The Turn Point

Position: Ten miles northeast of KATL (Atlanta)

Altitude: 15,000 feet... Climbing

Equipment: A321 "stretch" Fi-Fi

Pax-on-board: 183

Airborne...

On the first leg of the day, about ten hours ago, I checked the KATL weather. Between then and our actual departure for KATL, three hours ago, I checked the weather, probably obsessively, at least a dozen times. Three different sources, all huge commercial weather disseminators, agreed that thunderstorms were not in the forecast for Mylanta.

I guess I am imagining those flashes on the horizon. Or, maybe they are swamp gas bubbles popping in the night sky.

My cursing trigger is twitching, still in the OFF position, but loading up the release sear. I resist the urge to look at the fuel gauges. That can wait... I already know we do not have thunderstorm fuel, because I did not upload it, although I knew better.

The email alert flashes; gotta be my dispatcher. I push the print button and the little mini-printer spits out bad news. I ask the co-pilot, a 29 year old kid with not a single grey hair and eyes that can read in the dark without geezer glasses, to read it to me.

Storms building rapidly northwest and southwest of ATL. How much fob?

OK, this is what I get paid for... Don't swell up like a toad and blow a fuse, captain. After a second or two, I chuckle to myself. Of course there are storms at the destination... Every seat full, new aircraft, forecast for clear skies (in the springtime) at Atlanta, and a visual fuel load of which the company flight manual states, "Shows good fuel awareness from the captain." That is new age speak for please do not carry extra fuel unless you deem it absolutely necessary.

Some of the pressure on the cursing trigger relaxes. These new Electric Jets are fabulous aircraft with multiple resources to assist the pilots with this very problem. One of my favorites is a list of airports within fuel range of the missed approach point. A quick look shows at least four airports in range with long runways and big quantities of Jet-A for sale. After considering the wind factor, and geographic location, I select one of the airports for an on-the-fly alternate.

I ask the kid to take a look at it and at the same time shoot an email to my dispatcher requesting him to back me up on the quick-and-dirty alternate.

The plan is to approach KATL from the south, get as close as possible and realistically assess whether we can make a successful approach and landing. We are not going to waste fuel trying an approach with less than a good chance of completion. Missed approaches burn a lot of fuel that can be used getting to the alternate.

The email alert light flashes with a response from dispatch: CAE looks good; if unable to land ATL fob 10.6 proceed to alt of KCAE

Eighty miles south, Atlanta Center says the dreaded words: standby for holding instructions. The fuel loop running in my head computes no more than three turns in holding, but center assures us it should not be a long hold; traffic saturation caused by the storm closed gate to the west. Center allows us to hold at 20,000 feet using 10 mile legs which is a very fuel efficient combo for our current weight. The storms are now clearly visible and they are active with lightning popping in a chain reaction down the line. The worrisome storm is west of the airport; it is a big one allegedly moving northeast. Unfortunately, storm movement depends on fuel-in-tanks. This one will certainly be moving east.

At the sixty mile holding fix, Fi-Fi enters the hold via a direct entry, banking to the right. The co-pilot reports to ATC that we have entered the hold at 20,000 feet. The lightning flashes are getting brighter and more frequent giving the pax a good look at the electric storm as we turn in holding. I brief the flight attendants first, then the pax of my intentions shortly after we enter holding.

The first turn in hold is complete as we cross the fix for the second turn. ATC issues a clearance to the first fix on the downwind leg... Descend to and maintain 8,000 feet. Roger that... Fi-Fi flies a right 360 degree turn back to the fix and departs for the downwind leg. On the intercom, I tell the flight attendants to batten down the hatches and take their seats.

The 321's remarkable multi-scan digital wx radar is another available asset tonight. It does a good job of eliminating ground clutter (radar returns from ground objects) and shows a (mostly) true image of the threat ahead. It is ugly... I am starting to get that re-fueling feeling.

At 15,000 feet, in the descent, we say good-bye to the stars and enter the first of several thin cloud layers prevalent around convection. The clouds transmit the lightning flashes like fiber optics, creating a surrealistic strobe effect in the cockpit. We are in and out of wispy layers until we break out at 10,000 feet with the lights of Atlanta stretching before us as far as we can see. There is a line of storms in our nine o'clock extending towards the airport. West of the airport is the big level 6 storm. The lightning is continuous and spider webbing throughout the interior and exterior of the storm cloud. The belly of that beast is stroking the ground with large bolts, illuminating a large shelf cloud (leading edge of big storms) between the storm and the airport.

This is not good... Shelf clouds are dangerous; on a scale of one to ten, ten being disastrous, shelf clouds are a seven. When I was a green co-pilot on a 737-100 steam jet, one of our most experienced Captains inadvertently flew us into a shelf cloud going into DFW. Our radar was a crude mono-chromatic, barely stabilized unit which was attenuated (overwhelmed by rain) at the time. We could (kind of) see the runway on base leg in heavy rain, lightning, and moderate turbulence. Without warning, we hit a green tinted storm wall, i.e., the lower leading edge of a fast moving thunderstorm. The Captain, to his credit, got us out of there, but I will never forget that incident. It was scary for me and was surely terrifying for the pax/flight attendants.

With Fi-Fi leveling at 8,000 feet a few miles south of the airport, the little red warning light in the back of my head is flashing. The desire to shoot the approach is very, very strong, but I have a creepy feeling of trouble.

I ask the co-pilot, "Whadda you think?" He says, without hesitation, "It doesn't look good." Yeah, he is right. A lot of pax lives are on the line, not to mention a $60,000,000 company asset.

"Tell approach we want to go to Columbia."

The Turn Point...

Against an electrified background of storm clouds, the Electric Jet is ascending back into the safety of the night sky. When I advanced the thrust levers to climb power, Fi-Fi dropped a virtual beacon in her six o'clock, i.e., the turn point. Her nav computers like to see where they have been as they are computing where they are going. It falls into the super-cool category and is one of the many things I love about this aircraft.

I ask the co-pilot to take over the flying duties... I've had enough. He can fly the two re-fueling legs. I notify dispatch that we are on our way to South Carolina. Our long day just got longer.

Life on the Line continues...

Six Years at Altitude

Six years at altitude and still writing about life on the airways.

I fly about 430,000 miles annually; that would be 2,580,000 miles since I began this poor little blog. I have safely carried 260,000 passengers to their destinations without denting aluminum... Knock on wood.

Life on the Line continues...

Ascent from Paradise

Position: West of MZT (Mazatlan)

Altitude: 32,000 feet

Groundspeed: 503 mph (440 kts)

Equipment: A319

Pax-on-board: 62

Airborne...

Fi-Fi's nose gear broke free of the asphalt very quickly this morning. She is light, carrying only a half-load of pax with a fair weather fuel load, and all of this at sea level on a cool morning. The Puerto Vallarta runway is over 9,000 feet in length, but we were airborne in the first third with the pitch angle going through eighteen degrees (company max for normal ops) shortly thereafter. At the end of the runway we are 1,500 feet above the beach hotels and accelerating rapidly while raising the flaps and slats. Watch out! There is a 200 kt speed limit close to most Mexican airports beneath 3,000 feet. Not a problem this morning, though. The vertical speed is increasing as fast as the airspeed. Before I worry too much about busting the 200 kt speed limit we are blowing through 3,000 feet with the VSI needle buried at the top of the case. Go, baby, go!

Twelve miles west of the beach and climbing through 10,000 feet, we make a steep right bank to intercept the departure arc toward MZT. Looking down through the co-pilot's side window, I can see paradise falling away. On the overhead panel, I flip a couple of switches that raise the landing lights. In a few seconds, the low frequency rumble that they cause is gone. She is a clean machine now.

Auto-pilot ON and watch the thrust and nav modes interface with the flight management computers. She thinks about fuel burn versus altitude gain for a Fi-Fi second; the speed bug magically adjusts to ECON climb, and then the nose lowers to wind up the airspeed indicator... Early morning Smoke and Mirrors.

Day number two begins as the sun peeks over the eastern horizon.

Three hours earlier...

The mighty iPhone sounds the alarm. It is still pitch black outside, but I slept deep and dreamless; I feel great this morning. In less than a minute the coffee machine is ON... Open the sliding glass door and slip out onto the balcony. I cannot see it, but I hear the surf crashing on the beach beneath my balcony. The smells and sounds are invigorating. The coffee machine beeps at me... Fifteen minutes on the balcony with a hot cup of coffee is number one item on the pre-flight checklist.

Two hours earlier...

We meet in the darkness behind the crew van, everyone smiling like a Cheshire cat. It is amazing what one good overnight can do for a crew's morale. We compare notes from the afternoon and evening before and rave about the resort hotel the airline has selected for us, then swear that we will keep it secret from other crew members. We agree that we will tell everyone that it is ghastly down here. Oh yeah, the bravo sierra is flowing this morning. That is a good thing, because we have a long day ahead of us.

One hour earlier...

The co-pilot and I are walking underneath the Electric Jet. He says, "Boss, listen!" I cannot hear anything except turbo-jet tinnitus in my ears.

"Listen to what?"

He replies, "Nothing. It is quiet." He is right... No sounds except for a few birds. It is dark, humid, and quiet on the ramp. Fi-Fi is still sound asleep dreaming about whatever airplanes dream about. The wow factor hits me with a little thud and a tiny squirt of adrenalin. This is very different! Compared with, oh... how about JFK at this time of the morning. There, the decibel level on the ramp would be painful, requiring ear plugs.

In the dark cockpit, I check the battery voltage on the overhead panel; both BATT switches to ON. There is no ground power plugged in, so I will attempt a BATT start of the APU (little jet engine in the tail that supplies enormous amounts of electricity and pneumatics when it is running). The APU requires big amperage to start; sometimes the batteries are not up to the job. I, captain Dave, have a few incantations that seem to help, though.

After a secret invocation of love talk to the batteries, I push the APU start button, and then slide my side window open to listen for the tell-tale whine from the rear of the airframe. Come on... Start! Please, oh, please... I can hear a few relays opening and closing in the DC electrical busses. That is a good sign!

Finally, a faint whine wafting in through my open window. It intensifies quickly, sounding like a little turbine winding up. Then, and in an extremely rude manner, the main AC buss relay closes with a CLACK causing Fi-Fi to wake-up as electricity floods her arteries and veins. Initially, she is not happy and pitches a fit of alarms and flashing fault lights. In a few minutes, she calms herself and settles into an electron-heavy purring.

The quiet morning is no more...

While we load pax, I decide to stir the pot in dispatch and compose a "good morning message from Paradise/too bad you can't be here/you should have seen what we saw on the beach/etc." Should I send it? The co-pilot asks me, "What are you writing?" I tell him not to read it because he needs plausible deniability. I push the SEND button... I may regret it later, but I can't help pulling this dispatcher's chain. We have a long history.

Cruise altitude...

The sunrise is flooding the flight deck with orange light. Our 319 climbed to altitude like a homesick angel and now we are loafing along at 32,000 feet. There is turbulence above us, so we will stay low this morning. The co-pilot and I are talking about yesterday's beach time. The mood in the cockpit is one of exuberance.

Three hours later...Number 28 for departure...

The party is over... The mood in the cockpit is all business. We are in a fully loaded 321 and are number 28 (approx.) for departure, with every seat full plus company pilots on the jump seats. We are carrying full fuel in the wing tanks, center fuselage tanks, and another 4,000 pounds in the aft fuselage tanks. Landing weight is critical, i.e., we need to stay on the flight plan route. A short cut will decrease burn, which will increase landing weight.

Sterile cockpit procedures are in effect as I mentally review the engine failure tactics for a max loaded A321 on a warm day. For the tenth time, I pick up the weight and balance form and re-read it asking myself if it looks correct. Does it make sense? Yeah, it looks good. When we are number five, I ask the co-pilot to light-off number two. The APU will stay ON for this take-off providing cooling air for the passengers, so that we may use all of the engine bleed air for thrust.

Both engines turning, checklists done, flight attendants and pax are alerted that we are next for the runway. I remind the co-pilot that he is flying a 321 with a very long fuselage... Watch the rotation rate. It sounds ridiculous, but when the crew is liable to fly a 319, 320, and 321 on the same trip, it helps to vocalize the type of aircraft at the end of the runway.

The tower controller clears us for take-off.

On the centerline and rolling slowly I relinquish the controls and tell the co-pilot it is his aircraft. He sets the thrust levers ahead two inches and lets the engines come out of idle and stabilize before setting take-off thrust. When he sets take-off thrust, he removes his hand from the thrust levers to be replaced by my hand. The captain makes all decisions on the runway concerning rejected take-offs.

The engines are producing rated take-off thrust and are below max temperature as the 321 slowly accelerates toward the far end of the runway. At 80 knots the co-pilot and I do an airspeed indicator crosscheck. At 100 knots the long fuselage starts a weird undulating thumping as we roll down the runway. I have only felt this in a 321 and I attribute it to the length of the tube. At 120 knots the feeling of acceleration is increasing as the wings load up. At 140 knots I call out, "Vee one (the point that the take-off must be continued)." At 160 knots, "Rotate."

The co-pilot slowly lifts the nose gear being very careful about the tail. The undulating motion of the cockpit is noticeable as the nose gear levitates. We roll along on the main landing gear for a few seconds until the Electric (stretch) Jet decides to fly. I watch the vertical speed indicator increase... Positive rate.

Gear up... Easy does it.

Thrust reduction altitude...

My heart rate slows with the decreasing engine temperature as the co-pilot pulls the thrust back to climb power and lowers the nose. She slowly builds airspeed toward flap/slat retract. As the flaps are raised, she settles into a zero climb rate for a few seconds. The airspeed continues to build and she starts slowly climbing again.

The initial cruise altitude is 33,000 feet, but it will take us a while to get there. A major difference here between this morning's outrageous performance in the 319 and this fully loaded 321.

Time is one thing that we have plenty of as we wing our way toward the east coast. Yesterday on the beach seems like a dream now.

Life on the Line continues...