sunrise. The cool Canadian air helped Fi-Fi climb to altitude like a home sick angel. When we leveled at 38,000 feet, twilight was forming in the east. The orange sunrise washed the stars away, until finally, white sunlight is burning through my side Plexiglas illuminating the top of our instrument panel.

Into the Light we fly, just like my Friend and fellow (C)aptain. I can only hope my airmanship skills will someday amount to a pimple on his butt. He would like that, but would remind me that, "At least you have a pilot's license."

For some of us, Life on the Line continues...

Rough Ride over Indy

Position: Over Indy
Altitude: 37,000 feet
Groundspeed: 518 mph (450 kts)
Pax: 148
Equipment: A320
Destination: KBWI (Baltimore)


And the vampire schedule continues... Bumping along over Indy en route to KBWI with two empty seats.

It is one of those nights...

My co-pilot is a fifty something re-tread with an advanced bald spot, somewhat worse than mine, but only because the wife of my youth is working on my hair with special shampoos, conditioners, and other concoctions to keep her captain's silver hair intact. The co-pilot is unhappy with the state of the industry and his position in life and has verbalized such to me. I have tried to steer the conversation to a more pleasant subject, but to no avail. Apparently, he has not been paying attention, for this industry is not conducive to stable life styles.

One more time, let me try to analogize life as a major airline pilot... Think of having a stunningly beautiful or handsome, but totally neurotic, mate with access to your bank account. Get the picture? Why would anyone subject themselves to such instability, you ask? If you want to fly the Line, you had better get used to it. Many young people get into this business with unrealistic expectations, followed by very real bitterness when the ugly scenarios of furloughs and pilot union combat hits them hard, usually in the pocket book. There are many reasons for this, but it is beyond the scope of this blog.

So, keeping with the Flight Ops Manual requiring the captain to maintain a positive atmosphere in the flight deck, there is not much conversation tonight. Too bad... I probably have incriminating evidence on someone we both know and could jointly plan an inventive practical joke on that person, only surpassed in originality by some of the legendary Captains of Yesteryear.

Outside, incredibly thin night air at -57 C and not much wind; only 30 kts on the tail. In sixty days or so, that will be 120 kts plus. Forty degrees left of the nose, Capella of Auriga is rising. Below, Indianapolis is disappearing in our six. We have been in light turbulence for two hundred miles, nothing too bad, but enough to form white caps on the captain's coffee. According to the controller, smooth air is ten minutes ahead.

Far below, some kid on an Indiana farm is listening to the whisper of our engines as we pass overhead dreaming about the day he will be an airline pilot.

Life on the Line continues...

Fuel Tanks Filling with Air

Position: 150 miles north of Mazatlan
Altitude: 38,000 feet
Compass Heading: 350 degrees
PAX: 57
Groundspeed: 515 mph (448 kts)
Destination: KPHX (Phoenix)
Equipment: A320

Fifty seven pax on board... Not a very big load for Mazatlan; it is usually jam-packed with sun burned, hung over Americanos wanting (please) to get home. My secret contact inside the Chief Pilot's office told me that the ongoing disagreement between the government of Mexico and the cartels has hurt our Latin America operation. As Private Vasquez said in Aliens, "He may be right."

Oh well, that is for the marketing department to worry about. I will worry about the wall of storms ahead and the large volume of air inside my fuel tanks. Why, oh why, did I not insist on more fuel? I had a gut feeling this might happen, but my little red "uh-oh" light was not flashing. Yikes! Maybe the bulb is burned out. Anyway, too late now... There it is ahead of us, big and ugly.

In our ten o'clock low is the company flight from Mexico City; we can see them clearly. They are in an A319. Their nose is pointing at the weather, as is ours, poking the storms with radar.

Forty-five to the left and maybe a hundred miles is blue sky... In theory, we could fly over there and parallel the weather, then cut back in forty-five to the right and get back on course. That maneuver would bring us down to bare minimum fuel. Then, any little hiccup inbound to the Phoenix airport would require priority handling and a paper trail of guilt, starting and ending in the left seat.

My co-pilot is a young female whom I have flown with numerous times. She might be the best stick at the airline. The last time I flew with her, she was pregnant... Now she has a baby. We have been laughing about that for two days. Inside my gray, I mean, silver head, I am feeling old. How many of the female co-pilots have had babies? A bunch... Father Time rolls on.

Oh, please, captain... Shelve the philosophy. We are getting close to the point of turning 45 left or punching the storm line. I look at my co-pilot and ask her, "Whadda ya think?"

She looks at the fuel load and the radar returns, "I don't know. It looks like we could pick our way through, but it has grown so fast, maybe we should turn left and try to go around it."

Yeah, she is probably right about left. If we get our tail twisted by a storm, the aftermath will be a lot worse than a low fuel paper trail. On the other hand, I am reasonably certain that we could thread the needle. Hmmm... Decision time. Fuel remaining versus radar returns...

Compass Heading: 305 degrees

We are heading for the blue. The Mexican ATC controller has given us free reign, "When able, direct Vylla." Vylla is a virtual waypoint south of Tucson where American ATC controllers take the hand-off from Mazatlan Center. The Mexico City flight is banking left to follow us. Is this an example of safety in numbers? Would I have followed them had they turned first?

Compass Heading: 350 degrees

The heavy weather is to our right, which is a good thing. The fuel tanks have a lot of air in them, which is a bad thing. My middle-aged, but experienced fuel burn mental calculator has kicked into overdrive. There is no doubt that we will arrive with minimum fuel, but the question is: Can I reasonably expect to land with minimum fuel, or should we seriously consider diverting to So-Cal for fuel? This is what gives me silver hair.

My dispatcher has a bigger picture than I, as he has access to the latest weather and the ATC arrival rates into any airport. I send him a quick email: Diverting west for wx/minimum fuel at kphx/any delays/thx.

Email alert light flashes... no delays/kphx wx clr.


I rip it out of the mini-printer and hand it to my co-pilot (the flying pilot), "Mother says it is OK." I can see she is calculating fuel versus distance as she reads Mother's message.

Compass Heading: 035 degrees

Vylla waypoint is on the nav display, northeast of a line of radar returns which look navigable to these old eyes. The radar antenna tilt can be controlled in the cockpit, which in turn can give an indication of the height of the storm, sort of... Thunderstorms are like fat rattlesnakes lying in the shade, i.e., you had better be careful treading past them or over them.

Compass Heading: 045 degrees

A few more miles and we will be merging with the original course leading to Vylla. The co-pilot is weaving through the cloud canyons visually and with radar. I am building virtual waypoints and plugging them into our most likely intercept course in case our weather radar goes tango uniform before we clear the weather. The Mexico City crew is still behind us threading the needle toward Vylla.

Vylla Waypoint

The Albuquerque controller welcomes us back and gives a descent to 24,000 feet. The wing tip tanks have opened and are each transferring their 1600 pounds of kerosene to the mains via gravity flow. We have about 7,000 pounds of fuel remaining for the arrival. That is enough, as that will put us into the gate with about 50 minutes of fuel. Admittedly, more than I expected. The stress level plunges.

If I had a less capable co-pilot, I would be reminding him/her that we do not want to miss the approach and get into a low fuel state. This co-pilot does not need any hints. She knows the drill as well as I and is certainly as good or better stick.

Eight miles east of KPHX

I confirm that the "737 in sight and runway in sight."

"Roger, follow the 737, cleared for the visual two five left, contact tower twenty point niner."

We are 2.5 miles behind the 73, bare minimum spacing and prime territory for a go-around if the 73 crew misses their turn-off. As if reading my mind, the co-pilot slows five knots and calls for more flaps. I check in with the tower controller who tells us to "continue."

Crossing the five mile fix, the co-pilot requests "gear down, flaps full, landing checklist." Fi-Fi decelerates as the gear and full flaps hang into the wind. Holding the checklist in the sunlight so I can read it without geezer glasses, we complete it quickly.

At 1,000 feet above the ground, I can see the 73's shadow over the runway threshold. A few seconds later; rubber smoke curling out from underneath their wings. This is going to be close.

At 500 feet above the ground, I can see the 73 clearing the runway. The tower clears us to land. As we come over the threshold, the tower says, "No need to reply, but plan minimum time on runway. There is a seven five two mile final." I click the mike button twice.

Touchdown is firm and in the zone, exactly as it should be. I glance at the spoiler indications; they are fully extended and ripping the lift off the wings. The co-pilot has activated maximum reverse thrust and is starting to apply wheel brakes. Fi-Fi's nose is low as she works hard to shed her momentum.

I call out "eighty knots" as we decelerate. The tower asks, "Can you make the high speed?" I look at the co-pilot... She nods. I tell the tower, "We'll get the high speed."

Between the runways on the taxiway, we raise the flaps/slats, turn OFF landing lights, and complete an after landing flow (memory checklists are called flows). No small talk here as we are in the danger zone between two of the busiest runways in the world. Paranoia is allowed, even expected... To the left are airliners at take-off thrust lifting off; to the right, airliners at full reverse thrust are slowing. We stop at the back of a line of jets waiting to cross the take-off runway. It is going to be awhile before we get to the gate.

The parking brake is set as we wait... I allow my mind to think about the wife of my youth. I promised I would take her out tonight. This looks like a GO item. I will definitely make positive points.

Life on the Line continues... Between the runways.

Lunar Light

Position: Thirty miles north of Cleveland
Altitude: 37,000 feet
True Airspeed: 519 mph (452 kts)
PAX on board: 150
Destination: KBOS (Boston)
Outside Air Temp: -58 C.
Local time: 2220 hrs

Back to Boston, one more time or until I get it right. It is funny how that works, i.e., I can go for months without flying into a given airport, and then I will go there twice a week for a month or more. The mysteries of scheduling into which a wise man will not delve to deeply... On the flip side, Boston is a good overnight town; nice hotel and great food.

Outside, lunar light is illuminating the broken undercast. It is a beautiful sight which my little Nikon Coolpix S-630 flight bag camera captured accurately (complete with bug splatters) on AUTO setting with flash OFF. It is simply amazing how cameras have improved over the years.

Yep, things are going well tonight. Both engines are matched N1/N2; running cool and strong. The fuel remaining is giving me the warm fuzzies and the forecast is calling for clear skies, light winds, good visibility at KBOS. I have flown with my co-pilot in the simulator, twice, but never on the Line. We were laughing (nervously) about that earlier, hoping that both engines would keep turning on take-off.

Our number three radio control panel decided to go tango uniform about an hour ago, a minor malfunction that requires a few minutes of paperwork' along with email to my dispatcher and maintenance control, a subsidiary of Mother. Of course, they already knew about it because The Electric Jet sent a failure message independently. Also, the lead flight attendant called and reported one of their credit card readers has failed... No paper trail required for that, only a radio call on the ground at KBOS.

Eighty miles west of Logan Field...

We are coming down at a normal descent rate; no tailwind, no wing spoilers, no tight altitude restrictions. Why? It is unusual, in as much as Boston arrivals are usually energetic because of strong tailwinds and steep descents. It is Saturday night, about midnight, during a three day holiday. That is probably the Why... Even the wind is taking time off.

Not us, though. We five crewmembers are on the Line until Tuesday. Holiday? What is that?

Life on the Line continues...