tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-53519127113476164612024-02-07T15:50:33.906-08:00Flight LevelAmerica from the flight deck - Flight Level 390Admahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01777419020874721352noreply@blogger.comBlogger15125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5351912711347616461.post-13864414944281195302011-12-24T13:02:00.000-08:002013-05-16T09:06:47.932-07:00Christmas Lift 2011<div class="post-body entry-content" id="post-body-1397362606144135399" itemprop="description articleBody">
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<strong></strong><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-V_1vSTabbFI/Tu-V9G66BUI/AAAAAAAAA5M/ADGE1obhbec/s1600/arc.JPG"><span style="color: black;"></span><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5687929731454469442" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-V_1vSTabbFI/Tu-V9G66BUI/AAAAAAAAA5M/ADGE1obhbec/s400/arc.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
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Position: 100 miles south of KMSP</div>
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Altitude: 37,000 feet</div>
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Groundspeed: 515 knots (592 mph)</div>
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Equipment: A320 V2500-A5 engines</div>
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Pax-on-Board: 150 + 2 jumpers</div>
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Local Time: 0220 hrs</div>
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<br />
Airborne... Compass heading 091 degrees</div>
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It's the beach thing again... Think I am looking west (for as the Led Zeppelin song goes: <em>there's a feeling I get when I look to the west...)</em> </div>
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</div>
<div>
<br />
The wife-of-my-youth, laying beside me in the ridiculously skimpy bikini
I bought her last summer, is the quintessential, semi-professional,
non-revenue, sun bunny. The beer is iced down in a battered but still
functional airline-issued six pack cooler (Yep, back in the un-PC days
it was SOP for the Chief Pilot's office to give us <em>atta-boy </em>prizes
for behaving longer than a couple months; beer coolers, pens, wind
breakers, etc.). Little trinkets dropped from Cloud City where the F-4
Gods of Thunder lived... I remember.</div>
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</div>
<div>
<br />
How did I get to this beach? Well, obviously I have made it to the top
of the seniority mountain where the wise old captains fly day trips, or
an occasional run to the sun. A Chicago overnight? You must be kidding!</div>
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<div>
<br />
<strong>Reality check... 37,000 feet</strong><br />
<strong><br /></strong></div>
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<strong></strong></div>
<div>
The noise of the slip stream is back in my head again. What happened to
the world's smallest bikini and coldest beer? Am I awake? Yes, I am
awake... The thin air beach fantasy runs wild in the middle of the
night. My co-pilot looks like he is awake, but you never know. We are
operating a trans-con red-eye in the deepest part of the night. Even
though I am a high-time night pilot, my body wants to sleep. It is
called circadian rhythm and trying to defy it is most difficult. </div>
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</div>
<div>
<br />
My left hand reaches behind the seat and brings the oxygen mask out of
its storage box with a loud hiss as the regulator charges the
head-gripping harness. The co-pilot jumps when the mask hisses... I
laugh and tell him, "Need to wake up. Going on the Os."</div>
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</div>
<div>
<br />
The alien-inspired harness slips over my head; I release the
finger-pinch valve and the harness squeezes my head sealing
my consciousness from the outside world. Automatically, fingers feel for
the 100% valve under my chin. It is ON... Pure aviator's oxygen. A deep
breath of the cold, gaseous elixir... And I feel better instantly; will
stay in the mask until my throat gets too dry. </div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
<br />
Overhead, the star fields of the Milky Way are bright and clear.
Consider that I am looking through an oxygen-mask face plate and one
inch of heated Plexiglas with old eyes. Imagine what the stars must
really look like... It is a humbling thought. One hundred miles north, I
can see a yellow smudge on the horizon. That is Minnie under a layer of
fog. </div>
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</div>
<div>
<br />
Underneath, appearing sporadically through a broken cloud layer, the
homes of sleeping farm families are disappearing in our six. If they are
awake, the faint whisper of V2500-A5 engines passing overhead in their
ears... <br />
<br />
<strong>First hints of twilight...</strong></div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-79aIA5AN8DI/Tu_yaiYpHNI/AAAAAAAAA5g/A8ogvpHLt1Y/s1600/twilight.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-79aIA5AN8DI/Tu_yaiYpHNI/AAAAAAAAA5g/A8ogvpHLt1Y/s320/twilight.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<div>
<strong></strong>Finally, the morning light ahead of us. It is a
beautiful pale blue... The pale blue light of Christmas Eve 2011.
Payloads are heavy, open seats are non-existent as we haul the kids to
Grandma's once again. <br />
<br />
Tonight, westbound and looking for Rudolf's nav light...<br />
<br />
Life on the Line continues... Crew O2 pressure is 1400 psi.</div>
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<span class="fn" itemprop="author" itemscope="itemscope" itemtype="http://schema.org/Person">
<span itemprop="name">Captain Dave</span>
</span>
</span>
<span class="post-timestamp">
at
<abbr class="published" itemprop="datePublished" title="2011-12-24T13:02:00-08:00">1:02 PM</abbr>
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</a></span>Admahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01777419020874721352noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5351912711347616461.post-61876129085451192542011-12-16T13:54:00.000-08:002013-05-16T09:08:37.549-07:00Elevator to Heaven<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ArStN4sW0Ew/Tt_i2OyDXKI/AAAAAAAAA5A/1D5KONIWX5E/s1600/DSCN2552.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5683510676073700514" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ArStN4sW0Ew/Tt_i2OyDXKI/AAAAAAAAA5A/1D5KONIWX5E/s400/DSCN2552.JPG" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
<div>
Position: Fifty miles southeast of KOAK (Oakland)</div>
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Altitude: 18,000 feet and climbing</div>
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Groundspeed: 370 knots</div>
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Rate-of-climb: 2,800 fpm</div>
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Equipment: A319</div>
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Pax-on-Board: 123</div>
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<br /></div>
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Airborne...</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
It
has been one of those weeks... Juggling a heavy flight schedule with
family matters taking place away from the domicile. I am glad to be back
in the cockpit where I am in control, more or less. The ascension feels
good to these old bones! After clearing inbound SFO traffic, our 319 is
climbing to the thin air like an elevator to heaven.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The
right-seater is an experienced Electric Jet pilot. He is a sharp kid
and does not mind babysitting a semi-crotchety captain. I flew with him a
few times when he was a newbie and showed him some of my <i>get out of jail free </i>techniques
for handling this electrical entity which we fly. He has always
remembered those days and treats me with respect, which, naturally, I
take advantage of in my pre-geezer state. </div>
<div>
</div>
I know...
It's bad, but I've got to keep my reputation intact. There seems to be
no shortage of co-pilots who want to fly with me, so I must be doing
something right. And this in spite of the wild stories my low-life
buddies spread about me.<br /><br />Such as:<br />
<ol>
<li>The wife-of-my-youth is an ex-stripper. Totally false, but she thinks it is funny.</li>
<li>The Chief Pilot has my iPhone on his speed dial. Unlikely, but possible...</li>
<li>I have inside knowledge of the infamous three-crew 2003 Orlando Hooters Incident. Where? Who?</li>
<li>I
am hard to get along with and "write up" co-pilots. I have never
written up anyone in my life and certainly am not hard to get along
with... Under any circumstances.</li>
</ol>
And on it goes... But, I must admit that I love it. <div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>22,000 feet... </b></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
<div>
The
winter sun is rising above the cloud deck giving light to a new day on
the Line. This morning, underneath Fi-Fi, it was dark, wet, and cold as I
pre-flighted her at the Oakland gate. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
Yesterday,
when I checked in for this trip, I saw two more pilots on the bulletin
board... Yes, that bulletin board. The one we will all, one day, have
our photo pinned in the upper right hand corner. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
As
I was shining my flashlight on Fi-Fi's smooth belly, I could not help
but thinking about those two pilots. They were down here, where I am,
not so long ago, and now they are gone... Flown west. Two photos,
enlarged from their IDs, pinned to the bulletin board by an assistant
Chief Pilot. <i>We regret to announce...</i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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<b>28,000 feet...</b></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
<div>
The
two V-2500 A5 IAE engines are in their element now as we soar high
above the undercast. The fuel flows are falling as the altitude
increases along with the groundspeed. Winds on our tail and sunlight in
our faces... It is better up here. The early morning trepidations are
gone. </div>
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<br /></div>
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<b>39,000 feet...</b></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
<div>
The
auto-pilot captures the altitude at 38,700 feet and begins to lower the
nose and reduce the thrust to level at exactly 39,000 feet. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Mach number- .79</div>
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Groundspeed- 560 knots</div>
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Seat-belt sign- OFF</div>
<div>
Starbucks Christmas Blend- Excellent</div>
<div>
Cabin Altitude- 8,000 feet</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
Seven more days until Christmas Lift 2011 begins. I am working it, of course. Not complaining, just saying...</div>
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Life on the Line continues...</div>
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Posted by
<span class="fn" itemprop="author" itemscope="itemscope" itemtype="http://schema.org/Person">
<span itemprop="name">Captain Dave</span>
</span>
</span>
<span class="post-timestamp">
at
<abbr class="published" itemprop="datePublished" title="2011-12-16T13:54:00-08:00">1:54 PM</abbr>
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Admahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01777419020874721352noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5351912711347616461.post-91155608593433564312011-05-27T06:47:00.000-07:002013-05-16T07:51:35.437-07:00Unintended Consequences... Glory<div class="post-body entry-content" id="post-body-8742936312325472144" itemprop="description articleBody">
<img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5608980344788078722" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-N-PE89Ffp8c/TdcZ5-s90II/AAAAAAAAA0s/NsjKZCq0V2M/s400/lindbergh.jpg" style="display: block; height: 370px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 308px;" /><br /><em>That rushing sound, is it the crowd at Le Bourget,</em><br /><em>Swarming past the barriers and lights</em><br /><em>To scavenge my Spirit; to lift me up</em><br /><em>Into the air that only heroes breathe?</em><br /><em>Or is it the age-old sigh of sea on stones,</em><br /><em>Known to those who pace the shingle</em><br /><em>And the swirled black sands that wrap</em><br /><em>These impossible islands in a shawl of waves?</em><br /><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">excerpt from "At Lindbergh's Grave"</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">-Gerard Van der Leun</span><br /><br /><br /><br />Lindbergh
was into motorcycles and surely had his favorite coffee shops,
pre-Starbucks, where he read the newspaper and shook his head at the
blundering folly of humanity while his two-cylinder, air-cooled, nine
horsepower machine ticked and clicked as it cooled in the hard scrabble
parking lot.<br /><br />When his eye caught the one column article on the <i>Orteig Prize </i>his life changed forever, although he did not know it at the time.<br /><br />Think
about that for a moment... A 24 year old, no-name, flat broke air mail
pilot is reading the newspaper in a coffee shop after surviving another
all-nighter hauling the U.S. Mail in a fabric covered bi-plane. The
Orteig Prize... <i>What the heck is this all about?</i><br /><br /><b>May 20, 1927... 0750 local</b><br /><br />"Switches ON!"<br /><br />"Clear prop!"<br /><br />One
of Lindy's ground crew, a pre-airline ramper, grabbed two handfuls of
ham-stan (Hamilton-Standard) polished propeller and pulled it as hard as
he could...<br /><br />Cylinder number seven fired with a cough and a thick
puff of blue smoke, followed by cylinder two, then five, then
one-three-six-eight-nine-four... All nine Wright-Whirlwind cylinders
fired in a rumbling staccato of blue smoke and an occasional backfire of
yellow flame whirled away in the prop wash.<br /><br />The Spirit's
airframe was heavy with fuel... A lot of fuel. The moment of truth for
the 25 year old air mail pilot; life or death in the next few seconds...
A muddy runway and trees at the far end.<br /><br />There had to be some O<i>h Lord, what have I done </i>at that incredibly sweet moment of time so long ago.<br /><br /><strong>Thirty-three hours later...</strong><br />Le
Bourget aerodrome is in sight, sort of... Lindbergh is so tired he
cannot understand what is happening. There is a mass of humanity,
estimated at 150,000 to 250,000 people, waiting in the dark for the Lone
Eagle, as the newspapers were already calling him.<br /><br />The <em>Spirit</em>, after crossing the North Atlantic, touched down on the grass runway with enough fuel to fly another two hours... Amazing!<br /><br />The
French police could not hold back the surging wave of admirers... Lucky
for the first few that Lindy had the presence of mind to kill the fuel
flow to the whirling ham-stan scythe. The mob ripped the young American
air mail pilot out of the cockpit and carried him above their heads for
twenty minutes before he was rescued... Unintended consequences.<br /><br />Glory, sweet glory from a world wrapped in the arms of financial depression.<br /><br />Who was this young American and who built this beautiful aircraft? Was this the light at the end of the dark tunnel?<br /><br />Glory...
Millions would see this handsome air mail pilot in the next few months.
In the United States alone, one third of the population would see
Lindbergh as he toured the country in the <em>Spirit</em>...<br /><br />Glory... And fame for the rest of his life.<br /><br />Glory... A newspaper, a motorcycle, and a cup of coffee.<br /><br />Unintended consequences... Glory.<br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
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<span itemprop="name">Captain Dave</span>
</span>
</span>
<span class="post-timestamp">
at
<abbr class="published" itemprop="datePublished" title="2011-05-27T18:47:00-07:00">6:47 PM</abbr>
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Admahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01777419020874721352noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5351912711347616461.post-43591826956703785322010-06-01T12:37:00.000-07:002013-05-16T07:55:57.862-07:00Around the South End<div class="post-body entry-content" id="post-body-7939593020402080672" itemprop="description articleBody">
<div>
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0b7FYyknq-Y/S_rVhi-MfYI/AAAAAAAAArc/TADLCdPLocc/s1600/eastbound%2B.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5474923069322329474" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0b7FYyknq-Y/S_rVhi-MfYI/AAAAAAAAArc/TADLCdPLocc/s400/eastbound%2B.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><br /><br /><br /><div>
Position: Over KAMA (Amarillo)</div>
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Altitude: 33,000 feet</div>
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Groundspeed: 554 mph (482 kts)</div>
<div>
Equipment: A321 </div>
<div>
Pax-on-Board: 183 + 4 jumpers</div>
<div>
Destination: KBOS</div>
<br />Airborne...<br /><br /><div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Earlier,
my dispatcher was nervously clearing her throat while describing the
weather north of Amarillo, extending all the way to Casper. She told me
about thunderstorms with tops in excess of 65,000 feet. We have eyes on
them now and she was not kidding. They are not at 65,000 feet anymore; I
wag them at <em>only </em>55,000 feet in the cooling night atmosphere. </div>
<br /><div>
These
level 6 aircraft killers punched through the tropopause with ease and
exploded into the stratosphere. It is not unheard of for aircraft to
inadvertently fly through hail columns twenty miles away from these
monsters. I have chosen to fly south and upwind of the storm line.</div>
<br /><div>
We
are in a 321 stretch Fi-Fi with every seat full, including jumpseats.
The two pilots in the cockpit jumpseats are buddies of mine, one going
home after a four day trip and the other being positioned for a flight
later in the day. The three of us belong to a small band of misfit,
politically incorrect, grumpy old captains who have formed a Lufbery
Circle at work, helping each other with family matters, scheduling
conflicts, alibis, etc.</div>
<br /><div>
To run with this
pre-geezer gang, one must have thick skin. These two have been harassing
me since they sat down in the cockpit. They have been telling the
co-pilot outrageous stories of my (alleged) involvement in past
incidents on the Line. Thankfully, we are ninety minutes into the flight
and they are getting sleepy and talking less; important in case we have
a statute of limitations problem here.</div>
<br /><div>
The
wing tanks and center tanks remain mostly full, being replenished from
the aft center fuselage tanks. We are step climbing tonight, currently
at 33,000 feet waiting for fuel weight to decrease. Fifty miles
northeast of our track, huge thunderstorms with tops at least 20,000
feet above our cruise altitude. The lightning is continuous and bright, a
sure sign of very dangerous storms.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Industrial
strength flying is the name of the game tonight. No exotic destinations
on this trip; just hardcore east coast airports with fast talking
controllers, extended taxi times, and short overnights.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Life on the Line continues.... Over the Texas panhandle.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
</div>
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<span itemprop="name">Captain Dave</span>
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<abbr class="published" itemprop="datePublished" title="2010-06-01T12:37:00-07:00">12:37 PM</abbr>
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Admahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01777419020874721352noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5351912711347616461.post-34886807533966001602009-12-14T19:37:00.000-08:002013-05-16T08:10:16.947-07:00Bleed Air<div class="post-body entry-content" id="post-body-7078183594629428276" itemprop="description articleBody">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_0b7FYyknq-Y/Sx8bpU4Z4kI/AAAAAAAAAnM/urpGLuNQadg/s1600-h/DSCN0578.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5413075673916498498" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_0b7FYyknq-Y/Sx8bpU4Z4kI/AAAAAAAAAnM/urpGLuNQadg/s400/DSCN0578.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a>Position: Over FMG (Mustang) VOR<div>
Altitude: 31,000 feet</div>
<div>
Fuel Flow: 5,400 lbs./p/hr</div>
<div>
Equipment: A320</div>
<div>
Compass Heading: 150 degrees </div>
<div>
Pax on board: 134</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Airborne...</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Two days at home, and then sent back to the cloud mines. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
When
I was a kid, my mother used to say, "No rest for the wicked." Yikes! I
hope that does not apply here. I try to be a good person, even when no
one is watching. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
We have just crossed over the
Mustang VOR on our way to KPHX for a 52 minute stop en route to KDEN.
As we were climbing out of the KSEA area, Fi-Fi's diagnostic computers
went ballistic when a bleed air line in the left wing ruptured or split.
Just like the simulator, it happened at a time when both pilots needed
to be concentrating on the flight path, energy state of the aircraft,
and other aircraft in our vicinity.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I have been
here, done this before... Several times. Reaching over my head, I shut
down all sources of bleed air to the left wing, and then isolate the
left side pneumatic plumbing. That took my attention out of the flight
path for about ten seconds. The co-pilot and I agree that we can deal
with the problem down the airway in safer airspace.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Fi-Fi
is nervous about the left wing having no anti-ice capability, though.
She reminds me (twice) that the left wing has no ice protection and that
it would be <i>inadvisable </i>to fly into icing conditions. Gotta love this airplane... Nothing but blue skies ahead.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Climbing
out of 25,000 feet, I started the email chain to Dispatch and
Maintenance Control, subsidiaries of Mother, advising them of the left
wing bleed air leak and my intentions to continue the flight. In a few
minutes, my dispatcher says everyone agrees with my plan to continue.
Because I closed the left engine bleed air valve, our pressurization
system lost some of it's redundancy. Common sense dictates that a lower
cruise altitude is in order. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
My stubby number
two pencil and $10 hand calculator backs up Fi-Fi's twin $5,000,000
navigation computers estimate of a 1200 pound increase in fuel burn at
31,000 feet. We can do that... I send my cheap fuel figures to Dispatch
and ask them to please check my math. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The
atmosphere is smooth at 31,000 feet. This is an altitude that we do not
operate at much, except for climbing/descending. Most contrails are
above us and above them is the sun's brilliant white orb. All of this
set in a dark blue sky. My God, it is beautiful.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
We
are probably going to be late arriving KDEN, unless the maintenance
techs can find the problem immediately, or, possibly, we get another
aircraft. Fingers crossed...</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Life on the Line continues...</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
</div>
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<abbr class="published" itemprop="datePublished" title="2009-12-14T19:37:00-08:00">7:37 PM</abbr>
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Admahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01777419020874721352noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5351912711347616461.post-3978007261854158572009-08-30T19:17:00.000-07:002013-05-16T09:03:41.219-07:00Midnight Under the Star Dome<div class="post-body entry-content" id="post-body-2040684776987066294" itemprop="description articleBody">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_0b7FYyknq-Y/SpNKAieWtkI/AAAAAAAAAlE/8bTuphg4vDU/s1600-h/nightbird.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5373720153497712194" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_0b7FYyknq-Y/SpNKAieWtkI/AAAAAAAAAlE/8bTuphg4vDU/s400/nightbird.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 315px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><br /><br /><br />Position: Underneath Vega and Over Lincoln<br />Altitude: 35,000 feet<br />Groundspeed: 632 mph (550 kts)<br />Winds Aloft: From 240 degrees at 120 mph(104 kts)<br />PAX on board: 150<br />Fuel Flow: 5200 lbs/p/hr<br /><br />Vega
is burning overhead like a bright heavenly beacon reminding me what a
tiny, insignificant aluminum entity we are as we pass far underneath
this mighty star. Oh Lord, thank you for letting me be an airline pilot.
I surely do not deserve it.<br /><br />We are in an <em>experienced</em>
A320 with the small engines, but she is a good aircraft and I have a lot
of miles in her... We are kind of like old friends, if that is
possible. Our altitude was reached after burning off several tons of
kerosene at 31,000 feet; the co-pilot will coax her up to 37,000 feet
before we start our descent into KBOS (Boston).<br /><br />Seven miles
beneath her baggage stuffed belly, Lincoln slides past at 10 miles per
minute. My face is close to the left side Plexiglas as I strain to see
the Lincoln airport's beacon. In the bad old days, I used to co-pilot
737-100 Steam Jets into Lincoln. During the spring and summer you could
count on some of the biggest, meanest thunderstorms on the planet being
in close vicinity of the airport. During the winter... Intense cold, low
visibility, and blowing snow. I had some great Captains (capital C) in
those days who taught me valuable lessons about dealing with storms that
I still use today.<br /><br />Now, Omaha is sliding under our nose. The
coldest I have ever been on the Line was pre-flighting a Steamer in
Chicago, the second coldest was pre-flighting in Omaha.<br /><br />And then
there was that time I was a newbie co-pilot descending into Omaha with
one of the most feared captains on the Line, a.k.a. <em>Captain Hatchet</em>.
He was the airline's co-pilot weeder during their first year of
probation. He worked for the training department and looked for weak
pilots before their year was over. It was easy for the airline to get
rid of a co-pilot during that year of probation.<br /><br />I remember it
well... 200 overcast, half-mile visibility, snow flurries, and polar
air. As we descended into the top of the snow storm our Plexiglas began
to fog over on the inside of the cockpit. <em>Captain Hatchet</em> had
forgotten to turn ON the heating elements before we departed. From the
left seat, the cursing switch tripped. I tried to become as small as
possible, but there was not much room in those old jets. In a few
seconds, he started laughing as he realized the hilarity of going on
instruments from the inside. The embedded Plexiglas heaters cleared the
fog quickly... I flew with that captain many times over the following
ten years and never had a problem.<br /><br />I remember...<br /><br />Back in the flight deck, the co-pilot is looking straight ahead into the black void, that midnight stare of <em>lets see now, what time zone are we in and what time is it at home?</em>.
Soft green light from the cathode ray tubes illuminates our world. The
slip stream is noisy in this old girl and it seems that night air is
more so than sunlit air; probably just my imagination, though. About
1200 miles to KBOS, give or take a 100. We should be arriving twenty
early with fifty minutes of Jet-A in the tanks. Not bad...<br /><br />Life on the Line continues.... </div>
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<abbr class="published" itemprop="datePublished" title="2009-08-30T19:17:00-07:00">7:17 PM</abbr>
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Admahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01777419020874721352noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5351912711347616461.post-22015004557246170302009-05-27T21:18:00.000-07:002013-05-16T08:53:44.617-07:00IFR Range<div class="post-body entry-content" id="post-body-4210118481380772452" itemprop="articleBody">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0b7FYyknq-Y/Shy_PRov1pI/AAAAAAAAAis/9kj7LJjAzJ4/s1600-h/contrails.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5340353527307818642" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_0b7FYyknq-Y/Shy_PRov1pI/AAAAAAAAAis/9kj7LJjAzJ4/s400/contrails.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 343px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a> Position: 50 miles west of Billings, Mt<br />Altitude: 34,000 feet<br />Groundspeed: 480 mph (417 kts)<br />Pax-on-board: 150<br />Destination: KSEA (Sea-Tac)<br /><br />Maximum
landing weight is still 2,600 pounds away. That, in itself, is
interesting since we have been airborne five hours. We rolled out of the
sack at 0200 hrs. (circadian time) and will arrive, knock on wood, at
1100 hrs.<br /><br />Fuel burn -vs- landing weight... Fi-Fi's powerful nav
computers are whispering to me, "Don't worry captain, we've got this
under control."<br /><br />Maybe... All the same, my stubby No.#2 pencil and pocket calculator are in the stand-by mode.<br /><br />The
Electric Jet has an IFR (instrument flight rules) range of about 2,300
nautical miles, plus or minus a few. That means that she can fly a leg
of 2,300 nautical miles, hold a few minutes (or make one approach), then
bug out to an alternate 200 miles away. This morning, our leg is 2,250
miles with light winds. The performance engineers (bless 'em) add miles,
instead of time, for headwinds. With light and variable winds at
altitude, our fuel burn miles remain steady at 2,250.<br />Even so, we
have to be very careful with the fuel load, since we are at the IFR
limit. We fly these aircraft at the performance limits on a regular
basis, something I would never do with a personal aircraft.<br /><br />Imagine,
if you will; I have won the lottery, i.e., the Big One... I can now
afford my very own A320. I will have my wife's nick-name painted on the
nose and hire my favorite flight attendants to crew the cabin (on their
days off, of course...) at $500 per hour. Why don't we load my new A320
to max gross weight with friends and family and fly it to an exotic
destination with a short runway at the end of the fuel range? How about
some nasty weather at our arrival time; blowing sand and thunderstorms?<br /><br />Say again, please... Uh, I don't think so. Not in my new airplane.<br /><br />Back to reality... Well, we can all fantasize, right?<br /><br />Air
Traffic Control offers a more direct routing, but I decide to remain on
the flight plan for the wind forecast. Believe it or not, a direct
route will (sometimes) burn more fuel, something we cannot afford this
morning.<br /><br />How much do we actually weigh? No one really knows. The
gross take-off weight is calculated using average pax and bag weights,
plus cargo weights of unknown accuracy, so it is an educated guess. We
could easily weigh plus or minus 2,000 pounds (or more) from calculated
weight. The only thing that matters is the landing weight (zero fuel
weight minus fuel burn) which is recorded on the optical disk, whether
or not it has any basis in reality. Fi-Fi can actually <em>sense</em>
her own weight, which can be 10,000 pounds (or more) different than our
load sheet. Is that weight accurate? Depends on which expert you talk
to... Our performance engineers seem to think theirs is closer to the
mark, and I agree. Still, it is interesting to look deep into Fi-Fi's
mind and see what her little electric brain cells are thinking. She is
an amazing flying machine.<br /><br />This is day number two of a four day trip. Early tomorrow morning, it is back to the eastern edge of the Empire.<br /><br />Life on the Line continues...</div>
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<abbr class="published" itemprop="datePublished" title="2009-05-27T21:18:00-07:00">9:18 PM</abbr>
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Admahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01777419020874721352noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5351912711347616461.post-21721622984110838402009-02-05T15:49:00.000-08:002013-05-16T08:56:53.987-07:00Zihuatanejo<div class="post-body entry-content" id="post-body-7362544110924757082" itemprop="description articleBody">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_0b7FYyknq-Y/SYt7Q1LZ7zI/AAAAAAAAAfc/cGtWVpPIl0k/s1600-h/DSCN0001.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5299464915614560050" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_0b7FYyknq-Y/SYt7Q1LZ7zI/AAAAAAAAAfc/cGtWVpPIl0k/s400/DSCN0001.JPG" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><br />We
have 48 minutes down here to unload, reload, refuel, and blast-off for
points north... Way north. There is something about this geographic
location that renders our Mighty and Expensive airline communication
network inoperable, i.e., Mother cannot talk to us or even email us
directly. She has to go through operations down here via a land line. I
love it! It is like the old days. My cell-phone has no signal either.
Mother has been known to call individual pilots on their cellphones if
she really needs to talk. So, for a few minutes I can stand out here on
the air-stairs and take it all in; the cool ocean breeze and the sound
of the wind through the palm trees... Well, the screaming APU is
drowning that out, but I can see the palm fronds moving.<br /><br />This is a
little airport with a single runway and no taxiways except to the ramp
area. We came over the top of the airport at 8,000 feet (staying clear
of terrain) and were cleared for a non-precision approach. Those are
exercises in geometry and timing to position the aircraft close to the
airport to pick up the runway environment visually. We could look
straight down, over the nose and see the runway 8,000 feet beneath us
through the broken cloud layer. The Electric Jet has very good vertical
capabilities, especially down. I called for the landing gear to be
lowered over the airport and raised the wing spoilers to full extension.
It is really cool to watch Fi-Fi start shedding altitude.<br /><br />At
6,000 feet we are underneath the cloud layer and heading toward the
beach. The airport is now behind us. The object here is to only use
gravity for motive force until rolling out on final approach when
chemical energy (kerosene) will be re-injected into the flight profile
to stabilize the path for a safe landing. So, if the airport is behind
us, I have to bank/turn left 180 degrees to point toward the airport,
then another 90 degree left bank/turn to line up with the runway. I can
use each turn as a bonus bucket to throw off more energy (altitude).
Then, I guesstimate how long my straight legs will be between turns and
throw in a pinch or two of crosswind coming off the ocean. Most pilots
are very good at mentally compartmentalizing flight tasks, i.e., I am
flying the aircraft while the nav section of my brain is subconsciously
calculating a turn point. That ought to do it... Time to lower the left
wing.<br /><br />Back on the airstairs, the ocean air smells wonderful. The
operations manager handed me my flight plan a few minutes ago. We keep
this same aircraft all the way to CYEG (Edmonton) where it is freezing
cold and snowing. Yikes!<br /><br />At 1500 feet, I pull the thrust levers
back to climb power and lower the nose to accelerate. We are feet wet
over the blue-green waters of the Pacific as we leave the beautiful
Ixtapa-Zihuatanejo airport behind. We were only there for 48 minutes but
it was excellent. It was one of those little brief moments in time that
are so sweet, but hard to quantify.<br /><br />At 2,000 feet, the Mighty
and Expensive airline communications system comes back on line. The
mini-printer starts spitting out messages from Mother that were backed
up. The email alert light starts flashing... It is my dispatcher. He
welcomes us back and wants to know if we know how cold it is in CYEG.
That is a good one. I will have to think of a worthy reply as we climb
back into the cold blue.<br /><br />Life on the Line continues... </div>
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<abbr class="published" itemprop="datePublished" title="2009-02-05T15:49:00-08:00">3:49 PM</abbr>
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Admahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01777419020874721352noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5351912711347616461.post-8100225564395071482008-01-27T15:27:00.000-08:002013-05-16T08:02:05.974-07:00Continental Divide<div class="post-body entry-content" id="post-body-3381708207617426990" itemprop="articleBody">
<a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_0b7FYyknq-Y/R50TxER2RzI/AAAAAAAAAOo/T9fBdVyUlZk/s1600-h/rockies.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5160302481719576370" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_0b7FYyknq-Y/R50TxER2RzI/AAAAAAAAAOo/T9fBdVyUlZk/s400/rockies.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a> Position: Six miles above KASE (Aspen)<br />Groundspeed: 450 mph (393 kts)<br />Magnetic heading: 270 degrees<br />Destination: KSFO<br />Passengers on board: 147<br /><br />Day two of a four day...<br /><br />It
looks cold down there, even with the warm rays of the low winter sun
illuminating the peaks of the Continental Divide. Below, in the shadow
of those peaks, lies Aspen. It is a beautiful evening aloft as we
proceed at, seemingly, a snail's pace toward the west coast. Our nose is
in the wind...<br /><br />Yesterday, our groundspeed was so high eastbound
that our wrist watches started running backwards, or as my co-pilot
said, "We almost landed before we took off." It was scary fast; we
arrived 75 minutes ahead of schedule in Boston.<br /><br />We are paying for
it this evening, though. My dispatcher figured we would be better off
staying low, trying to slip underneath some of the wind. The fuel flows
are obnoxious, but the ground speed is almost 400 knots, which is
acceptable against the wind. This route, with the weather requiring a
landing alternate, is about the limit of Fi-Fi's fuel range. The
co-pilot is flying this leg, so during the pre-departure briefing I
impressed upon him the need to pay attention to the flight plan like a
dog looking at a milk bone, or else we would be landing in KSLC (Salt
Lake City) for more fuel, i.e., we can not go in a straight line at Warp
6, although I understand his need for speed... He is young, single, and
in a hurry to meet a girlfriend at SFO.<br /><br />We just passed over DBL
(Red Table VOR) on time and on fuel burn. I need to call my dispatcher
when we land and tell him he is a veritable genius.<br /><br />Life on the line continues... </div>
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Admahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01777419020874721352noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5351912711347616461.post-10826164523919347612007-10-21T19:25:00.000-07:002013-05-16T07:58:25.731-07:00Sun Dog<div class="post-body entry-content" id="post-body-4301584688092003451" itemprop="description articleBody">
<a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_0b7FYyknq-Y/RxvY_zZv3cI/AAAAAAAAAM4/r0VDCtteGRs/s1600-h/leftside.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5123927591705632194" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_0b7FYyknq-Y/RxvY_zZv3cI/AAAAAAAAAM4/r0VDCtteGRs/s400/leftside.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a><br /><br /><div>
<a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_0b7FYyknq-Y/RxvR8jZv3bI/AAAAAAAAAMw/dWp2EfiV29g/s1600-h/sundog.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5123919839289662898" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_0b7FYyknq-Y/RxvR8jZv3bI/AAAAAAAAAMw/dWp2EfiV29g/s400/sundog.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a><br /><br /><br /><div>
Position: 70 miles southeast of PANC (aviation shorthand for Anchorage; P= Pacific)<br /><br /><div>
Altitude: 25,000 feet and climbing at 2,000 feet per minute</div>
<br /><div>
Groundspeed: 506 mph (440 knots)</div>
<br /><div>
Destination: Lost Wages, and then on to LAX for the overnight<br /><br />The
sun is hanging low in the southern sky as we blast out of Anchorage for
the lower 48. (Earlier, at noon, I was walking around town and noticed
very long shadows; it is that time of year up here.) The co-pilot
spotted a sun dog, so I gave him my camera for a quick photo. The result
was surprisingly good. A sun dog is refracted sunlight through ice
crystals aloft which creates little bright spots close to the sun's orb.
Sometimes they show a bit of halo, which this one clearly does.<br /><br />On the left side of the aircraft, no clouds over the land mass, but beautiful orange light on the snow. I love this job!<br /><br />Two
hours and 11,000 pounds of fuel later, we are under a canopy of stars.
To our left, the undercast is illuminated by the lights of Seattle, a
pale smudge of yellow penetrating the cloud layer. The crosswind is
tremendous, as in 151 mph (132 knots) from the west. Fi-Fi's navigation
computers are commanding the number one auto-pilot to fly a heading 18
degrees <em>right</em> of the course line to maintain the correct track across the surface. Yikes!<br /><br />Imagine trying to stand in a 151 mph wind... </div>
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at
<abbr class="published" itemprop="datePublished" title="2007-10-21T15:25:00-07:00">3:25 PM</abbr>
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Admahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01777419020874721352noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5351912711347616461.post-56911503665009804162007-03-31T06:34:00.000-07:002013-05-16T08:05:14.624-07:00Overlapping Rotor Blades<div class="post-body entry-content" id="post-body-1977867529989176089" itemprop="description articleBody">
<a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_0b7FYyknq-Y/Rg8MdSPGeKI/AAAAAAAAAFo/wfQycwHM1sQ/s1600-h/relief.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5048267404556531874" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_0b7FYyknq-Y/Rg8MdSPGeKI/AAAAAAAAAFo/wfQycwHM1sQ/s400/relief.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" /></a> Three days off-duty...<br /><br />I
am at the holding fix (Starbucks) waiting for two amigos, both company
Captains, and, also, riding Japanese death missiles. There used to be
five of us, but the other two were riding in tight formation,
overlapping rotor blades, negotiating a tight left curve at the limits
of their tires and suspension, when from the opposite direction, came a
large SUV over the centerline.<br /><br />Oops!<br /><br />Number one hit the
driver side mirror, lost control of his R-1 and slid into number two's
CBR-1000. They ended up in the bar ditch; a pile of smoking metal,
rubber, and plastic. Fortunately, both survived with only a few broken
bones and abrasions. Thankfully, they did not lose their aviation
medical certificates.<br /><br />The worst part of the accident was their
wives reaction, who were, uh, very unhappy with the "juvenile behaviour"
from two supposedly mature airline pilots. Yikes! I was worried about
blowback at my house, but the wife of my youth was cool. My two friends
did not fare so well... Number one: No more crotch rockets. Number two:
No more motorcycles until the kids are out of college.<br /><br />As I sip
my $1.90 cup of coffee, I remember these guys used to tease me about my
inability to keep up with them. Well, there is some truth to that... I
have only 145 horsepower to their (previous) 165 plus. I am ten years
older than they and at least that much wiser. But, most importantly,
I've still got my FZ-1 keys.<br /><br />
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Admahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01777419020874721352noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5351912711347616461.post-32590381801504605572007-02-13T21:00:00.000-08:002013-05-16T08:59:35.131-07:00Lights Out<div class="post-body entry-content" id="post-body-28506015959507568" itemprop="description articleBody">
<img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5030881802274650530" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_0b7FYyknq-Y/RdFIWCuOuaI/AAAAAAAAAEE/D9dogMkY174/s400/icefog.jpg" style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" />Anchorage
winter operations continue... Tonight, freezing fog. It is an amazing
meteorological phenomenon; fog that freezes on everything. We pushed
back on schedule with 119 passengers and prepared the aircraft for
de-icing/anti-icing. The engines were not running, so the APU (little
turbine engine in tail) was supplying electricity and pneumatics. The
de-icing truck pulled up to the aircraft and after I spoke with the ice
boss on the intercom, they prepared to spray glycol on Fi-Fi. Then,
their truck died... No problem Skipper, "We'll be right back. We have
another truck."<br /><br />OK...<br /><br />I picked up the public address
handset and was about to relay this information to the passengers when
the APU died; no faults, alarms, or warnings. It just quit running...
Our world was plunged into darkness and silence. All the Star Trek stuff
said "See ya!"<br /><br />Immediately, looking at the co-pilot, I said, "What did you do?"<br /><br />"I didn't do anything," he replied. "I didn't touch anything, it just quit!"<br /><br />The
Airbus is a very complex aircraft. Occasionally, it will surprise the
pilots with weirdo events that cannot be explained or duplicated. I was
hoping this was such an event. The co-pilot configured the aircraft for a
battery re-start of the APU. I kept my fingers crossed as he pushed the
start button. I watched the battery voltage being pulled down as the
APU began it's start sequence. Finally, we could hear the little turbine
winding up. When it reached operational rpm, it's connectors closed and
flooded the electrical system with power. All the smoke and mirrors
came back on line.<br /><br />Thank you little APU! Welcome back...<br /><br />The
ice boss returned with a working truck with which he made quick work of
the freezing fog residue. A few minutes later, with both engines
running, we began our taxi through the snow. Before we reached the end
of the runway, the visibility plunged to less than 1/4 mile. Our night
just kept getting more interesting.<br /><br />The tower turned the runway
lights to maximum intensity as we began our take-off roll. The visuals
were surrealistic as the center line lights popped out of the fog ahead
of us. We could see two lights ahead of the aircraft, or not much. The
thought of moose on the runway flashed through my mind. Yikes! At 170
mph (147 knots) the nose lifted off the runway and all visuals
disappeared except for a dazzling reflection of the aircraft lights
caused by ice crystals. A few seconds later, we flew out of the top of
the fog layer into a clear, black sky peppered with stars.<br /><br />Two hours and twenty-nine minutes later, we are approaching the half way point.<br /><br />Fuel on board: 20,000 pounds<br />Fuel flow: 5,200 pounds per hour<br />Groundspeed: 560 mph (487 knots)</div>
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Posted by
<span class="fn" itemprop="author" itemscope="itemscope" itemtype="http://schema.org/Person">
<span itemprop="name">Captain Dave</span>
</span>
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<span class="post-timestamp">
at
<abbr class="published" itemprop="datePublished" title="2007-02-13T21:00:00-08:00">9:00 PM</abbr>
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Admahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01777419020874721352noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5351912711347616461.post-76331620760434228182006-12-06T03:24:00.000-08:002013-05-16T07:48:01.799-07:00Geometry of the Night Sky<div class="post-body entry-content" id="post-body-6649276795628591061" itemprop="description articleBody">
<img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5005744856110223714" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_0b7FYyknq-Y/RXf6bNCwUWI/AAAAAAAAAAM/41xS6_qtoeo/s400/moonlight.jpg" style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;" />Position: 40 miles south of Chicago<br />Altitude: 39,000 feet<br />Groundspeed: 610 m.p.h.<br />Destination: New York City<br />Time: 2:30 A.M. local<br /><br />The
half way point is ten minutes ahead; thank goodness. Day number one of a
night trip is always the toughest, because the pilot must switch the
internal clock to the vampire mode after living in the sunlight for a
few days. One's circadian rhythm starts kicking in about this time,
though, and it is a mental battle to stay awake. A few minutes ago I
visualized drifting over the center-line on my Japanese death missile
and hitting a truck head-on; good-bye Captain Dave. My next thought: My
buds lined up at the front door offering condolences to my beautiful
wife, suddenly a beautiful widow. I am not sleepy anymore, because I
know how pilots operate... Must make a note to myself... Slow down more
in the curves.<br /><br />Outside, soft white moon light bathes the air
frame and the cloud deck far below. The air mass has been smooth this
morning, so far. The moon is directly above the flightdeck, out of sight
but not out of mind. I can see some of my favorite asterisms
(constellations) overhead, showing me the way, as they have been showing
Captains for centuries. Oh, how I love the geometry of God's night sky.<br /><br />All
systems operating normally... Fuel situation is acceptable: 50 minutes
at JFK. The big aluminum bird is happy. The Captain is happy... Life is
good. </div>
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<span itemprop="name">Captain Dave</span>
</span>
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<span class="post-timestamp">
at
<abbr class="published" itemprop="datePublished" title="2006-12-06T03:24:00-08:00">3:24 AM</abbr>
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Admahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01777419020874721352noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5351912711347616461.post-18632255477417303882005-04-14T22:32:00.000-07:002013-05-16T07:41:56.173-07:00Trip TradeMy airline has scheduling software that will allow pilots to trade trips within certain parameters, so I posted one of my trips, with two very early morning departures, on the trade board. Sure enough, another Captain wanted my trip over his assigned trip. I was ecstatic to dump 3:00 A.M. get ups. I have flown the vampire schedule for too many years and have become accustomed to night flying.<br /><br />I finished the first day of my new trip about an hour ago. We flew all day in the western reaches of the Empire with the longest flight time being 1 hour and 32 minutes. Most legs today were less than 45 minutes in length. I love this kind of flying in a big jet. It is a real kick in the pants!<br /><br />I am very tired, in fact, my face is about to fall on the keyboard. Our duty day was 12 hours with 7 hours and 50 minutes flight time; 10 minutes under max allowed. Must sleep...<br />
<br />Posted by Captain Dave at 10:32 PM<br />Admahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01777419020874721352noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5351912711347616461.post-29745518492950833842003-05-16T00:19:00.000-07:002013-05-16T17:46:09.681-07:00Flight Level 390Admahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01777419020874721352noreply@blogger.com