tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-160761652024-03-06T19:51:15.674-08:00Flying Adventures<img src="http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/33/8498/400/lci.jpg">Capt. Wilkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07061222914521255607noreply@blogger.comBlogger81125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16076165.post-38812013726268912862010-01-07T08:48:00.000-08:002010-01-07T09:35:30.442-08:00How soon we forget<span style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Enough time must have passed since the crash of Colgan 3407 near Buffalo last winter.<br />It's been less than a year, but ample time, it appears for management at Colgan Air to take two steps back on the little progress they had made on the issue of fatigue.<br />The crash, which killed everyone on board the Bombardier Q400, stirred enough passion about pilot fatigue that even Congress became involved, passing legislation aimed among other things to curb fatigue.<br />Colgan management, however, seems to think the accident is behind them and feels it can now return to business as usual. In that spirit, the company is putting more stringent restrictions on when and how crew members can call in fatigued, a responsibility that is thrust into pilots' hands by the Federal Aviation Regulations.<br />From now on, Colgan pilots and flight attendants will not be allowed to call in fatigued if they have had 12 hours of rest and can no longer declare themselves unfit for future duty (i.e. calling tonight for tomorrow morning's flight). To make matters worst, those pilots who violate these new rules will now face disciplinary action.<br />In a recent article published in the Buffalo News, Dan Morgan, VP of safety and regulatory compliance for Colgan, said that "over the past two months, the instance of fatigue calls with no valid reason for fatigue have increased to the point where frivolous fatigue calls are now the majority."</span></span><span style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br />Frankly, I find that hard to believe. There will always be in every profession a small group of people ready to abuse the rules out of sheer laziness. But to accuse the bulk of those who called in fatigued of lying is arrogant and in all likelihood a gross exaggeration.<br />It is also not management's role to determine what a "valid reason for fatigue" is. What they see on paper on a pilot's schedule does not necessarily reflect the actual level of fatigue one may experience.<br />The company might also be forgetting that a pilot who calls fatigued loses pay. So where's the incentive for already underpaid, struggling pilots?<br />Colgan's decision is outrageous, unsafe and simply another sign that the company aspires to nothing but scraping the bottom. I am talking here about management, not the pilot group, which counts among its members a great number of fine aviators.<br /><br />I have written much about fatigue in previous posts, so I will not repeat myself.<br />Since then, however, I have had to call in fatigued once, my first such occurrence in my 3 years at this airline . It was a tough decision but one that was justified: I was just too tired to fly. At the same time, I felt less than pleased to leave the company one FO short and about losing pay. But everyone, from the scheduler who took my call to my chief pilot and the unions respected and never once questioned my decision. And that is how it should be.<br />As long as the FAA requires pilots to determine whether or not they are fit for duty, airlines should interfere only if blatant abuses of the rules occur.<br />Putting artificial numbers on what makes a fatigue call justified or not, such as Colgan's 12 hours of rest rule, is asinine. Just because a pilot's schedule shows 12 hours of rest does not mean that is what the pilot gets. Some hotels we stay in are less than quiet and personal issues can rob one of sleep even in such a long period of rest. Also, the nature of our schedules tends to interfere with our circadian rhythm, making it sometimes difficult to get meaningful rest during overnights.<br />It is not the company's determination and I hope the FAA sees this as an unacceptable affront to both crew members and passengers and a serious safety issue.<br />An airline should never intimidate its pilots into doing the wrong thing. This is what led to 3407's tragedy.<br />How soon we forget...<br /></span></span>Capt. Wilkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07061222914521255607noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16076165.post-88105630081280620892009-10-27T16:36:00.000-07:002009-11-04T07:59:53.798-08:00Indian Summer<span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;">The early morning sky is still dark and the air slightly brisk as we roll down runway 20L in Nashville. My captain and I are both worn out and bleary-eyed after a long day and much too short of an overnight.<br />Over the horizon, a thin sliver of red and gold spreads as we fly toward it on our way to Washington. We gain altitude rapidly in the morning air and within only moments the sun appears ahead of us, bright and comforting, to light up the whole sky.<br />It soon bathes the countryside below in its warm golden embrace and softly caresses my cheek like a familiar hand. Lost in the breathtaking beauty of the sunrise, I suddenly notice that the mountains have gone from green to bright red and orange. As far as the eye can see, the rolling hills of Tennessee, West Virginia and Virginia appear to be ablaze.<br />In my side window, I catch a glimpse of my face smiling back at me. Those beautiful warm autumn days, those of the Indian summer, are upon us. And what better vantage point to admire their stunning beauty than my trusty jet-powered steed. I am truly one of the fortunate ones.</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;">This is my very favorite time of year, pleasing to every sense. There are of course the stunning vistas of autumn, endless aerial palettes of hundreds of gradations of greens, yellows, oranges and reds, neighborhoods dotted with explosions of warm colors, placid lakes that seem to be on fire as their gentle waters mirror the magic surrounding them.<br />All these shades bring to mind the comforting foods of fall, the apples and squash, the warm pies and roasts that are so welcomed on those cooler days.<br />Autumn also carries in its gentle breeze the comforting smells that transport me back to my childhood. The distinct sweet scent of maple leaves remind me of Forli, the small town in northern Italy where my grandmother lives. I remember cycling through its streets with my mother and brothers amid a sea of dried leaves. The familiar aroma of fires brings back cherished memories of school days in Europe and weekends spent helping my parents in the back yard or playing with my brothers and friends.<br />To some the season is gloomy, spelling the end of summer and especially in the Northeast the beginning of the short, dark and frigid days of winter. A symbol of death. </span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;">But as I watched my son play in the leaves after a walk in the woods a few days ago, his curious eyes completely mesmerized by the unique beauty of each leaf he brought to me, I couldn't think of it as anything but a stunning season of renewal.<br />A few days after that crisp morning flight, we returned to Nashville. As we crossed into West Virginia, the red mountain tops were covered in a dusting of snow. It was early in the morning and I knew that once the rising sun had a chance to warm the hilltops, the white coat would retreat and allow the brilliant colors below to resplend. It did. On our way back to Washington a few hours later, the ground below us was once again an endless field of fiery colors. </span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;">The days of the Indian Summer are short-lived. And like every year they fill me with the urge to enjoy each day to its fullest, to cherish every warm second before winter rolls its cold blanket on us.</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;">Warm moments. Just like that beautiful autumn walk with Ollie...</span><br /><br /><br /><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5400274317187598594" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqhyIQPzxcnx45CcDT414pS7SZfh5miVRAl3gqSBhOTJrA4Qhx5HOEh49-qrso543KJo4xLtdJTtj475cAHNNer_laiA7Ayeu1kECo7qQRC27kZ9ohGEF5YYFhZ1mN6FLvB041/s320/olliefoliagewalk.jpg" />Capt. Wilkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07061222914521255607noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16076165.post-53332343941719748722009-10-21T17:21:00.000-07:002009-10-23T08:51:02.941-07:00Another Band-Aid<span style="font-size:85%;">Once again, fatigue rears its ugly head.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">First, a Delta 767 mistakingly landed on a taxiway in Atlanta in the wee hours of the morning at the conclusion of a red eye flight from Brazil. Soon after, a Northwest Airlines (essentially Delta, now) overshot its destination by 150 miles. The Northwest crew told authorities they were distracted while arguing over airline policy but the National Transportation Safety Board is looking into whether or not the pilots might have fallen asleep at the controls.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Without attempting to draw conclusions on the Northwest incident, it would not be the first time an airliner missed its destination because the pilots were asleep. A simple Google search will bring up several such examples in recent years. It is very likely, also, that Delta's error was due to fatigue.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Both events were very timely, as the Federal Aviation Administration is now </span><span style="font-size:85%;">reportedly pushing to allow airline pilots to take controlled naps in the cockpit to curb the issue of fatigue, according to the Wall Street Journal. The article, which ran last week, noted that unions support this move, something that is unfathomable to me. Sleeping in the cockpit will simply not provide pilots meaningful rest and, most likely, will serve only to give airline management yet another tool the build impossibly long, inefficient and exhausting schedules. Whatever rest they will allow during a flight, they will take away from overnights and no doubt the Airline Transport Association and the Regional Airline Association are salivating over this possibility.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Once more, Washington is trying to slap a Band-Aid on what is a deep systemic problem that needs to be addressed seriously and reformed in a meaningful way. The Air Line Pilots Association lauded the recent passage of H.R. 3371, a bill calling among other things for higher entry requirements to the airlines and changes in duty and rest times, as "momentous."</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">The bill, a result of the crash of Colgan 3407 in February, may be a good first step as far as addressing qualifications but I could not find in its text anything concrete regarding what changes are proposed to curb pilot fatigue. </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Instead, in my understanding, the bill gives the FAA 180 days to submit proposed rule changes, which are to be enacted no later than one year after the passage of the bill. In the context of this rulemaking, Congress is mandating the FAA to look into matters ranging from the number of take-offs and landing a day, number of time zones to be crossed to rest requirement and rest environment. </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">As an ALPA member, I would like to share my union's enthusiasm for the Airline Safety and Pilot Training Improvement Act but am also dispirited to hear of such idiotic initiatives as controlled naps, which sadly might just pass. </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">What truly needs to be done goes far beyond. Minimum rest should be raised to a firm 10 hours (i.e. a number the airlines can"t reduce), the legal duty day should be shortened from 16 to 14 hours (especially when the FAA limits a dispatcher's duty day to 10 hours) and airlines should be mandated to provide their pilots with two paid fatigue calls a year (any additional fatigue calls could remain unpaid). </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Under the current system, it is said that we do not get disciplined or penalized for calling in fatigued, which is untrue. A first officer earning $20,000 a year cannot part with any amount of his pay and like it or not this is a serious deterrent to declaring oneself fatigued. I have also heard from colleagues who were told by crew scheduling when you can and cannot fatigue. For instance, a friend who has a very young baby at home was recently up all night with his child the day before a trip. Utterly drained, he called in fatigue only to be told that "you cannot fatigue from home." </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">We, the pilots, take fatigue seriously. Management simply does not. Their lobbies in Washington do not. </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Like many others, I had hoped that Colgan 3407 would be a wake-up call for an industry that has hardly reformed itself in the past half-century. With every passing year benefits erode, schedules worsen and the relations between pilots and management grow increasingly bitter. As a result, many experienced colleagues have left the industry, never to come back, and fewer might be interested in joining our ranks, which will make it very hard to attract applicants with an Airline Transport Pilot certificate, as Congress now wants to mandate.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">For a short while, Capt. "Sully" Sullenberger, captured the imagination of the general public and showed that airline pilots carry a tremendous amount of responsibility every time they step into that cockpit. He also showed what pilots can do when pitted against very unfavorable odds. What most of his non-pilot admirers do not know is that Sully lost his retirement and seniority when the overall more junior America West bought U.S. Airways and that after decades in the business he was tossed around by management like a rag doll. </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">I had wished for the death of those Colgan crewmembers and passengers to mean something and bring about badly-needed change to make our profession safer and fairer. But initiatives such as controlled naps only dash those hopes and make me worry that as long as the airlines and their lobbies are allowed to wield their influence inside the halls of Congress, the true scope of change will be very limited.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Perhaps the time for re-regulation has come. </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span>Capt. Wilkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07061222914521255607noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16076165.post-79344060172797566362009-08-26T18:53:00.000-07:002009-08-26T20:02:29.869-07:00A great lossThe day began with the news that Ted Kennedy had died.<br />While not completely unexpected in light of his health condition, the news saddened me. My wife actually came home from work this morning with tears in her eyes.<br />We both held Kennedy in the highest regard, even if he has been the subject of so much polemic. Any objective observer could agree that he had what very few on Capitol Hill have: an utterly sincere drive to protect and advocate for the people of this country, the every day men and women as opposed to the corporations and interest groups.<br />Many vignettes illustrating that came out today. There was the lady who called his office to complain about the deteriorating quality of her mail delivery service. A week later, as if by magic, the problem was resolved. Or the group of Massachusetts servicemen on their way home from Iraq. The government flew them to their base in Indiana and provided them with bus tickets home and the agony of an 18-hour ride in order to save money. Some hero's welcome. Kennedy intervened and, rightfully, the men were flown home to Devens Air Force Base.<br />But more importantly to the country there was his unrelenting fight for fairness in the realm of social issues. A member of the powerful and wealthy Kennedy dynasty, his interests may have laid elsewhere than in universal healthcare, quality education for all and civil rights. Like so many others who were blessed with money and social status, he could have basked in the glory of his brothers and enjoyed a comfortable, unproductive life. Instead he devoted 47 years to the people of this country, almost five decades spent fighting for what he believed was right and just. What personal interest did he have in universal healthcare other than knowing that a responsible government should take care of its citizens? How would he benefit from children receiving proper education or an increase in minimum wage?<br />Sadly, many people I've spoken to only remember him for what happened in Chappaquiddick many years ago and his affection for the bottle. There was so much more to Ted Kennedy than that. I always regarded him as a good man filled with empathy for others and a strong desire to give back for the fortunes that he was blessed with. As many of his former opponents have noted, Kennedy was able to reach across party lines and was close friends with some of the highest-ranking Republicans. He had a knack for pushing his issue as far as he could and compromise just enough to get an acceptable bill out.<br />Unlike so many others, he boasted a political spine. Kennedy was his own man. Back in October of 2002, for instance, he voted against Resolution 114, which granted President George W. Bush war powers against Iraq. He was one of only 23 to vote against it. Hilary Clinton and John Kerry, who would later on campaign against the war, sadly did not, for political safety.<br />I had the pleasure to meet him several times in my previous career and like Clinton and only a handful of others in Washington, he came across as genuine.<br /><br />SHAME ON FOX<br />While National Public Radio ran a day-long tribute to Kennedy, interviewing many Republican leaders such as Sen. Orrin Hatch who spoke emotionally about the good friend and colleague they had lost, Fox News went on something of a rampage.<br />Out of what could perhaps be better described as morbid curiosity, I flicked my TV to Fox News to see how they were covering the story. On came O'Reilly, speaking with a blonde contributor whose name escapes me.<br />You would expect even Fox to show a level of decorum following the death of such a prominent figure. But no. Asked about whether he had done anything positive, the contributor replied "Well, he did push through quite a few liberal ideas, some of them successfully," emphasis on "liberal." Fighting for disabled Americans and children could hardly be construed as liberalism. Empathy, perhaps. And those "liberal" ideas today protect even disabled Republicans and the children of uninsured conservatives. We all know Kennedy was the most liberal member of Congress, but coming out of Fox News, the word has an insulting connotation.<br />She later went on to question his true political legacy and to brand him as uncompromising, which according to even the higher ranks of the Republican congressional leadership is blatantly wrong.<br />Have we reached a point in television "news" (note the quotemarks) where it is acceptable to, pardon the expression, piss on someone's grave in this way?<br />I wonder how O'Reilly, Hannity and the rest of the Fox team would react to a commentator on the day of Dick Cheney's death calling the former vice president a liar, a manipulator and a self-agrandiser. Wait... that is actually factually correct...<br />No matter what side of the aisle you stand on, I believe Kennedy should be celebrated as the driving force of many good initiatives, a major figure in American history and the final chapter in a line of extraordinary leaders and the closest thing this country has had to a royal family.<br />He was also a flawed man who himself admitted in the early 1990s that he had led a questionable personal life and that those issues were his to confront.<br />However, I do not believe one can achieve greatness without first being flawed. Kennedy certainly overcame those shortcomings and this country has lost a truly great man.Capt. Wilkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07061222914521255607noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16076165.post-7838608966320698552009-07-29T08:39:00.000-07:002009-07-29T08:40:15.736-07:00The new reality?<h1>LAX parking lot is home away from home for airline workers</h1> <div class="storysubhead">Buffeted by their industry's turbulence, airline employees save money by living part time in a motor home colony at LAX.</div> By Dan Weikel<br /> <br /> July 20, 2009<br /><br />For about 15 days a month, Alaska Airlines pilot Jim Lancaster lives in a motor home in Parking Lot B near the southernmost runway at Los Angeles International Airport.<br /><br />Every four minutes, a jetliner or turboprop roars in -- 500 feet above his front door -- for a landing. The noise is so loud it forces Lancaster to pause during conversations. But he doesn't mind. Lancaster puts up with the smell of jet fuel and screaming engines to save time and money.<br /><br />The 60-year-old aviator's primary residence is a cottage he shares with his wife overlooking a quiet bay off Puget Sound in Washington state. Living in Lot B while he's on duty means he doesn't have to rent a Los Angeles apartment with other pilots or spend 12 hours a day commuting to and from the Seattle area.<br /><br />"As kids we used to ask our parents to take us to the airport to see the planes," Lancaster quipped. "Now I get to live at the airport."<br /><br />He isn't the only one. Lancaster's 2001 Tradewinds sits among 100 trailers and motor homes that form a colony of pilots, mechanics and other airline workers at LAX, the third-busiest airport in the nation. They are citizens of one of the most unusual communities in the United States.<br /><br />Their turf, just east of the Proud Bird restaurant off Aviation Boulevard, is less than 3,500 feet from the south runway. It is a drab expanse of crumbling gray asphalt, approach lights, chain-link fencing and rows of beige and white RVs -- some battered, others grand. A splash of color comes from the red and white blooms of about a dozen rose bushes along the colony's northern edge.<br /><br />Many of the residents are separated from spouses, children and significant others for days -- even weeks -- at a time in order to keep their jobs or move up the pyramid of the airline industry.<br /><br />"This is the cost of being a pilot today," said Todd Swenson, 40, a first officer with Alaska Airlines. His wife, Amanda, and 2-year-old son, Noah, live in Fresno, a six-hour commute by car. "I've wanted to be a pilot all my life. It can be awful here. But I have to provide for my family, and I love flying airplanes."<br /><br />Swenson, who earns about $70,000 a year, lives across from Lancaster in a 1973 Coachman trailer that belonged to his father. If Lancaster's 38-foot rig with leather furniture is Park Place, Swenson's is Mediterranean Avenue. The 23-foot metal box is as cramped as economy class, with just enough space for a double bed, a television and a La-Z-Boy recliner. There is a galley kitchen and a bathroom about the size of an airliner lavatory.<br /><br />The trailer's windows are blacked out with foil and brown paper bags so Swenson can sleep during the day. To muffle the constant din of aircraft, he bought a white-noise machine -- a small tape player with a recording that sounds like a washing machine. Swenson works out at a nearby 24-Hour Fitness, where he showers to conserve his trailer's limited water supply.<br /><br />Inside the Coachman, the wood paneling and storage cabinets are covered with photos of Amanda and Noah, whom Swenson returns to about 11 days a month. He keeps in touch via a computer webcam.<br /><br />"When my tires leave the driveway of my house in Fresno," Swenson said, "the only thing I can think about is getting back to my family."<br /><br />For several years, clusters of RVs were scattered around the airport's parking lots until LAX officials decided to consolidate them in Lot B. Now operating as an organized camp overseen by the airport, it has an unofficial mayor, a code of conduct and residency requirements, including background checks, regular vehicle inspections and proof of employment at an air carrier.<br /><br />"There might be a few other places like this nationally, but I think this is rather unique," said Michael Biagi, who heads the land-use division at Los Angeles World Airports.<br /><br />Today, the colony has more than 100 residents -- mostly men -- from around the country, including captains, first officers, mechanics, flight attendants, support staff and employees of air cargo companies. There are at least two married couples, who work as flight attendants. About 10 people are on a waiting list.<br /><br />Lot B's attractiveness is partly the result of the decade-long decline in air travel brought about by the terrorist attacks of Sept. 11, 2001, the outbreak of SARS -- severe acute respiratory syndrome -- in 2003 and the deepest recession since World War II.<br /><br />Salaries for pilots, mechanics and other airline workers have plummeted. Captains like Lancaster have been demoted to first officer, losing hard-earned seniority and forcing them out of plum assignments at airports close to home. Lancaster, who came to LAX from Seattle about 18 months ago, estimates that his reduction in rank cost him about $30,000 a year, roughly 20% of his pay.<br /><br />Rather than quit their jobs or uproot their families for what could be a temporary stint in Los Angeles, workers have settled in Lot B, where the rent is only $60 a month.<br /><br />"They'd probably be out of a job otherwise," said Doug Rogers, a 62-year-old United Airlines mechanic from Utah, who is the colony's acting mayor. "You can't maintain a household elsewhere and afford a home here in this economic climate. The airline industry is fragile right now. You just don't know what is going to happen."<br /><br />Rogers has lived at LAX for about seven years in a 26-foot camper built on a Ford truck chassis. He and his wife own a house in Stansbury Park, a semi-rural community of 2,500 just north of Salt Lake City.<br /><br />Rogers' living situation is the product of years of financial difficulties at United, which has gone in and out of bankruptcy proceedings. He lost his assignment at Salt Lake City International Airport, where United closed its maintenance facility a few months after the Sept. 11 attacks.<br /><br />A $5 pay cut to $30 an hour, along with the airline's still tenuous future, led to his decision to keep his Stansbury Park house and rent a spot in Lot B, he said. He now works four 10-hour days a week and gets at least three days off to go back to Utah.<br /><br />There's another advantage to not commuting -- whether by plane or car -- when on duty: Pilots and mechanics can get more rest, mitigating a problem that has plagued airline workers for decades.<br /><br />An ongoing federal investigation indicates that fatigue could have been a factor in the crash of a Colgan Air turboprop that killed 50 people in Buffalo, N.Y., on Feb. 12. The pilot was commuting from Tampa, Fla., to Colgan's base in New Jersey. The copilot had regularly traveled from Seattle.<br /><br />According to the National Transportation Safety Board, 93 of Colgan's 137 New Jersey-based pilots considered themselves commuters, including 49 who traveled more than 400 miles and 29 who lived more than 1,000 miles away.<br /><br />If not for Lot B or other temporary quarters, the residents would be commuting from Anchorage, Seattle, Indianapolis, Memphis, Minneapolis and Hawaii. Others live in California, but hundreds of miles from LAX.<br /><br />Rogers said life in the colony has been uneventful except for a period in 2005 when scores of non-airline workers moved in from a camping area at nearby Dockweiler State Beach, which was undergoing renovation. At the time, the airport did not screen potential residents.<br /><br />The new arrivals brought in lawn gnomes, garden furniture and barbecues, which created a party atmosphere and the potential for public disturbances on airport property. A few dumped garbage and human waste on the pavement. Two prostitutes moved in as well, including one in her late 60s with a taste for tight skirts and silver high heels, residents say.<br /><br />Responding to complaints from parking lot tenants and patrons, airport police swept into the eastern area of Lot B, where the RVs are located. They removed the prostitutes and towed about a dozen motor homes and campers with expired registrations. Officials stopped short of closing the site by establishing strict qualifications for residency and prohibiting lawn furniture, outdoor barbecues and parties.<br /><br />"We try to keep a real low profile," said Steve Young, 52, a United Airlines mechanic whose family lives in Twentynine Palms.<br /><br />"We consider living here a privilege."<br /><br />Since the expulsion of the outsiders, Lot B has been quiet. Most people pass their free time reading, watching movies, shopping for supplies or servicing their RVs. Occasionally, there are bike rides to Dockweiler, about four miles away, or visits to the El Segundo Air Force base hosted by Lancaster, a retired lieutenant colonel.<br /><br />Because tenants' work schedules vary widely, social gatherings are small and infrequent. It is typical for a few people to organize an impromptu happy hour in one of the larger rigs, such as Lancaster's coach, which is known as the Chateau. It has satellite TV, plush carpeting and walnut-stained cabinetry.<br /><br />Lancaster's wife, a teacher in Seattle, likes the Chateau as well and occasionally flies down on Friday nights to explore Los Angeles over the weekend. "It's great fun and adventurous," Marlene Lancaster said.<br /><br />But other tenants, like Rogers, can't wait for their days off to escape their cramped RVs, the din of aircraft and the tedium of Lot B.<br /><br />"When I go home," Rogers said, "people sometimes ask me if I'd like to go camping. I tell them no. I already do that."Capt. Wilkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07061222914521255607noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16076165.post-832017888360158462009-06-25T08:04:00.000-07:002009-07-09T11:37:34.082-07:00The Regional Truth - Part 2<span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;">This post was going to touch on the way regional airline pilots are treated and my company stepped right in to provide me with the perfect story on this past trip. </span><span style="font-size:85%;">We had a wheels up time to New York because of weather. After an hour-and-a-half on the ramp, we returned to the gate to refuel and let passengers who were going to miss connections go. Two hours behind schedule, we took off and headed for JFK, where we would then work a flight back to Boston for the overnight. In range, however, we realized our flight had been given to another crew that departed a mere 15 minutes before we reached the gate, something of a common tactic from crew scheduling as of late to avoid cancelations that would mandate them to give us a hotel room even in base.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">So we were now stuck in New York. Because it is our base, eventhough no one in my crew lives there, the company will not provide a hotel. </span><span style="font-size:85%;">We still called scheduling to see whether they could put us up because we had a 13-hour day the following day. The answer was an unequivocal and resounding no. </span><span style="font-size:85%;">I told the scheduler that my captain and I refused to sleep in the crew room, or the terminal in this case since six pilots had already claimed the filthy glycol-stained sofas as their own, and were heading to Boston to look for a bed to sleep in, like normal people. </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">The scheduler put me on hold and returned a second later with a threat. If we missed our deadhead the next morning they would slap us with a missed assignment and a note to that effect was now on my file. They could have simply deadheaded us from Boston in the morning instead, which would have given us a few more hours of sleep, but obviously this particular scheduler chose the war path instead. </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Undeterred, we got on a flight to Boston. We figured out what crews had made it to their overnight, and more importantly which hadn't and managed to score a couple of rooms for the night. At 2 a.m., I got into my room, completely wiped out, only to get up again at 6 a.m. to return to the airport and fight my way back to JFK.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Playing around wording in our contract, making threats and being generally uncooperative is sadly what we are faced with every day we have to talk to crew scheduling. Of course, some schedulers are very nice and will go the extra mile to help but they are few and far between.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">I am fully aware of economic considerations the airlines face, especially these days, but how can a company refuse to put up its crewmembers in a hotel on the eve of a 13-hour day? The scheduler I talked to simply told me to get a crashpad, a bed in a house or apartment full of commuting pilots. As a lineholder, however, I should not have to shell out the extra $250/month for a bed I might only use once or twice a year. In any case, on my First Officer pay, a crashpad or a hotel room in New York are luxuries I simply cannot afford.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">In the wake of Colgan's crash, airlines have to wake up to the fact that they too have a responsibility in keeping their crews well-rested. These scheduling games aimed at circumventing contractual agreements have to stop. Some I've shared this story with have suggested I should have simply gone home and called in fatigued the next day, as a retaliatory move. While it might have created a scheduling hiccup, I would have lost two days of pay, something I just cannot afford either.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">The mood at my airline, and I suspect at many others recently, has been been very dark lately. It is as though we are in a constant tug or war with the company, a game it is obvious we will never win.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">The problem at the regional airlines today isn't experience. The fact that we have 200-hour wonders flying around the system is something that can be dealt with easily by pairing these pilots with experienced captains. After all, major airlines have in the past used so-called ab initio programs to train pilots.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">The true issue is how airlines treat their pilots, flight attendants, gate agents and ramp personel. All of us work hard, go the extra mile to help passengers and run a safe ship but all we get in return is disrespect.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">It is time for the press to leave behind this issue of lack of experience and focus on this: your crew is tired, underpaid, overworked and pissed off.</span>Capt. Wilkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07061222914521255607noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16076165.post-60687018353847872172009-06-11T11:30:00.000-07:002009-06-11T12:40:38.556-07:00The Regional Truth - Part 1<span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;">Alan Levin wrote a story for USA Today earlier this week underlining the fact that Marvin Renslow, the captain of Colgan 3407 that crashed in February outside Buffalo, NY, had failed several checkrides in his time at the airline.</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;">The article, copied below, was published weeks after the NTSB released copious amounts of documents during their hearings on the ill-fated Colgan flight, including training records, technical data recovered from the aicraft's data recorder and transcripts of the pilots' conversation during the flight.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;"><em>Pilots in crashes had failed multiple tests<br />By Alan Levin, USA TODAY<br />In nearly every serious regional airline accident during the past 10 years, at least one of the pilots had failed tests of his or her skills multiple times, according to an analysis of federal accident records.<br />In eight of the nine accidents during that time, which killed 137 people, pilots had a history of failing two or more "check rides," tests by federal or airline inspectors of pilots' ability to fly and respond to emergencies. In the lone case in which pilots didn't have multiple failures since becoming licensed, the co-pilot was fired after the non-fatal crash for falsifying his job application.<br />Pilots on major airlines and large cargo haulers had failed the tests more than once in only one of the 10 serious accidents in this country over the past 10 years, according to a USA TODAY review of National Transportation Safety Board (NTSB) accident reports.<br />At a time when fatal aviation accidents have become increasingly rare, regional carriers have had four since 2004, compared with one by a major airline. Regional airlines fly roughly half of all airline flights, carrying about 20% of passengers.<br />Pilot qualifications on regional carriers was at the center of an NTSB hearing last month into the February crash of a turboprop near Buffalo that killed 50 people. The pilot at the controls when the plane plunged had failed five checks, according to records revealed at the hearing.<br />Three of the accidents in which pilots had repeatedly failed tests involved a single airline conglomerate, Pinnacle Airlines. The crash near Buffalo was on Colgan Air, which is owned by Pinnacle. The captain on a Pinnacle jet that crashed in 2004 after accidentally killing both engines had failed seven checks.<br />Pinnacle spokesman Joe Williams said the airline was not aware of all the test failures.<br />"I'd say this is a symptom of a larger problem in selection and certification" of pilots, said Bill Voss, president of the independent Flight Safety Foundation. A shortage of pilots this decade, prompted in part by the lower numbers of former military pilots seeking airline jobs, prompted lower minimum qualifications, Voss said.<br />Failing a single check during a career means little, but failing multiple times "really sends up the red flags," said Patrick Veillette, a corporate jet pilot who has written extensively on safety issues.<br />Regional Airline Association President Roger Cohen defended the industry's safety practices. "All of our members are flying under the exact same standards as the mainline carriers," Cohen said.<br />The NTSB has voiced concern about a loophole in a law requiring airlines to check pilots' records when hiring. The 1996 Pilot Records Improvement Act orders airlines to check pilot records from previous employers, but that does not cover failures that occurred while a pilot was in flight school.<br />Airline pilots receive dozens of written and flying tests during a career.</em></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;">The following day, a cartoon depicted a pilot in the right seat of an airliner holding a newspaper with the headline "Some pilots fail multiple tests yet still fly." He is talking to a cat sitting in the captain's seat and says "OK, as long as you're cleared to fly."</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;">As a former journalist, I didn't find the article to be particularly fair, not even really warranted, but since I am now a regional airline pilot I realize that I am biased. </span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;">The cartoon, however, was completely out of place and insulted an entire profession.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">A little context about the regional airlines is in order.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">FLIGHT TESTS</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Failing checkrides is not unusual and can happen because of many factors other than incompetence or inexperience. Consider the fact that many pilots travel long distances to reach their training departments and checkrides are administered around the clock, day and night. My last one, for instance, took place from 10 p.m. to 2 a.m. and while I passed, the late hour did make it more challenging than previous proficiency checks.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Besides that, personal conflict with check airmen (some are very frustrated to be stuck in the sim), problems at home or a simple "bad day" can affect the outcome of a checkride even for the best of pilots.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">In some cases, airlines simply do not prepare their pilots well enough.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Levin notes</span><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:georgia;"> that of the last 10 major carrier crashes only one crewmember had several pink slips on his records. Clearly, this means that a perfect record does not ensure immunity from a crash. Measuring a pilot's ability by his performance on checkrides is therefore a flawed metric. I know of guys who have pink slipped rides but are top-notch captains. Others, who have a clean record, have no place being at the helm of an airliner.</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">So how can we evaluate airline pilots?</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">EXPERIENCE</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">The media seems to be hinting to the fact that regional pilots are inexperienced and probably unsafe. You'd therefore be much better off with a mainline crew.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">That is absurd.</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:85%;">The captains I fly with have decades of experience in the cockpit. Many spent thousands of hours flight instructing and/or hauling cargo in rickety equipment and treacherous weather before coming to the airline. While I am low-time compared to them, I had about 1,000 hours as a flight instructor before joining the company. In that invaluable phase of my career I experienced icing, thunderstorms, engine failure and other mechanical issues that all prepared me for my current job.</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">A year after I was hired, regionals began lowering minimums dramatically. Before hiring halted in the spring of last year, a pilot with nothing but a multi-engine commercial license could find himself in the right seat at a regional.</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:85%;">These <em>200-hour wonders</em>, as some call them, were right out of flight training. They had minimal Pilot In Command time in their logbooks, just enough to satisfy the FAA's requirement for a Commercial certificate, no instructor certificates, no professional experience flying airplanes. They most likely had to make very few decisions in their flying careers prior to the airlines, instead leaving those up to the instructor in the right seat.</span></span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Some see these green pilots as dangerous. But they forget that several times in the course of this business's history, pilots have gone through so-called <em>ab initio </em>programs: zero time to airline pilot. Some of them are now very experienced captains flying the heavy metal at some of the country's most respected airlines. This also happens to have been the way things worked in Europe and Asia, where 200-hour wonders were thrown not in the right seat of a turboprop or regional jet but an Airbus or a 747.</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Many of the senior captains I've flown with have said the same thing: the 200-hour wonders were great at pushing buttons, some even flew very well. The common thread, however, was a lack of judgement.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">And that, sadly, can't be taught at the training academy. It is something one develops over time, something garnered over many hours of flying and different types of flying.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Because they bypassed the generally accepted route to the airlines, they just need a little more help than those who came from instructing or freight. In the right circumstances, they aren't dangerous. They are just captains in training.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">This is where the experience issue comes in. Levin paints the regional airline industry with a very wide brush, branding all of us inexperienced. That is plainly false.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Experience levels vary widely from company to company and because of stagnant seniority lists, some regionals, like Piedmont, American Eagle and Comair, have very experienced captains who, in many cases, are very good at priming their first officers for the left seat. These also happen to be the airlines with the "best" (or least worst) contracts. There are also plenty of unscrupulous companies out there, Mesa and Gulfstream to name but two, that attracted only the most inexperiencedy because they offered abysmal pay and horrible quality of life.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">So the issue now becomes what airlines are offering. Journalists and passengers can clamor all they want about how inexperienced regional pilots are, but as long as those airlines pay rock-bottom wages, treat their employees like dirt and offer little to no advancement at all, only the very young and green will line up for work.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">More about this in Part 2. </span>Capt. Wilkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07061222914521255607noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16076165.post-50037599102369212972009-04-23T07:22:00.000-07:002009-04-23T08:04:04.946-07:00Back to reality<span style="font-size:85%;">I was at the airport in St Thomas, waiting for my flight home when the phone rang. It was the training department advising me that I had been removed from two days of my next trip because my captain had to give <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">IOE</span>, Initial Operating Experience, to another pilot.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Two extra paid days off! I was thrilled.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">The shortened trip went without a hitch. Until the last leg, of course.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">On our way into JFK, we are told to hold on three different occasions. While my captain flies, I run fuel numbers. Except for the delay, which means I'll miss my usual flight home, we're in good shape. We are soon vectored to the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">VOR</span> 13L, my favorite approach into Kennedy. Over the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">CRI</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">VOR</span>, while still in the clouds, tower sends us around because of spacing with the aircraft ahead. </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">On a long downwind vector, I once again examine the fuel situation. We still have plenty but know that the way things have gone so far today it won't be a quick approach, so I ask the controller what his plan is for us.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">"Yeah, I was going to turn you in a second," comes the curt reply. </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">"Just trying to think ahead and evaluate our fuel situation."</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Moments later, we are back on the approach. As we get closer we hear several aircraft ahead going missed approach, meaning they have reached the point on the approach where they either have to see the runway or go around.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">We cross <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">CRI</span> lower than usual, as assigned by <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">ATC</span>, then pick up the lead-in lights than run parallel to the highway. My captain points the aircraft's nose toward them while I search for the next set of lights to our right. Nothing. </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">We go missed, again.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Tower hands us over to approach. I declare minimum fuel and the controller gives us vectors back around.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">In typical New York fashion, however, the headings look like they will take us far out and as the weather dips lower and lower my captain and I concur that we have very little leeway left.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">"Flight 1234, we are declaring a fuel emergency."</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">The controller <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">acknowledges</span> our call, asks for the number of souls on board and gives us another vector around for the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">ILS</span> 13L. On edge, we prepare for the third and what absolutely has to be the last approach.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Minutes later we break out of the clouds at about 700' to the very welcomed sight of runway 13L.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">At the gate I weigh my flight options home . It looks like I can make the 5 p.m. flight that leaves from the terminal I am in. Because of the weather and its associated backlog, the aircraft is late getting into New York, so I call another airline to make a back-up plan. Their 7:50 p.m. flight has already cancelled, leaving only one more flight home at 11 p.m. I list for it, just in case.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">I bump into the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">FO</span> flying the 5 p.m. flight and chat with him for a while. We are soon joined by a captain trying to make that flight too. We all exchange stories, commiserate about the commute and try to help frantic <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">passengers</span> whose flights are cancelling or who have missed connections.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Once again, JFK is the center of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">many's</span> unhappiness.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Two other Boston flights cancel but by 8 p.m. I'm on board the 5 p.m., on our way to 13R. I close my eyes for a second. It's been a long and hectic day, but in just a few hours I'll be home and I can already taste the rum punch I'll have to unwind.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">DING.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Through the cockpit door comes the familiar sound of the single chime. It rouses me from my slumber, but it could be anything: the cross-feed might be on because of the single-engine taxi out to the runway or the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">FO might have</span> changed to thrust setting for take-off. Nothing that would get in the way of my getting home. I lean my head back. </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">The aircraft suddenly makes a right turn, then another, heading away from the runway.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">I turn around and the commuting captain and I exchange a look of concern. Guess we're not going after all.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">A hydraulic problem ends up cancelling this flight too and I suddenly see my chances of making it home tonight dwindle. The 11 p.m. flight on the other airline is now delayed two hours and it looks like it'll probably end up cancelling altogether. This could mean having to sleep in the crew room.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">An hour later, however, news comes that dispatch wants the crew of the 5 p.m. flight to reposition the aircraft to Boston when the hydraulic problem is fixed. This is my last chance for a ride home. So I wait with them. </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Hours later we touch down in Boston. It's late. The airport is deserted and quiet. On the curb, the usual <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">cacophony of buses and cars has been reduced to complete silence. I hop in a cab for the $80 ride to my car and pull into my driveway at 2 a.m. </span></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span class="blsp-spelling-corrected">Ten hours after my work day ended.</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span class="blsp-spelling-corrected">It's definitely back to reality...</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span>Capt. Wilkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07061222914521255607noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16076165.post-1446010238030659742009-04-11T10:41:00.000-07:002009-04-26T07:30:14.724-07:00Paradise<span style="font-size:85%;">As the 757's door opened, warm air rushed into cabin, carrying with it a hint of the sea and caressing my face softly. I smiled. Jen and I had finally arrived: St Thomas, in the U.S. Virgin Islands. A step closer to our own little corner of paradise for the next four days.</span><br /><div align="left"><span style="font-size:85%;">It had been too long since we had done something just the two of us. Years in fact. And with a new baby at home and hectic opposing schedules, stress and exhaustion had finally caught up with us. It was time, I had decided, for that long-overdue and long dreamed-about Caribbean holiday.</span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-size:85%;">A fair amount of research and conversations with friends and colleagues familiar with the region led to the conclusion that St John was the place for us: a less touristy island of 20 square miles, 80 percent of which is protected as a National Park. By all accounts, the beaches were pristine and the people friendly. A true no-brainer.</span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-size:85%;">Outside the open-air terminal, a lady offered travelers free shots of rum. All around us, happy faces wandered about, cold beers in hand. They too had reached paradise, it seemed.</span> </div><div align="left"><span style="font-size:85%;">A quick taxi ride later, we were sipping rum punch and pain killers (the drink, of course) on the patio of Tickles restaurant at the Crown Marina, while we waited for the ferry to St John. The lush mountains surrounding us and the bright turquoise waters all around transported us to a completely different world, far far away from the wintery muck of Boston, the diaper changes and the constant logistical headaches both at home and at work. </span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-size:85%;">We missed Ollie very much but as we began to take this beautiful place in we were happy and began to relax.</span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-size:85%;">The ferry ride was a pleasure, taking us past a slew of private islands that pepper the waters between St Thomas and St John. Less than an hour later, the hotel staff greeted us with yet more rum punch. We were in awe: the palm trees, the lush green lawns bordered by wild pineapple and other tropical plants, the white sand and enticing crystalline water of the Caribbean Sea. We swam, had dinner on the beach and sat in the warm evening, surrounded by tikki torches, gazing at solitary clouds floating high above the palm trees in the silvery hue of the moon light. </span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-size:85%;">Pure bliss.</span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-size:85%;">The following morning, we headed to Cruz Bay to rent a jeep and set out to explore the island, which is essentially an imposing mountain jutting from the sea. Driving on the left side of the road took no time to get used to. Negotiating the extremely steep hills, however, was a little more interesting. But reaching high ground was well worth it.</span></div><div align="left"><br /></div><div align="center"><br /></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5323496116325255474" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg66dU3ut1JSLZ-vKcLasZ6Ycm13UbMs3_YQbCJx2ATGtfTdWNe_fEFgg4v9GYNveTWo2JA70YkbgsOTJNkHDyXlmYtalFmuPDm6TWJTwUhPck7srxkODwlO3HoYXx517MKGzYm/s320/DSCN0964.JPG" border="0" /><br /><div><span style="font-size:85%;">We were now islanders, so we sipped the obligatory mid-morning mango-banana smoothie while enjoying the view above. We (hmmm, well Jen, really...) decided to walk the almost 3-mile long Reef Bay trail, which snakes through the lush forest past the ruins of old Dutch sugar mills. Along the way, we detoured to see petroglyphs, mysterious carvings etched into rock at the bottom of a 40-foot waterfall in the middle of the forest. Sounded phenomenal on paper. While we did see the carvings, the waterfall was unfortunately completely dried up and the most exciting part of the side-trip was an encounter with one of the thousands of mongooses that inhabit the island. The Dutch brought the little guys from Jamaica to kill rats in the sugar plantations, which apparently failed since mongooses hunt by day and rats are nocturnal. They have since taken over the island.</span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5323496209779642082" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs_YftnyYKPU17udS17kjKmn1HWr9jMc047TOF0ufhyRvtaQI5IHM2Ne8kERYIzpy-MpdRJLWOuYH24jE9oviBucX2_DWUf0oL1PR6Jp5XaLDaNh8UpGWbpqjdP5haAVpSeuYq/s320/DSCN0971.JPG" border="0" /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5323495651186763970" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjszHe_w4bFuZKs1kNapmfLVVcteuQT9TvS3eZGdlShBtaIpYomlKgGdHkJHju_R-dvqXHdXsd0gsVhXe_hn5DMUwINh859pEFtCdtSZBNPmO9n9mTuWJchKQX2bm6pEoYK_Iyi/s320/DSCN0975.JPG" border="0" /><br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5323500485678253026" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVldp6ifUtDYlO3ytKtPrTC_ZOGT6qPnK1M5VTrtNmjZZ47lb5YMKRzR6vxMyjLOSlSZf7F9nM5Q75Pdjg1p0vWMXmVWvQVWASTkyA5Vy2g89O-o_FX9zxiykIxim5TBEud-MS/s320/DSCN0974.JPG" border="0" /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">The winding trail finally opened up to the completely secluded Reef Bay, accessible only by foot or boat, where the shallow and warm water is said to be a nursery for baby sharks. While we sadly did not get to see any, the beauty and calm of this remote beach was reward enough.</span><br /><div><br /></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5323497389848355634" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOlPWpfNbM_cnz-lCxLFswoGgV8FEso_xNOGIIxclS1JTUIxNJ2nwIRdmXDxXkvVyj1tn9La5RqWf1GUbVf5afEb3DueuJZylnDzL-fh5uW8gM2S9nwpSio4asRtAZOH3OZ1J3/s320/DSCN0978.JPG" border="0" /><br /><br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5323497397114390434" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjdcVM3Ht0YxNWq8e-4OWNxaVgve9yfAw9jkp-4QM6oXw_3wf9Qogn3Sqd58k4GjaHubiFvYvrhFxybadYOJG3Vj_TbxQYFjiO8fy3oWimhxz96w6d8U11vy85rAp5CHCn7hQ4/s320/DSCN0979.JPG" border="0" /> <span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;"></span><br /><div><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;">The walk back up to our Jeep was, well, brutal: steep, hot, rocky. Never ending. Generally unpleasant. But in hindsight, well-worth it.</span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;">Still in pain from the previous day's ascent, we enjoyed a relaxed breakfast on a small square by the harbor in Cruz Bay on Tuesday, where chickens and their chicks ran free in the street.</span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></div><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:85%;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5323499255716828114" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3xl5csbT-N8KiorOkhkzksKUF0ot9llK_l8txKx0NC76j5GyQzXbFYP84wXtbBXyZS1UwJkthkToD4OfiFQLgdqrTEjk-J-sigaauJi9esSaKspTr6F4DBBqLKNFIyIU71Rs8/s320/DSCN0980.JPG" border="0" /></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:85%;">Cute. But being a chicken on St John can apparently be a hazardous occupation.</span></div><br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:85%;"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5323499260439923682" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnscr-kanlt6SlFwMqyN3N9xljz0Mp3MMxmdSsNOYIfMBVayCZoveVQjyT4iLxXoDvs_22avdx0mSLye25TQInuOmPdtI0PhINdPftzk7t40AJqU_EAvJO-MTVYykVOs2II76z/s320/DSCN0982.JPG" border="0" /></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-size:85%;">Our appetites satisfied, we hopped on one of the island's many safari taxis and headed for Trunk Bay, considered to be one of the world's most beautiful beaches. Along the way, we were treated to magnificent views of Honeymoon, Hawk's Nest and Caneel bays, where Laurence Rockerfeller opened his famous eco-friendly resort back in the early 1950s. </span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;">As we walked onto the beach at Trunk Bay, I immediately understood what all the fuss is about. </span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;">Paradise:</span><br /></div><div><br /></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5323499265426627890" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh55vd7RRQJwzfbvJqrvDKOOiZtK_UIcYh0GjcCoXR46A8dwsp5YAvW99-SAePqmLaJtDN2ARL4AaYY_hvnqj8gk-aHsa74JAfga54j79LWJwrmNizEvqIYnu79qpmhHXtWazCJ/s320/DSCN0988.JPG" border="0" /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5323497394660847458" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdrQ4K7yZ3tSsB9AMxfMSL6kciZwMwZqwvouUwsKDCOvNwOmIkuB8peGu-GUbyC3WC2AJF8bNBTRkDx7_RuledqqCOxQKXR06sq_hDTNv1ta2dgdlFeGAgZzgcmEBigfgMMUQO/s320/DSCN0987.JPG" border="0" /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5323499252559963026" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdyB_T1T34usDaM-C2IQnMH_Lgrn5C7ymZzZ89Cb7EZdivzC8PW0R9UYd4p3DTMM6I5FOO8GTBP7wb52vp8TTtdN2ZZas2gmL539pRkeExqAkulCM_s0J3Q0N1QFld6gPYItKS/s320/DSCN0989.JPG" border="0" /><span style="font-size:85%;">Aside from its breath-taking beauty, Trunk Bay is known for its excellent snorkeling trail. Wasting no time, Jen and I donned our gear and headed out to see what lay beneath those turquoise waters. We weren't disappointed.</span><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><br /><div><br /></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5323498345155900882" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 212px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRdDx4lWyjEluOEndNURq3xApSjpSfC32tsynq9ebUwh4mZ3eU-T0gc9qFa9Fc2dtfpwNYloxZrZ1KbS1AndmUcVxrAf42b1jxE-N2Fk3pOpHfdj66yRglb-S83_0Rm68vaUHl/s320/81290023.JPG" border="0" /><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;"> Beautiful coral, a completely different world under the surface and home </span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;">to a multitude of multi-colored fish...</span><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-size:85%;">Such as the Parrot Fish below, whom I stalked all day long. If we held our breath we could hear him chomping away at the coral.</span></div><br /><div align="center"><br /></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5323497399473537378" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 212px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhHmAQ1naXNHevWl9w_pTLmQDVX2UwIdAOBSNh0EJB62rP9iNiT4_cFGHkERZEwaFNbXCjN7tpkuVurujo8fMocg2dRC2WuIbAxZpSOTC1n2RMKCc8mxliMcycXGid1zMKLeIl/s320/81290014.JPG" border="0" /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5323497405390922482" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 212px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVdv-VqxbYgGJu4iiWyvJNKyIizDU8rbgtiHccu58zXfEFOaxTpJ5nJkW6QIRfl4ApfGANMoVay0cODxvE6U5aCFZIvJR24s1qmDpg9NeLVRgwjQ-W9_ps2GA7yjlq79i0zI3o/s320/81290019.JPG" border="0" /><span style="font-size:85%;"> A sea turtle.</span><br /><div align="center"><br /></div><br /><div align="left"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5325012257249637826" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 212px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_tLNe8r0uspg6kb-TSYHdX_1b2rogGOmm9ttlHtLbRcb-db8AZAm31AMfuoWIKwjXOLhhIs0yLgjXdryUxTzOFez4fwpft-Jv6ZOnUe7sDC1MGJxPP5uYp8K8-l9vVW49i7-R/s320/81290020.JPG" border="0" /><span style="font-family:georgia;"></span><span style="font-size:85%;">The Barracuda below appeared out of nowhere about two feet away from my face as I was scanning the coral for fish. He scared the crap out of me at first but seemed completely unfazed by my presence (or my deliciousness). I reached for the camera to steal a shot, but a wave carried me above the surface and ruined it. I swam after him for a bit to get a closer picture until it dawned on me that I was in hot pursuit of a carniverous fish. Reason prevailed and this is what I settled for:</span><br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5325012252069917810" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 212px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy4SHXd6cZTZrU3HKZ4bUiJTyRhOJjvrrbsXsZnrv8Om15W4ZO2b_0P-5vCIXmEt6vq6zee652jsNOR5HSRuck1EDqJgL9rEeV00hl8lbc9MyoL-1E95XD8IiVRwHjAUDLf46F/s320/81290017.JPG" border="0" /><span style="font-size:85%;">After a full day of snorkeling, we found the perfect table in Cruz Bay to enjoy the sunset, dinner and a few deliciously refreshing rum drinks.</span><br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5323498360973890802" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib9K4OBDgWT-1L5tG2tk7eWshrq0_Dbv08eVUI-nFhCCJTT96JeVQGPFRHZinT2lnnn0KZ2tcmvEgj1P4KJ0zLQgzVm-dC2cDV43PMb4eCa9iKRXt3Kd0WFnlsYVRpRZPCf5xG/s320/DSCN0997.JPG" border="0" /><span style="font-size:85%;">Sadly the next day was also our last on St John. We headed further up the coast to visit Cinnamon Bay, which was also breath-takingly beautiful.</span></div><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><div align="left"><br /></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5323498359932728354" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiACq_UTe8khUkxnwQ_0L2HYebhb88U2d8xbQvauiplO9mODnOcQv3ZRQvUXXK1GhzZolo8z9L8QaA1C12Xi45awijnpD0B9fp6JThQf92bLip6E9XHRr_iC2dxky-kOY6gefv-/s320/DSCN1008.JPG" border="0" /><span style="font-size:85%;">While the snorkeling was disappointing compared to Trunk Bay, the weather gave us a perfect final day in paradise and I took the opportunity to sooth my badly sunburned back from the previous day's underwater explorations and relax on the warm sand. Soon enough we'd be back to reality, running around like mad people, rejoining the ranks of the everyday drones that we had pitied so much while lounging on the beach without a care in the world. Tomorrow we'd no longer be happy islanders fuelled by rum and sunshine. Tomorrow we'd be back to being suckers with stupid bosses and bills to pay. </span><div><span style="font-size:85%;">But not before making a new friend. Jen named him Stewart.</span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5323499246481311218" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPdUyqpMCKaUfEEO-B0tWbriLnsthZF40USXW-a1FmxMToqgQjJI1Q2dj8KJBMoNIYiS0WJvW0uYaPH6iuFu8hZ3EnuYlXQkj-cHDhFN8e_BU_lIDjWU3OfSQ9hF0F5UzTwLJm/s320/DSCN1012.JPG" border="0" /></div><div align="center"><br /></div><div><br /><br /><br /></div><div align="center"></div>Capt. Wilkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07061222914521255607noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16076165.post-20043505007869879902009-04-03T12:37:00.000-07:002009-04-03T13:04:27.875-07:00Furloughs<span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;">"At least they're not furloughing, unlike the rest of the industry."</span><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;">I uttered these words a few days ago, in a nowadays very common company-bashing conversation with a captain. The following day, we heard the news that the company would furlough just under 100 pilots.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">It's a tough time for airline pilots. Other bigger and much better airlines than mine have let pilots go, grounded airplanes, shut down bases and cut pay and benefits in recent months. A United Airlines captain riding in our <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">jumpseat</span> told me just the other day that 800 of his colleagues will soon be out on the street as the company has decided to ground all of its 737s. </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Nobody is safe. This isn't a situation where the bottom of the regional airline pack is getting pinched. All the big boys, except perhaps for Southwest, are feeling the pressure. </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">My airline, which typically trails its competitors in terms of effecting changes (good or bad), closed my home base, forcing me and over 200 of my colleagues to commute to work by air. In the current climate, however, I considered myself lucky to still be in a job. The move was also widely viewed as a negotiating tactic gone sour rather than an actual financial necessity.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">But now the downturn is at our doorstep. In just a few short weeks, colleagues will be sent to the street at a time when finding a job is tough enough and one flying airplanes almost completely impossible.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Again, I count myself fortunate to not be in that group. However, I can't help but think that this might only be the first wave. With a family to take care of, a mortgage to pay and debt accumulated in the past couple of years due to low pay as a flight instructor and a junior first officer, the prospect of being furloughed is terrifying. </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">The future remains terribly uncertain for the airlines. While oil prices have dropped to much more manageable levels, passengers aren't flying as much as they used to and as the economy continues its downward spiral, loads will probably continue to drop as well. </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Having researched the industry before joining it, I know this is just another cycle (<span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">admittedly</span> in the context of the greatest economic slump in decades) in what has to be one of the most volatile lines of work out there. Things will get better, I'm sure of it. One day the airlines will expand again, hiring will boom, upward movement will be restored and with any luck pay and benefits will improve and the battered airline industry will once more be a desirable place to work. </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">But until then, I fear i</span><span style="font-size:85%;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">t's</span> going to be a very bumpy ride.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span>Capt. Wilkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07061222914521255607noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16076165.post-83002322079018198462009-03-19T06:54:00.000-07:002009-03-19T07:35:27.983-07:00Anniversary<span style="font-size:85%;">I was driving home from the airport the other day, when I popped a CD into my car stereo that I hadn't listen to in a while. On it were a few Martin Sexton songs that brought back memories. Among them: my private pilot training, five years ago.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">For a second I was transported back to those happy days in the spring of 2004 and could almost feel the slight knot in the stomach that preceded the early lessons, that mix of nervousness and eager anticipation. As I looked over my shoulder to change lanes, I caught a glimpse of one of my epaulettes and smiled. Never at the time would I have thought I'd one day be driving home to the same songs, having landed a jet just a few minutes before.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Today is my second anniversary at the airline and just like the other day, I am looking backwards, reminscing about those many adventures, the people I've met and most of all the fun and challenge that the last few years have been.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Of course, it hasn't all been easy or pleasant. But two years into my airline career, I am happy to report that the novelty hasn't worn off. I still get that giddy feeling when I settle into the cold, dark cockpit, my home away from home, a virgin canvas that in response to my moving knobs and pushing switches will soon come alive with lights and sounds. As I power the airplane up, the kid in me still gets excited to hear the APU slowly spool up then whine as it reaches 100%.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">The concerto of voices on the radio, as we turn onto the taxiway, the taxi flows, the take-off briefing amid the aural chaos of today's busy airports, that phrase "Cleared for take-off," the noise and power when the throttles are advanced and down the runway we roll, the smoothness with which the jet cuts through the air, the pleasing feeling in the control column: It still makes me feel very alive.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">And beyond the departure end of the runway, what awaits us? Ice? Thunderstorms? Low weather at our destination? Or simply breath-taking golden evening skies that will soon be set ablaze by a receding sun? Or maybe it's those crystalline night skies as we fly north to Halifax, when the darkness surrounding those secluded regions on out route allows us to see the stars and the Milky Way in a clarity unmatched anywhere else? </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">The challenges, the sheer beauty of the sky and the adrenaline-inducing machines we are fortunate enough to operate make this very simply the best job in the world.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Yes, the industry is in shambles. Yes, the pay is abysmal, for now anyway. Of course, the schedules can be horrible. But for me it is an irreversible calling and we can only hope that the airlines will one day decide to treat their pilot groups with the respect the job commands. </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">A few months ago, as my airline was going through a difficult period, I considered returning to a more stable line of work, which of course ruled out journalism, my orginial calling. I looked for openings, revamped my resume, labored over a cover letter. I even envisaged how life would be with more money and being home every night. But a few weeks into this I realized that only when I was on the ground did I seriously consider leaving behind the job I'd dreamed of for so long. As soon as those wheels left the runway pavement, the throughts completely vanished. "You must be mad," I'd realize. "Leave all of this behind?"</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">No way. I'm here to stay. </span>Capt. Wilkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07061222914521255607noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16076165.post-49016130085047555132008-12-07T15:30:00.000-08:002008-12-07T17:24:25.502-08:00The Great New York Deicing Debacle<span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;">My day started well: commuting to work went without a hitch. So it was with a spring in my step that I tackled the five-leg day, which started too early and would end at midnight, if all went according to plan.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">A look at my schedule, however, showed out and backs between New York and Washington all day. Not good.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">I got the airplane ready, without a captain in sight. Minutes before departure, he arrived and we were soon on our way.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">I took off and banked to the south on our way to Washington. During the flight we noted a slight vibration but couldn't pinpoint its origin. We varied thrust settings and speeds to make note of when it manifested itself and at the conclusion of another very satisfying River Visual to 19, I landed uneventfully.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">The captain wrote up the mechanical issue, causing the airplane to be grounded and our next leg to New to cancel. So we sat. For five long hours, until our next JFK turn.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">A worried passenger on his way to Israel approached us. "Will I make my connection," he asked, having noticed the delay of the inbound aircraft. We promised to do our best.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">We pulled into the gate in New York ahead of our revised arrival time. I think the Israel-bound man made his flight.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">After our new passenger load had boarded, we called for de-icing. It had been snowing for an hour now and the airplane was covered in a dusting of the white stuff.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">"I think both trucks are broken," an operations person radioed back.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">I reminisced about the same situation last year, roughly around this time of year, ahead of the first forecast snow. Again, it seemed the company had managed to be taken by surprise by a completely expected need for the de-icing equipment to work.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">After a half-an-hour, we finally pulled into the de-icing pad. The truck sprayed us with heated Type I fluid, then the longer-lasting Type IV. But seconds into the application of the second fluid, the driver informed us that the truck had once again broken down. Tired and frustrated passengers could do little more than watch the crew outside fiddling with the wounded machine.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">It took so long that we were about to reach our holdover time, that point at which de-icing fluid loses its effectiveness.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">After much back and forth and some huffing and puffing from us and a company aircraft waiting in line behind us to be sprayed, our rampies borrowed a truck from another airline and for the second time of the evening de-iced us from scratch. Two full hours after closing the aircraft door, we reached the runway and arrived at our gate in Washington at 1:30 a.m.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">While we sat on the de-icing pad in New York, I couldn't help but feel terrible for our passengers. It's no fun sitting in cramped jet, exhausted, late at night with little ventilation (our air conditioning system has to be shut off during the de-icing process to avoid fumes from entering the cabin). We tried our best to keep them informed on what was happening, however embarassing it was, but knew they were angry at us.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">I don't blame them. </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">What they might not have realized, however, is that we were angry too. Both my captain and I are commuters, so by the time we arrived at our hotel we had been up for close to 20 hours. We wanted to get going as badly as any passenger but could not believe the comedy of errors that unfolded before our eyes. Two hours to de-ice one airplane, admittedly twice, is simply unacceptable. The company should provide equipment in working condition both for the safety of the rampers operating it and for the overall efficiency of the operation. But especially these days money talks and corners are cut. God bless those rampers for working in such conditions. I admired their resolve to get us cleaned up, eventhough the weather was lifting, and their dedication to safety in the face of these daily challenges.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">It should be an interesting winter.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span>Capt. Wilkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07061222914521255607noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16076165.post-57113903937816550762008-12-05T07:35:00.001-08:002008-12-05T07:53:15.177-08:00Displaced<span style="font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;">A few months ago, my airline announced it would be closing its Boston base. All of the domicile's 240 pilots would have to find new homes throughout the system.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">For me, New York's John F. Kennedy seemed like the best choice and I was awarded the new base effective this month. Tomorrow will be my first trip out of there and also my first time commuting to work by air.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Unlike many others in this line of work, I have been fortunate enough to drive to work for the past two years. What many outside of the profession do not know is that a large number of airline pilots fly great distances to get to work. I know of one pilot, for instance, who lives in the desert outside of Las Vegas and had to commute to Richmond, VA for many years. That included a long trek by car to Vegas or sometimes L.A., followed by two, or sometimes three flights to his base. After too many such trips to and from work, he was diagnosed with chronic fatigue and removed from flying for some time.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Another pilot I know flies all the way from Ireland and while I thought that was crazy, I met another guy who commutes from Germany to Newark to get to work.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">While I have been bemoaning the new arrangement, it is not quite as bad for me although JFK can be a tricky airport to get in and out of because of congestion, heavy passenger loads and of course, the uncertainty of weather. It is also a major ding to an already questionable quality of life.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">It will be a new and not necessarily pleasant experience, but it has shown me just how lucky I have been in the past two years to live a mere 45 minutes from the airport I flew out of. Life will be harder, the days longer and I fully expect to get caught in Kennedy on my way home and hardly relish the idea of spending a night in the crew lounge to await the first flight home the following day.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">But unfortunately it comes with the job and is one of those many unsavory things we have to put up with to continue working in this job we love so much. I don't know of many other professions that require people to commute such long distances, never knowing whether you will make the flight to or from work.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">While you may assume that riding my airline to work, especially on such a frequent route, shouldn't be too bad, think again. My airline would actually charge me for the service. Yes, I would have to pay my employer to get to a base I had never signed up for in the first place and that is just not acceptable to me since I can ride a couple of other carriers for free.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">This really is a unique and messed up line of work. But the fact that so many would endure such difficulties every day of the week only goes to show that the job is fueled by passion.</span>Capt. Wilkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07061222914521255607noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16076165.post-82144992058534543002008-10-23T10:46:00.000-07:002008-12-10T20:30:00.938-08:00The mighty Mammatus<span style="font-size:85%;">A look at my schedule the other day showed me flying my next trip with a great captain I had the pleasure of working with a few months ago in one of my (and apparently his) most memorable flights yet.<br />John and I sat in the cockpit in June in Nashville, readying for our second leg of the day. In a few hours, we'd be going home and we were in a jovial mood as the two-day trip had so far gone without a hitch. As the printer spat out the Washington National Airport ATIS, I noticed a mention of ACMAM, something I had never seen before.<br />"What is that?" I asked John.<br />Not a clue.<br />So I pulled out my phone and Googled it.<br />"Alto Cumulus, Mammatus clouds," I read.<br />A search for Mammatus clouds yielded intimidating photographs of the dark and menacing clouds.<br /></span><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6ZHbn00wCIJn0Zzd0jyiTomFAR1IX-WtZeSE6hz3i66rBH_c0nO9ptkefQxCABFIy3kOdSmh5xTcvTAvYUmsWsPKIhYA3svHeOSctG0ruQTELBkItTj5PzEG6wpW4vCoHEGO0/s1600-h/Mammatus-clouds-Tulsa-1973.png"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5260409662147961202" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 320px; height: 203px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6ZHbn00wCIJn0Zzd0jyiTomFAR1IX-WtZeSE6hz3i66rBH_c0nO9ptkefQxCABFIy3kOdSmh5xTcvTAvYUmsWsPKIhYA3svHeOSctG0ruQTELBkItTj5PzEG6wpW4vCoHEGO0/s320/Mammatus-clouds-Tulsa-1973.png" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"> "This ought to be interesting," I said.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">It was John's leg. He took off and climbed in smooth air and beautiful clear skies to 37,000 feet. We wondered what lay ahead and checked the weather periodically. The ceiling in D.C. was dropping, rain and cumulonimbus clouds were reported in the vicinity and the wind was picking up steadily. But aside from the subsistent note MAM, it looked like the typical stormy summer day.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">We pushed on in slightly choppier air. As we neared Washington on the Eldee Three arrival, the bumps grew more intense right around the Eldee intersection. Racing in and out of clouds, we tried to map the storms in the area both with the help of our radar and by visually spotting them. </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">John zigzagged to avoid a large cell directly over Dulles Airport and we soon made the right turn onto the downwind for Runway 1 at DCA. </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Moments later, we were over the river, following a Delta Airlines MD-80 ahead of us. We ran through the approach checklist. Looked like we'd make it in, no problems at all.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">The scenery outside the windshield was dramatic. The dark mammatus clouds kept the early afternoon sun from shining through the undercast and it looked like night-time. A dark mass sat just west of the airport, seemingly out of our way.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">As we pressed on down the Potomac the bumps grew more violent. I watched the dark maelstrom to our left. It was moving, and moving fast. Right at DCA. </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">"Don't know if we'll beat it in," I said.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">By the time we reached the Wilson Bridge, about 5 miles south of the airport, the dark storm had swallowed the field and the Delta ahead of us completely. The turbulence shook us so violently that reading the instruments became difficult at best. </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">We reached the edge of the storm, which was thundering toward us, threatening to gobble us in its fury any second now. Just as I was about to suggest we go around, John shoved the throttles forward.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">"Flight 1234," a frazzled controller called, "make an immediate right turn, 180 heading, the tower is shaking." In the midst of the mess, I also heard the Delta going around, fighting in the middle of a very angry storm.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">As we made the turn, the turbulence made the airplane roll so far that I thought we were about to go inverted. It was a harrowing climb back up through 1,000' but John fought valiantly against the turbulence while I cleaned the airplane up and ran through the appropriate checklists.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Then things got interesting.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">"Potomac approach, Flight 1234 on the missed, through 1,500', heading 180."</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Silence. </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">"Approach, Flight 1234 on the missed, 1,500 for 5,000, 180 heading."</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Complete silence.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">I flicked to another Potomac frequency I was familiar with for the area, but still nothing. Back on the original frequency I tried once more. No controller. Another airliner checked in, but like us received no reply.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Zipping through the clouds with nobody on the frequency was an eery feeling. I briefly spoke to the pilot of the other airliner, all the while calculating our fuel.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Finally a faint voice broke the silence.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">The Potomac Approach controller was talking to us from a handheld radio. It seemed the storms had wreaked havoc with the facility's transmitters. He gave us a heading back to the localizer and instructions to hold. We complied, but discussed our options since fuel was now running low.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">"We have enough for one approach but we have to land," I hinted at John. </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">In the hold, the bumps tossed the aircraft like a rag doll. This was too much of a gamble, we decided, and the people in the back had probably had enough. We diverted to Richmond and once again lost communication for a while.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">A few minutes later we touched down at our alternate and John personally went to the back to explain our situation to the passengers: We'd have to wait out the weather. Delays, however, were the least of anyone's concerns. I truly believe our passengers were just happy to be down in one piece. </span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">It took us a few more hours, but got them into D.C. later that night.</span>Capt. Wilkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07061222914521255607noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16076165.post-40774120083089249442008-09-04T17:37:00.000-07:002008-09-04T18:48:07.169-07:00Papa Wilko<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi33tBaa13m8I6OrU9AH5XMPRfVUPi-36Dy3DoqcHpHeUDMCuxcZp96NEXo7LE4GeUCh2Ja0LugBbv0Ty_0dUfhBWzi8CqKkljpteX0OyQ_AHh8F2QTHYIe0hnE3PLzeni1U490/s1600-h/IMG00063.jpg"></a><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Much has happened in the past few months. My schedule has improved tremendously, I broke the 1,000 hour mark of jet time and my airline, like most others, has had to impose cuts and recently announced that my home base will close in a few months. It has been a rollercoaster ride of fun (on the job), peppered with a fair dose of uncertainty and disillusionment over the way the company is treating our pilot group.</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">But most important of all, Oliver arrived.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:13px;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:16px;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR4DxHCXRydACVinap52v55xnqyZVVo98jWlaraIJl20Fzvn148j_wG0i2_LBIBqkyuCG68488poDgcbVcxUHPyHoTqMWlopWjWnpvtiD8D_Q9weHEmyUkJmbrBrM5qZkZW2bE/s1600-h/IMG00062.jpg"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR4DxHCXRydACVinap52v55xnqyZVVo98jWlaraIJl20Fzvn148j_wG0i2_LBIBqkyuCG68488poDgcbVcxUHPyHoTqMWlopWjWnpvtiD8D_Q9weHEmyUkJmbrBrM5qZkZW2bE/s320/IMG00062.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5242339127330013826" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; " /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:16px;"><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Early on a June morning, the little guy made his appearance and has blessed our lives with his presence since.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Holding a brand new baby, only a few minutes old, was much like being presented with a complex new machine with no instructions. No panic. Bewilderment, perhaps. And a whirlpool of questions, including the one most asked by airline pilots: "Why's it doing that?"</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I will never forget the thrill of that day. I could not believe that the frail little being all bundled in my arms was my son. It's hard to think that he will one day walk, talk, think and build a life and family of his own. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It has been a steep learning curve but every day, as hard as it might have been, has brought more fulfillment and rewards than I ever thought imagineable. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">He's a funny little one who will often shoot us a knowing smile when, errr let's just say, he has left a big surprise for us in his diaper. Also, while obviously oblivious to our jokes, his timing is uncanny and he will laugh along with us. A very sweet laughter.</span></span></div><div><br /></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); font-size:16px;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi33tBaa13m8I6OrU9AH5XMPRfVUPi-36Dy3DoqcHpHeUDMCuxcZp96NEXo7LE4GeUCh2Ja0LugBbv0Ty_0dUfhBWzi8CqKkljpteX0OyQ_AHh8F2QTHYIe0hnE3PLzeni1U490/s320/IMG00063.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5242342596761308594" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; " /></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> The days have been long and the nights short, (mostly for my wife, to be fair) but no words can describe the feeling of seeing your child smile back at you with complete and utter sincerity. He is an unspoiled wonder, a true little miracle who has rekindled in me a sense of wonder and innocence that the past few years in journalism and the airlines may have robbed me of. Or maybe it's being a grown-up, or at least posing as one, that tarnished that in me. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Welcome, Ollie. And thank you for warming my heart every day and allowing me to be a child too. </span></div></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></div><div><br /></div></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaPghQSIb47ikjhIxx2KyKht4CVfTwGynI2exzEDx3dwlb8JWzutZcKrRhsDkV4NE18UKLGjgP70MsvnMs0FmQlE4GH4hBqdeTePbUfc4U7f_SfCZbrdvaKI0TO3xit_PQlYar/s1600-h/IMG00064.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaPghQSIb47ikjhIxx2KyKht4CVfTwGynI2exzEDx3dwlb8JWzutZcKrRhsDkV4NE18UKLGjgP70MsvnMs0FmQlE4GH4hBqdeTePbUfc4U7f_SfCZbrdvaKI0TO3xit_PQlYar/s320/IMG00064.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5242339859416230226" /></a><br /><div><div><div><br /></div></div></div>Capt. Wilkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07061222914521255607noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16076165.post-13067726097582216982008-04-05T12:50:00.000-07:002008-04-06T10:15:19.110-07:00Timed out<span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:georgia;">This is another one of those cascade of incidents story and I know there have been a few of those recently. So I'll preface this one with the fact that I love my job in spite of all that gets in the way of a smooth trip.<br />A few days ago, I signed-in for a two-day trip, excited to be gone for only a short while and to fly with a great captain. The trip was also very efficient, packing in just under 15 hours of flying in two days.<br />Our first leg that morning was to be a line check. My third so far this month but that's another story. I seem to be paired with every captain coming up on their annual check this year.<br />The flight is uneventful and we turn the airplane quickly back to Boston. The rest of the day goes just as smoothly and I even receive a few compliments from passengers on one of my landings. That always feels good.<br />At the overnight, I excitedly unpack my dinner. I'm starving and it's nice for once to enjoy the comfort of a home cooked meal.<br />The following morning we prepare for a very long day. We are planned for just under 14 hours on duty, at the conclusion of which we will be going home. Leg number one is long, but uneventful. The second flight of the day ends in my flying the VOR approach to 13L in JFK, one of my favorite approaches in our system. There's a little bit of a crosswind but my landing again lands me a compliment or two as passengers deplane. My captain, whose landings were consistently spotless, is dumbfounded as to why nobody will comment on his.<br />After sitting for a while in New York and later in Boston, we are readying for the last turn of the day, to Kennedy and back. </span></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:georgia;">A lady who suffered a panic attack is boarded first and reassured by our staff. She seems very nervous.<br /></span></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:georgia;">It's getting late and we're both now feeling the effects of the long day.<br />I lift off of runway 22R and bank the airplane to the southeast, over the water. In a little over two hours we'll back over this water on our way home, I think.<br />Then, suddenly, at about 4,000 feet a bang tears us from the comfortable routine. The unnerving sound is followed by loud gushing coming from my side window. We look at each other and remember the write-up a previous crew had entered into the logbook regarding a loud pack, part of the air conditioning and pressurization system. The captain recycles it but the sound subsides. I continue to fly the airplane as air traffic controls vectors us away from Logan and as we gain altitude the gushing grows louder.<br />While still troubleshooting the problem, the captain advises the controller that we might have to return to Boston. In the meantime, off headset, I narrow the origin of the sound to the forward portion of my side window. We conclude the seal must have blown.<br />I think of the nervous passenger in the back.<br />Too heavy to land right away, we receive vectors around the Boston area for a while, in order to burn fuel. About 40 minutes later, safely below maximum landing weight, we are on final to runway 27, listening to the tower controller advising the emergency crews of our arrival.<br />I tried to squeak the landing but it wasn't as smooth as I would have liked. A little dejected, we return to gate to find out that we've been swapped to a different aircraft.<br />The passengers on the jet bridge aren't happy. One of them accosts us and asks why we didn't just fly to New York since we were out there burning fuel for so long. We explain that at our low altitude we wouldn't have had enough fuel to make it into Kennedy. He seemed unimpressed by our explanation. Maybe I should visit him at his workplace and question his performance. And I wonder how he would have felt if the seal in his window had blown up. Would he have felt so comfortable making the trip down at 22,000 feet?<br />As we prepare the spare aircraft for the flight, it dawns on us that we are pushing the FAA's 16-hour duty day limit. We're definitely legal to go but it seems like it'll be tight coming back home tonight. Our dispatcher sends us an MOT time, the time by which we have to be airborne from JFK to be legal. If there are no hold-ups, we argue, we might just be able to make it. But at that time of the day holding in New York is almost guaranteed and any delay would throw our plans off.<br />Before we go, a mechanic stops by to tell us that we were right. The seal in my side window was shredded to bits. Good thing we didn't go.<br />Again, I fly the airplane down and fly it as fast as I can. It's busy in New York tonight. I set up for the VOR-DME 22L but ATC switches us to the VOR13L. Minutes later, they once again change it to 22L.<br />"All aircraft on frequency, there has been an accident on the runway at Kennedy," declares the approach controller. "The airport is closed and will remain so for a while so I suggest you advise me of your alternate."<br />It appears a private jet went off the runway. Details are scarce, however.<br />Again, I think of the nervous lady in the cabin. She picked the wrong day to fly.<br />A quick exchange with our dispatcher has us diverting to Newark and within minutes, we have reprogrammed the FMS and are on our way there. Then ATC calls again.<br />"Kennedy is re-opened, expect the VOR approach to 13R."<br />More shuffling inside the cockpit and speculating about our fate tonight.<br />"You know we're f*cked," my captain says, as I turn base to final.<br />In denial, I choose to ignore the comment and focus on getting us on the ground.<br />Minutes later, at our gate, quick math shows me the grim reality. We have only one hour to get off the ground. If we don't, then I won't be sleeping in my own bed tonight.<br />Already the line of airplanes is growing. Aircraft are lined up on every portion of real estate the humongous airport has to offer. On our taxi out, we see the private jet is still on the side of 13L near the intersection with 22R, perpendicular to the runway it landed on. But it's too far for us to see if it sustained any damage. Pilots on ground and tower frequencies ask for details but irritated and overworked controllers have only few to relay.<br />We join the snaking line about a mile from the only active runway tonight. We dare not ask for a sequence, but there are easily 60 or 70 aircraft ahead of us and the clock is ticking.<br />Reality finally sinks. We are not making it out tonight. My captain had tried to tell the dispatcher, who refused to listen to him. Board them up, he said. For what? Nothing at all. To sit in line for an hour, then return to the gate. Absolutely ridiculous. Why waste their time with a crew that is about to time out when they could have rebooked them?<br />Our MOT is up. We advise ground and start our taxi of shame back to the gate.<br />"You give them the bad news," the captain says, referring to the passengers.<br />More than 15 hours after starting my day, I stumble into my hotel room. Exhausted. In just a few hours, we'll reposition the aircraft to Boston. I'll be home in the morning.<br /><br /></span></span>Capt. Wilkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07061222914521255607noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16076165.post-84733206506171086812008-03-10T18:57:00.001-07:002008-03-10T20:13:52.261-07:00The two-day from hell<span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:georgia;">I was ecstatic when my line award came out a few weeks ago.<br />Finally, after months of pining after such schedules, I managed to hold a line with mostly two-day trips. While they tend to start early and finish quite late, they also afford me more nights in my own bed, which has become a luxury.<br />Saturday morning began the wrong way. For the first time in recent memory, I slept right through the alarm and had to make a mad dash to the airport to make my sign-in time. I met the captain at the airplane, walked around and set up my side for the quick flight to DCA. Except for a few bumps, rain, low ceilings and visibility on the way in, the flight went without a hitch. From there, I was supposed to deadhead to LaGuardia (i.e. fly as a passenger to my next flight), sit for a couple of hours and fly to Columbus, OH for the overnight.<br />Weather, however, would have it otherwise.<br />The New York area was completely socked in, so my LGA flight was delayed since the aircraft and the crew were stuck on the ground in JFK, pinned by almost 0/0 conditions. As the fog failed to dissipated, my schedule took a turn for the worst. For starters, my LGA to CMH flight canceled. Trying to speculate as to what my day would become (always a bad, bad, bad idea), I figured that the company might have me deadhead back to Boston, overnight and resume the trip from there the following day since my first leg of the day would take me through my hometown from CMH anyway.<br />No such luck. A couple of hours into the ordeal, a quick check of my schedule showed me deadheading to LGA, then deadheading again to BOS and finally, deadheading yet again to CMH that night.<br />Columbus was being pounded with snow, so I continued to hope that our schedulers would realize that that first flight from CMH to BOS the following day might very well not happen. A "free" night at home might not be so far-flung an idea after all.<br />A few hours after arriving in Washington, I'm finally on the aircraft bound to New York, sitting in the back with a group of very unhappy passengers. The flight is short, albeit violent as moderate turbulence paved our entire route of flight. After deplaning at LGA, I check the schedule again. Still showing me going to CMH tonight. Yet again, eternal hopeful that I am, I give crew scheduling the benefit of the doubt. They'd see the light eventually, and let me spend the night in Boston.<br />Tired, I board my second deadhead of the day. Again, it's a bumpy ride. A good friend of mine is also making his up to Boston and we spend the duration of the flight catching up. On the approach into Logan, we feel the airplane gain speed. Almost immediately, the engines grow quiet. A second later, they roar back to life as we feel a sinking feeling in our guts. Increase performance windshear, we conclude. Something I'd rather run into when I'm flying up front.<br />The flight's FO lands the airplane in true style in a complete downpour. We thank him on the way out and he serves me the bad news: looks like we're still going to CMH tonight.<br />I head into the terminal to check the schedule again. It's a few minutes after 7 p.m. and I've been at work for 12 hours already. Nothing has changed. I made a quick food run, jog down the jetbridge and at about 7:15 find my seat in the back for my third deadhead of the day.<br />It's a long flight to Columbus, made longer by a 15 minute wait on the ground to allow ground crews to move a mound of snow from our parking spot. My captain, who joined the trip in Boston two hours earlier, is red in the face when I catch up to him in the terminal.<br />"The bastards canceled Boston!"<br />As expected, the morning flight to Boston was scrubbed. To make matters worse, it was canceled at 7:10 p.m., while we were still at the gate in Boston, only a few hundred feet from my car and a short drive away from the comforts of my own home. A look at the computer screen shows the aircraft's door was closed at 7:25, giving schedulers ample time to pull us off the flight and send us home for the night.<br />Angry, we made our way out to the curb, hoping to find our hotel van, which of course isn't there. The air in Columbus that night was frigid. And we spent a full hour in it, waiting for a ride to the hotel.<br />The next morning, I deadheaded to LGA once more, for one leg back to Boston with a different captain.<br />After two hours of "airport appreciation" time, we bump into each other at the gate. I produce a print out of my schedule, which would express the ordeal of the previous day better than any words could.<br />"I'm flying this leg," I proclaimed.<br />"Yes you are," he smiled. "We're getting a line check."<br />It's always good to come home. But it was particularly sweet after this trip.<br /><br /><br /></span></span>Capt. Wilkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07061222914521255607noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16076165.post-17047614267324452842008-02-03T18:29:00.000-08:002008-02-16T10:19:52.972-08:00Oh Captain, my Captain<span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:georgia;">My airline is chock full of wonderful people.<br />For the most part, the captains I have flown with have been nothing short of exceptional: exemplary leaders as well as patient and gifted instructors who made me feel right at home when the airplane was still foreign to me. From all of them I've learned a tremendous amount about flying, judgment and how to operate not as an individual but as a crew member.<br />Most have also been just plain great guys to share an admittedly small cockpit with.<br />Flying with so many different characters has also taught me that a large part of a first officer's job is to become a chameleon, to adapt to each captain's way of doing things, to each captain's quirks, likes and dislikes. Quirky, in some cases, is a very generous word.<br />Then there are the couple of bad apples. They are rare, very few and far between but flying with them can unfortunately stand out in a new first officer's mind more than the good experiences.<br />Recently, for instance, I was paired with a captain who struck me at first as a friendly, albeit arrogant, kind of guy. Not uncommon when you're dealing with former military pilots. But from our first leg together, I could tell this would be a difficult month. The man never shied away from berating other pilots on ground frequency for what he deemed to be improper taxi etiquette, nor did he refrain from clashing with a station manager at the conclusion of our very first leg.<br />As the days went by, I grew increasingly frustrated with his tendency to carry out my flows before doing his own -- something he made a point of doing every day -- and generally crossing beyond the established roles of non-flying and flying pilot. Other FOs can be very protective of "my side" of the cockpit. I am not. I understand that after all, this is his ship. He signs for it. However, his constant interference with my duties began to chip away at the otherwise well-orchestrated routine of the flight crew.<br />I like to think that I am a patient man. But after just two trips with him, I couldn't take any more. Confronting him, however, would not have been a wise option as I had gleaned from his stories that he is quick to hold a grudge. So I resigned myself to seeing out the month in silence and frustration.<br />Another character I had the misfortune of flying with a while ago is notorious among our pilot group. Of course, I was ignorant of that fact until after our time together. This one too was arrogant and typically critical of everyone he flew with or came in contact with.<br />On one particular flight, while it was my turn to fly, he picked a fight with a very busy controller over the heading she had given us. Looking at the radar, it seemed we would collide with an area of heavy precipitation. The controller, however, assured us we would find only light turbulence and moderate rain, information she had received from two aircraft that had just traversed the area.<br />Well, this wasn't good enough for the captain and to some extent I understood his position. Why take a chance? However, when she gave us the option of taking a vector that would take us many miles in the opposite direction of our planned route, he caved in unhappily and set the heading bug for me to the original heading assigned to us by ATC.<br />Sure enough, we encountered nothing more than what had been reported: light chop and moderate precipitation.<br />Hating to admit that he was wrong, however, the captain keyed the mic and angrily told ATC we had flown through moderate turbulence and heavy rain, therefore restricting access through that area to other aircraft behind, which like us had sat on the ground for almost four hours waiting for the weather to pass.<br />This behavior, in my book, is completely unacceptable.<br />Both of these men represent everything a captain should not be. I learned little from them, was thrown out of a routine the airline has established for a reason and felt like a lesser pilot because of their constant need to point out insignificant mistakes. Their pettiness and lust for confrontation ruined the time I spent with them.<br />Thankfully, out of the scores of captains I have flown with, these are the only two I really would rather never fly with again. Not everyone is peachy and pleasant at the conclusion of a 14-hour day, but promoting harmony in the cockpit, advancing constructive criticism and leading by example is what the pilot in command's job is.<br />I am fortunate to learn from some of the best captains in the industry. Unfortunately, their qualities make the flaws of the few bad captains we have that much more noticeable.<br /><br /><br /></span></span>Capt. Wilkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07061222914521255607noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16076165.post-16942497292959597172008-01-20T15:15:00.000-08:002008-01-23T19:49:42.189-08:00Back to school<span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:georgia;">They say a private pilot certificate is a license to learn. Any rating really is a portal into further education and learning.<br />For weekend pilots, this can come through biennial flight reviews, instrument proficiency checks or new ratings. The more disciplined recreational fliers will also study to deepen their knowledge, take occasional instruction and make time to practice maneuvers and emergency procedures.<br />At the airlines, we are lucky to have recurrent training programs and proficiency checks that pilots attend once or twice a year, depending on whether they are first officers or captains. These are designed to knock the rust off the many things we don't get to practice every day on the line, refresh our systems and operational knowledge and generally ensure that we are proficient in all areas.<br />Such programs draw from thousands and thousands of flight hours, experiences of company pilots and those of others and other airlines and provide a great way for us to improve ourselves and do our jobs better.<br />It's been almost a year since I joined my airline, so I headed down to Dallas this week for three days of recurrent ground school and a checkride on day four.<br />While I first thought the time would have been better spent at home with my wife, especially in light of a very hectic recent schedule, training was a great experience and a good motivator to delve back into my manuals.<br />Day two, particularly, provided us with a thorough review of systems.<br />During initial training, my classmates and I crammed a lot of that knowledge into our brains through rote memorization. Because only few of us had ever flown jets, much of the material and logic behind the airplane's systems was new and had to be committed to memory in that way.<br />This time around, however, with short of a year in the airplane under my belt, I was better able to assimilate the finer details of the material we covered and garner a true understanding of why things work they way they do and why we do things a certain way.<br />The instructors did a fabulous job mixing events that happened on the line with the book material, giving us a true practical take on our procedures and encouraging some spirited discussion and the inevitable Monday morning quarterbacking.<br />I'd like to say I prepared well for training, but in reality I could have done a lot better. With only limited time on my hands, I reviewed aircraft limitations and systems and left some of the typically unused profiles to the night before my checkride.<br />While they did come back quite fast, I realized I wasn't learning them to pass a simulator ride. An engine failure could happen for real, as could a single-engine go-around. So I left Dallas with the resolve to not let such vital knowledge grow stale, no matter how unlikely it would be that I would need to use one of those procedures on the line.<br />Day four of my stay in Dallas was probably the most stressful. I awoke early to meet with the check airman and we proceeded, with little fanfare, to the oral portion of the checkride. No major hick-ups there. He stumped me on a couple of things and did a great job at instructing me on those points.<br />I took a break while the captain whom I would take the ride with took my place in the hot seat. As I walked down the hall in search of a fresh cup of coffee, another first officer I'd studied with told me he'd failed his oral. He was on his way home and would probably be back in a few days to give it another shot. I was floored, since this kid was sharp as a tack and knew the airplane very well.<br />My dismay continued when I returned to the briefing room. My captain told me he too had botched his oral and was done for the day. Rather than flying the sim with him, I'd just be me and the check airman.<br />Now the nerves really began to build.<br />The arrangement posed some interesting logistical problems since the examiner had to perform his duties as a non-flying pilot and run the simulator at the same time. It meant a few missed calls from the left seat, an increased workload for me and a little more time spent alone up front dealing with failures while he fiddled with buttons in the back, but the disruption made the emergencies feel a little more real.<br />In spite of it all, I somehow managed to pass the ride.<br />I never thought I'd say this, but my visit to the schoolhouse really was refreshing.<br /></span></span>Capt. Wilkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07061222914521255607noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16076165.post-49041710287112006852008-01-03T20:32:00.000-08:002008-01-04T04:39:31.000-08:00New Year's Eve...<span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:georgia;">The plan sounded perfect.<br />My captain and I would join another captain with whom I'd flown before, take a cab into D.C. early in the afternoon and pub crawl. We'd visit all my old hangouts from when I had a real job there and get some real food for once. I was very excited about the early finish and the prospect for moderate celebrating. Being out on New Year's Eve would make me feel like I was part of the normal population for a few hours.<br />I fly weekends and holidays, whether it's the crack of dawn or the dead of night.<br />Our celebration would happen a few hours ahead of most people here, but it had to be midnight somewhere on the planet when we would raise our glasses to ring in the new year. Moscow maybe?<br />Airline Life Rule of Thumb Number 1: Never make a plan...<br />New Year's Eve.<br />The wake-up call cuts through the soothing silence right on time: 4:45 a.m. I'm tired and have no desire to get up, consider snoozing but know it'll be worse in a few minutes. So I get up. Groggy. I'd give anything for another hour of sleep.<br />Half an hour later, I'm in my uniform, getting ready to catch the van to the airport. The red light on my cell phone is blinking. Voicemail. It's crew scheduling advising me that our flight to LaGuardia has been canceled. Sweet! Maybe I'll score a few more hours of sleep.<br />I meet the captain in the hallway. He's received a call from scheduling too. They want us to call them back in a couple of hours to check on the status of our airplane, which is expecting a visit from maintenance.<br />I crawl back into bed, but can't seem to get back to sleep. An hour later, as I'm finally sinking into a warm and comfortable snooze, my phone rings.<br />"Could you fly a Nashville turn?"<br />Ugh.<br />If I don't, I'm told, another FO on ready reserve in Boston will have to and they might not be able to get him home tonight. It just so happens I know the guy and he's a friend of mine. The scheduler is also one of the nice ones and I feel compelled to help her out. She sounds frazzled and behind her I can hear commotion. The panic of schedulers with more flights than crews.<br />"Ok. Who's the captain?"<br />Ugh. Bad news. The one guy I never enjoyed flying with. The one who has a reputation.<br />"Fine. I'll do it."<br />I have another hour before my sign-in time but I decide to set off in search of coffee. When I return to my room, for the second time today, I slip into my uniform and prepare to head out to the airport.<br />Phone rings again.<br />"Your Nashville turn has been canceled. Do you want to do your original LaGuardia flight?"<br />I'm baffled. Why are they asking me? What choice do I really have?<br />"Sure."<br />I call my captain and he informs me that our update time from maintenance has been pushed back. It appears the mechanics are on their way from one of our hubs. It's now mid-morning and we're hungry, so we meet for a quick breakfast.<br />During the meal, we speculate on our fate.<br />We could still be canceled for the day and begin our celebrations early, I propose, enthusiastically. My innocence is only met with a frown from my captain, who has been doing this long enough to know that what suits us will likely be the last thing to happen.<br />We return to our rooms and I catch up with revisions and force myself to study for my upcoming checkride.<br />The room phone startles me.<br />"We should head to the airport."<br />It's my captain and he sounds impatient and frustrated.<br />"Scheduling has no idea what's going to happen and neither does dispatch. The tentative departure time is approaching so we should be at the airport."<br />Of course, nobody even knows whether maintenance has been aboard our broken plane at this point. The departure time is really a "decision time," but as my captain points out, the decision to go could be made precisely at that moment, especially if we're at the hotel. Sod's Law.<br />For the third time, I throw my uniform on, give the room a final glance to make sure I've left nothing behind and head down the by-now all-too familiar hallway to the elevator.<br />The doors slide open up to the lobby. My captain is on his cellphone. His face is red with anger.<br />"One hand isn't talking to the other," he quips.<br />A cascade of expletives follows.<br />I understand his frustration. We've now been up for 11 hours and know nothing more than we did when it was still dark outside. We're tired from the previous two days of the trip and this long, agonizing wait. It's impossible to rest when an update is expected at any minute.<br />A little after 3:30 p.m., the van pulls out of the driveway and we are on our way to the airport, still ignorant to as to what will happen. But I'm still hopeful. Foolish optimist.<br />Minutes later, we arrive at the gate. The agent is as baffled as we are. But yet another phone call clears some of the uncertainty: we're getting another airplane. Catch is, we have not one single passenger. The JFK flight, however, has no airplane and is in serious danger of departing late with a number of international connections.<br />"Give them our airplane," we argue, partially out of concern for those passengers, but also in hopes that our day will end right here right now and that we might salvage some of it to celebrate the new year.<br />No such luck.<br />At 5:15 p.m., exhausted and frustrated, we pull onto runway 19. We're completely empty and the aircraft lifts off easily as we fly south, then turn left to the northeast toward LaGuardia.<br />It's a short flight to New York. Upon arriving, we make our way to a hangar, as instructed. The bus picks us up shortly after 6:30 to drive us to the terminal. We're really tired now. It's been 14 hours since we've awoken, but to crew scheduling our duty day began only a few hours ago, making us perfectly legal for the flight back to D.C. and the very short overnight that will ensue.<br />We pile out of the airplane around 9 p.m., a little over 16 hours after getting up. I'm wiped out. Dispirited with the company's decisions and saddened by the fact that the rest of my New Year's Eve will consist of heading up to the hotel room, my stomach utterly empty, and getting into bed to try and recuperate before tomorrow's early start.<br />Midnight.<br />I'm still awake. Outside, fireworks are going off. People are cheering and screaming in the streets. It's a nice night in Washington. The weather is mild. My cellphone chimes. Text messages from friends across the country. All of them probably drunk off their asses. I think of my wife. She's at home. I can't hug her and wish her a happy new year.<br />I roll over. Hungry. Sad. Exhausted.<br />Four hours later, the wake-up call tears me from my slumber.<br />For some it's a new year. For us just another day of this infernal trip.<br />Happy New Year...<br /><br /></span></span>Capt. Wilkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07061222914521255607noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16076165.post-33651789000749931022007-12-24T20:15:00.001-08:002007-12-25T00:00:33.128-08:00Into the abyss<span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:georgia;">We crossed Providence at 11,000 feet and braced as we entered the clouds.<br />"Here we go," I muttered, exhausted and apprehensive of the next few minutes. My Captain, the non-flying pilot on this leg to Boston, remained silent.<br />All around us, in the murky night sky, moderate to severe turbulence awaited, mixed in with rain and ice.<br />Our day had started a little over 14 hours earlier. On the airport van, the Captain and I discussed the weather. All our destinations that day were looking bleak.<br />Of course, this was also the last day of our four-day sequence and getting home for Christmas was not a certainty.<br />The first leg went well. We encountered a little weather but nothing too significant. I preflighted and set up for our next leg to LaGuardia and surveyed the weather along the East Coast. The first wave of the bad stuff was now developing, spelling certain delays and more than likely cancellations.<br />As we neared New York, the Captain clicked the autopilot off and fought angry turbulence valiantly.<br />"You're cleared to land runway 22, wind 180 at 26 gusting 30. Previous aircraft reported a gain of airspeed of 20 knots at 800 feet," the controller advised us.<br />Sure enough, the aircraft jolted violently and rolled at that altitude.<br />Defiant and determined, The Boss landed beautifully.<br />As usual, we sat for a few hours at LaGuardia. The terminal was packed with holiday travelers, many of them stranded for now. Every seat in the house was taken and weary passengers filled every inch of available real estate. Against the backdrop of Christmas songs, exasperated children cried and moaned, the desperate argued hopelessly with overwhelmed gate agents while seasoned travelers sat in silence, resigned to the mess that are New York airports.<br />In fitting style, we learned our flight to Washington was canceled the same way our passengers did: through the gate agent's PA. Not completely surprised, the Captain and I began studying our options for the rest of the day, hoping to talk ourselves into flying an earlier flight home, perhaps even early enough for us to beat the thick of the weather.<br />But it was all to no avail and we were destined to sit.<br />Fast-forward five long, excruciating hours. We are 10 minutes from departure. The cockpit is all set up for our flight to Boston, our fuel looks good, passengers and bags are on board. All we are missing are our weight and balance numbers. Once they come in we'll punch our passenger load and cargo into the FMS, make sure the passenger distribution matches what our flight attendant has relayed to us. We'll then hand our paperwork to the gate agent, shut the door and get on our way home.<br />But it's almost Christmas and it's been a long four-day trip filled with weather encounters and nothing, <span style="font-style: italic;">absolutely nothing</span>, can be easy this close from being home.<br />"Bad news," the frazzled gate agent tells me. "You're switching airplanes."<br />No way. Not with everything ready to go and now only a few minutes to an on-time departure. Not on our last leg of the trip. Not when this delay could cause us to time out and be stuck in LaGuardia, away from home for a fifth day. Not as weather in Boston is building, making our chances of making it in slimmer and slimmer with every wasted minute.<br />We fought it and won. Paperwork's gone, door's closed. Off we go.<br />It's my leg and I'm tired. Long day, long trip and only one day of rest since my previous trip. But I can do it. With the winds tonight it'll be a half-an-hour flight.<br />I lift off easily and made the turn to south on the Maspeth Climb. A few miles from the airport I roll the airplane the the left, a long sweeping turn that will point us Northwest, towards home. The heavy winds have cleared the air and the bright orange lights below us extend to infinity. We cut briskly through broken cumuli on our way to FL230. The grey clouds contrast sharply with the lights below and are bathed from above in the moon's cold silver light, a truly beautiful sight.<br />Ahead of me, build-ups rise menacingly in the dark sky. Inside these towering clouds, awaits mayhem, so I divert around them to avoid the bumps and keep this ride as smooth as possible. Nonetheless, we are pulled and shoved by the angry sky.<br />At 23,000 feet, I click the autopilot on to set up my instruments for our approach into Boston. With strong tailwinds, we are only in cruise for a few minutes before beginning our descent.<br />"Here we go."<br />As we enter the clouds over Providence, the aircraft becomes a bucking bronco. The autopilot is struggling as am I, pulling and pushing the throttles, trying desperately to maintain our assigned airspeed. The PLI -- an stall indicator of sorts -- pops up on my primary flight display then disappears. We call it the rake of death, because of its shape and the typically ominous conditions that cause it to rear its ugly head.<br />I'm tired. Very tired and this flight is draining every ounce of my mental energy.<br />As we begin the approach turbulence intensifies. I turn the autopilot off and intercept the localizer. Because of the bumps, the trend vector on my airspeed indicator is all over the place, up and down, up and down. But with all those throttle movements I'm still within a handful of knots of my assigned speed.<br />It's getting harder and harder though. My exhausted mind is about ready to check out. My eyelids feel heavy and the instruments seem to want to meld together in a confused maelstrom of lights.<br />"Flaps 9," I call.<br />Less than 10 miles to go. But every foot of this approach seems interminable.<br />"Glideslope's alive," says the Captain.<br />"Gear down, flaps 22, I'll configure later than usual."<br />The Boss nods, approvingly.<br />Five miles to go.<br />We're still stuck in this dark and unwelcoming abyss. I'm having to work harder and harder to focus, to keep it all together, to prepare for the heavy crosswinds on the surface. My eyes are racing between instruments, my hands fighting the bumps.<br />At 700 hundred feet, we break out of the clouds and the brightly lit runway appears before us.<br />"Visual," we both call out at the same time.<br />The wind continues to thrash the airplane around.<br />"Wind's 190 at 33, you're cleared to land."<br />Almost there, but not quite done yet. I have to keep fighting the bumps with significant thrust changes all the way to a few feet over the runway.<br />Throttles to idle, slip the aircraft to track the centerline. The mains are down. Immediately, I pull the throttles into reverse and the nose comes down. We've made it.<br />As the captain taxies us back to the gate I exhale. We're home.<br />Through the beam of the taxi light I notice that it's raining sideways.<br /></span></span>Capt. Wilkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07061222914521255607noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16076165.post-84420552411342273482007-12-02T14:52:00.000-08:002007-12-05T11:57:17.040-08:00Where's the Captain?<span style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:85%;">A brand new First Officer generally has few things to worry about. Of course, in the beginning, there is always some stress involved in flying with an unknown captain, worries of being stuck with one that has little patience for the inevitable mistakes of the unseasoned and inexperienced FO. There is also the workload, which seems like a formidable mountain early on but soon erodes to a completely conquerable hill.<br />The junior FO, in his snug right seat, generally doesn't have to fret about maintenance issues, fuel, boarding and delays. While flying is a crew effort and decisions are discussed, the final call regarding those items is ultimately left to the captain. After all, he has to earn his pay.<br />When things don't go as planned, however, the lonely FO can be momentarily thrust from the comfortable position of number two man into a decision-making role, putting a whole new spin on the job.<br />I deadheaded to an outstation last night, where the flight attendant and I would meet up with our captain for a leg to JFK. For a silly reason better left untold, the captain informed me he would not be flying with us and promptly boarded a flight home.<br />Perplexed, I asked the gate agent what the plan was. A new captain was on his way, she said, but he'd be arriving after departure time. After further discussion, we decided to board the aircraft "on timish" so that we would be ready to go as soon as The Boss slid into the left seat.<br />Easy peasy, I thought. Setting the cockpit up for the now familiar flight would take only minutes and I looked forward to impressing the captain by having everything ready to go.<br />With my flows complete and the flight plan loaded into the FMS, I gave the flight attendant the green light to board our passengers. I rehearsed a reassuring PA and delivered the good news to our passengers, many with connections in New York, that the crew would soon be whole and we would be on our way shortly for a close to on-time arrival.<br />With time on my hands, I perused the release and noticed our fuel didn't match the numbers in the paperwork. While this can be acceptable under certain circumstances, our fuel load at the gate was awfully close to minimum takeoff fuel. Getting to the runway would take at most one or two minutes, but since we were going to New York on a less than perfect weather day an unexpected release time could mean more time on the ground at our departure station, hence more fuel being burned. Unwilling to run this by the captain and cause further delay, I called operations to request more fuel.<br />Minutes later, the gauges finally matched the numbers on our release and I breathed a sight of relief. I decided to double-check that everything was set up correctly since I had a few more minutes before the captain's arrival. And that is when I noticed a blue advisory message on our EICAS: AHRS 1 BASIC MODE.<br />What on earth did that mean?<br />Advisories are the lowest rung of the annunciation system in our airplane but I refused to shrug it off and pulled out my flight manual. "If on the ground, do NOT take off," the book said. Some of these problems can typically be solved by pulling a breaker. I struggled with the decision and opted not to attempt solving the problem myself. Again, unwilling to cause further delay I called maintenance.<br />When the mechanic told me we'd have to shut everything off, a glimpse of the disapproving captain berating me for not simply resetting a breaker passed through my mind. Sure enough, the fix caused us to be stuck at the gate for a few more minutes and as I powered everything down I could hear sighs throughout the cabin. My final PA explaining the problem to our now understandably impatient passengers did little to quiet their collective grunt of dissatisfaction.<br />When the captain finally arrived, I explained the situation and he seemed to approve of my decisions.<br />We made it to the gate in New York only 9 minutes behind schedule.<br />The following day brought snow and yet another crew problem. Our captain for the flight to Washington was on his way. Again, the decision was made to set everything up and board to get off the ground as close to on-time as possible. The hitch was that both of our de-icing trucks were out of commission and at 9 a.m., as I collected the release, the gate agent told me the 7 a.m. flight was still at the gate, waiting to be de-iced.<br />I joined other pilots in asking our operations to borrow a truck from our parent company and secured a place for us in a long line of planes to be sprayed.<br />Three hours later, with a boat full of angry passengers, we finally departed the ramp.<br />The decisions were very small in nature and would have been easier to make in conjunction with a captain. Being alone and sort of in charge suddenly made them appear much bigger in scope, especially when I could almost feel the unhappy breath of our passengers on my neck.<br />I guess captains don't have it quite so easy after all.<br /><br /><br /></span></span>Capt. Wilkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07061222914521255607noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16076165.post-91015321319721475042007-11-27T13:00:00.000-08:002007-11-27T13:21:34.169-08:00A new arrival<span style="font-size:85%;">But not of the aviation kind!<br />In just about six months, our family will grow a little when Oliver or Fiona arrives. In the meantime, he or she is known as Fioliver.<br /><br /></span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkjLDouhZyiDA698ybYgqSiHCs5kwu8iCRiNzcxku5n7rrGCQqvaIlX-MbBAGXXUezGINP5iZGevHxhwQD9S-DpH7q8VGBDXD3bRtYu1tlvbGIllgINs7T2ezOe_6ZX19a6V6d/s1600-h/fioliver2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkjLDouhZyiDA698ybYgqSiHCs5kwu8iCRiNzcxku5n7rrGCQqvaIlX-MbBAGXXUezGINP5iZGevHxhwQD9S-DpH7q8VGBDXD3bRtYu1tlvbGIllgINs7T2ezOe_6ZX19a6V6d/s320/fioliver2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5137629600954103778" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Since we found out a few weeks ago, things have been in overdrive. Renovation of our very old and decrepit house has occupied most of our recent days off and we hope to sell it after the holidays to move into a nicer and more baby-friendly house.<br />Also, Fioliver's journey to us has forced me to trade in my beloved and oh-so-fun black BMW Z4. I haven't done it yet, but it will only be a matter of weeks before I am behind the wheel of a Camry or something similar, which won't hug curves with as much grace or accelerate with such ease and power but will be able to accommodate a baby seat.<br />The greatest change of all, however, is that of becoming a father. While Fioliver measures only 6 centimeters right now, I can't help but think of him (or her) as a little person. The idea that Jen and I have made a person and will be responsible for his (or her...) safety, health and well-being is intimidating but also so awesome that the smaller, petty things in life have all but vanished.<br />I can't wait to take him (or her...) flying.<br /><br /></span></span></span>Capt. Wilkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07061222914521255607noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16076165.post-75825512597214169182007-10-09T18:04:00.000-07:002007-10-09T18:50:48.481-07:00Meeting the airplane<span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:georgia;">"No one should be sweating at 5 in the morning," I thought, waiting for the shuttle outside the hotel.<br />It might have been the incredibly muggy Dallas morning, or probably just the nerves. Perhaps both.<br />On this memorable morning in May, for the first time and after six weeks trying to learn all about it, I'd meet the Embraer 145 I'd fly for the next few years.<br />The uniform blazer felt too heavy for this weather and my hat was bothering me as beads of sweat collected underneath it. Plus it made my already oversized head look far too big. The luggage and heavy flight kit I had to drag along with me were also growing increasingly bothersome.<br />Damn Texas weather, I cursed.<br />To my utter dismay, it was just as muggy and oppressive inside the terminal and while I desperately needed the caffeine I had no choice but to jettison my barely touched cup of steaming coffee.<br />A half an hour before the flight, the Captain finally showed up and unceremoniously introduced himself. Minutes later, I performed the walkaround. It felt strange. I'd never flown on an Embraer before, not even seen one up close, and while I had dissected the aircraft's innards in great detail during my oral just a few days ago, the beast seemed like a complete stranger to me.<br />While excited to fly it, I felt no connection whatsoever with the airplane.<br />Checklists were run, paperwork completed and we were soon under way, finding our way through the maze that is DFW. I fell behind from the get-go.<br />They teach you a lot of useful things in training: how to fly single engine, what to do if you encounter a microburst or severe windshear, how to diagnose and deal with all those unnerving chimes and flashing red and orange lights when events just conspire to make your day a headache.<br />What they don't teach you though, is how to handle the extremely busy ground portion of a flight.<br />Of course, the Captain was just one piece of a well-orchestrated ballet of gate agents, flight attendants and rampers. I, on the other hand, felt no wiser than anyone sitting in the back.<br />My PAs were horrible and, most likely, left the passengers wondering why on earth the pilot sounded so nervous.<br />I snapped out of it, however, as we lined up with the runway.<br />"Your aircraft," the Captain called out.<br />Back in familiar territory, I squeezed the brakes with my toes, grabbed the yoke and positioned my slightly sweaty left palm on the throttles.<br />"Cleared for take-off, lights are on, before take-off checklist is complete," said the Captain.<br />For the first time that day, I smiled.<br />And the smile grew bigger as the N1 increased and the engine slowly spooled up to produce their 7,000lbs of thrust with that incredible sound that only a jet could produce.<br />"Set thrust," I called out, prompting the Captain to check that all engine parameters were in the green.<br />"Thrust set... 80 knots... V1... rotate," he called out.<br />In spite of the sticky heat, the aircraft lifted off with graceful ease. In awe, I might have forgotten a call-out or two. But the Captain patiently went about his non-flying pilot duties, letting me enjoy a feeling that will forever live up there with that of my first solo.<br />The first leg was short and jet speed made it all a blur.<br />My descent planning was far from stellar and the Captain gave me room to mess it up. Even the controller seemed in on it as she gave us a series of vectors to widen my pattern and allow for more room to descend.<br />With guidance from the left seat, I touched down in Shreveport and was completely elated.<br />Later that day, our itinerary took us to Mexico on a long almost three-hour leg, which the Captain flew. The last flight of the day, back to DFW would be mine.<br />Minutes after take-off a triple chime and the red Master Warning snapped me from my reverie. I called for the emergency procedures checklist, which the Captain promptly ran through. We agreed that the warning was most likely due to a sensor problem and elected to push on back to Dallas. I was impressed that the Captain would seek my opinion on the matter since I had only a handful of hours in the aircraft, but I now realize that being fresh out of the schoolhouse makes you valuable to another pilot who has been out of training for a while.<br />On the way back to Dallas, the Captain left the cockpit a few times. Flying the jet alone was absolutely exhilarating. Until Center called to ask that I cross a fix at a certain altitude and airspeed. After punching in the parameters into the Flight Management System, I chopped the throttles and started down, monitoring the vertical speed required to meet the crossing restriction.<br />As we flew closer, however, that vertical speed required began to increase. With nobody to confer with, I stared blankly at the arrival plate, trying to crunch numbers in my head the old-fashioned way. It became obvious that 2,500 feet per minute down at this point would not work. I deployed the speed brakes and threw down 9 degrees of flaps to keep the speed in check as I increased our descent rate to almost 4,000 feet per minute, feeling horrible for the poor passengers in the back who had no idea they were mere guinea pigs.<br />I crossed the fix at the assigned altitude and speed in just the nick of time.<br />When the Captain re-entered the cockpit, I was short of breath and a little frazzled. He just smiled.<br />"I wondered when you'd put out the boards," he laughed, referring to the speedbrakes. "They always descend us late on this arrival."<br />A horribly botched landing later, we were back at the gate and done for the day.<br />My first day at an airline had been everything I'd imagined and more: humbling, stressful, intimidating and most of all a whole lot of fun.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></span></span>Capt. Wilkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07061222914521255607noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16076165.post-54813076367418135812007-08-31T21:22:00.001-07:002007-08-31T21:57:58.227-07:00Life is good...<span style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Wow, so March 11 was my last time here. Hard to figure out where to start...<br />Soon after that last post, I headed to Dallas to begin six weeks of training. Getting there was a true adventure thanks to a combination of weather and Spring Break travel. A drive from Boston to Newark and an overnight in Cincinatti later, I made it to the training center for week one: Indoc.<br />The hardest part of this phase of training was to remain awake in spite of our instructor's best efforts to jazz up the material. Week two marked the beginning of our systems phase, which lasted a little over three weeks. For eight hours a day, we dissected the systems of the Embraer 145 and spent much of our nights in study groups, poring through the myriad pages of our manuals.<br />Our instructor was excellent and while I became overwhelmed with some of the material early on, I soon got in the groove of training and made it through the oral quite easily. The fact the check airman played with a knife during the oral did help keep my answers on the straight and narrow...<br />The last two weeks of training were spent in the simulator, trying to learn to fly the darn airplane while every possible emergency was thrown at us. But with some help from my fantastic sim partner -- a transitioning Saab Captain -- I passed the checkride and was unceremoniously ushered to Initial Operating Experience, during which a newhire flies with a seasoned captain who serves as an instructor to ensure a safe transition from the sim to the line.<br />The experience was exhilerating, but more on that later.<br />I completed IOE in May and have been learning the ins and outs of airline flying since then, contently flying the line. Getting used to the airplane was reasonably painless. In fact, the most challenging aspect of the past few months has been to figure out how to deal with our schedulers and making my life as easy as they try to make it hard.<br />I've spent three months on reserve, far less than I had expected, and had a tremendous month of August with only six overnights and many day trips. Today, I kicked off a composite line for September, a hybrid between a hard line and reserve, which will unfortunately mean more time away from home but a little more money at the end of the month.<br />The past few months have been a true rollercoaster and a tremendous learning experience on all fronts.<br />It has also been a sobering and eye-opening adventure to the world of airline flying, which has both beautiful and ugly moments.<br />Overall, I'm very pleased with the career change and happy that it all happened so quickly and smoothly. As I settle into the airline life, I must now find a good balance between work and family as Jen and I are talking about having a baby and starting a new life in a new house. I'm very excited about the present and the future.<br />Life is good...<br /></span></span>Capt. Wilkohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07061222914521255607noreply@blogger.com1