The Check Ride

By Mark W. Danielson

Passengers should find comfort in knowing airline pilots are constantly being evaluated and receive simulator training twice a year.  Since many of the cargo planes are much larger and fly longer legs, it is only logical that the same rules would apply to its pilots.  But regardless of whether you fly passengers or cargo, you can count on odd things happening whenever a Check Airman is looking over your shoulder.  Such was the case for my last line check.

The flight began with an ugly band of weather extending from the Gulf Coast to Canada, directly in my flight path from Memphis to Indianapolis.  To make matters worse, the temperature difference split Indianapolis right down the middle with rain to the east and freezing rain and snow to the west with gusty crosswinds to look forward to on landing.  As if this wasn’t enough, we had a cargo door warning light shortly after takeoff indicating the cargo door may not be locked closed.  Since our ground crew had similar problems on the ground and none of my four passengers in the back were screaming that the door was open, I was certain it was a sensor.  Still, it was something I had not seen so I naturally blamed it on my [good natured] Check Airman.  Thankfully we were late leaving Memphis, so the actual weather was not as bad as what was forecast and my landing was uneventful.

Our return flight the next day was more challenging though because the freezing rain from the day before had frozen our engines to their cowlings and would not spin.  Maintenance worked for over an hour while we sat in a 23 degree cabin waiting for them to get the fan blades moving with de-ice fluid.  We begged Ramp Control for an external heating cart, but it never came.  We started our auxiliary power unit as soon as we were allowed and welcomed the heat from its air source, but every time the cockpit started to warm up, maintenance had to turn our air off while they tried to see if the engines would spin.  When they finally broke free, our middle engine had an erratic fuel flow indicator.  Maintenance did not have time to fix it so they deferred it in accordance with the FAA approved manual.  About the time we were ready to get off the airplane, maintenance said we were good to go, so we kicked them off the aircraft, started the engines, and once more I blamed this on my Check Airman.

It goes without saying that when your engines are frozen solid, it only makes sense to de-ice the airplane.  This process took another thirty minutes, but after confirming all of our flight controls moved freely, our airplane wouldn’t budge, even with all three engines at maximum taxi power.  Having to get a ground tug to push us back caused yet another lengthy delay.  As it turned out, our brakes had frozen while we were being de-iced.  By the time we were ready to taxi, our left engine’s fuel flow became erratic, and since the maintenance manual says we can only go with one fuel flow indicator inoperative, we now had to return to the gate after wasting forty-five minutes of fuel with no forward progress.  Since it now appeared they would have to trans-load our cargo to another aircraft, we went inside Flight Operations.  Curiously, within minutes we were told they found the problem with a connection, our airplane was fixed, and we were good to go.

Although the problem with our middle engine’s fuel flow still existed, we found the left engine problem was indeed fixed, but now we had traffic delays from other aircraft that were inbound to the ramp.  Once again, the delay worked to our advantage and the only weather problem was flying into a 150 mph headwind.  Three and a half hours after our scheduled arrival, we taxied to our gate in Memphis still in time for our cargo to be sorted and our Check Airman told my first officer and I that we did a fine job.  Throughout our ordeal, I kept thinking how fortunate I was not to have passengers and flight attendants in the back.  No doubt they would have been less understanding than my cargo.

Besides telling it like it is from a pilot’s point of view, it should be assuring that whether flying people or cargo, no commercial airline pilot should ever compromise safety to meet a schedule.  It should also be noted that if there is an odd event causing a delay, it’s probably because a Check Airman is on board evaluating the captain.  I suppose that’s God’s little sense of humor, so you just have to deal with it.  As for me, I still have two days simulator training to look forward to this week, but I can’t think of many things that could be more unpredictable than what I just faced.  Coffee, anyone?   

Commuter Pilot

By Mark W. Danielson

To many, a commuter pilot is an airline pilot who flies the smaller regional jets or prop jobs. But the other definition is an airline pilot who lives in one location and commutes to his base in another. I’ve fit the second definition for my entire airline career.

Commuting can be a tasking evolution that sometimes requires more patience and sense of humor than operating a trip. Once I get to work, the stress is gone, and while getting home is desirable, my pay isn’t docked if I’m late.

I’ve spent most of July away from home. It’s an unusual month because it added four days of semi-annual training to my line. Since I didn’t finish my simulator check ride until after our own airplanes had departed for Denver, I was forced to attempt a two-leg commute home, begging for rides. The night before, there were plenty of seats available on both flights, but canceled flights had changed everything by the time I showed up.

I was fortunate to get a passenger seat on the flight to Minneapolis, and since I was near the front, was able to race to the opposite side of the terminal to beg for a seat on the leg to Denver. Heart pounding, I arrived in time to be listed for the cockpit jump-seat, which is a small fold-down seat designed to allow FAA check airmen to oversee flight crew operations, but qualified airline pilots can also use them when all the passenger seats are full. Such was the case on this particular flight.

With no clouds along our route and smooth air, the captain and first officer opted to converse with me after level-off. Belonging to the same union, we compared the goings-on with our respective companies, discussed various safety issues, and yes, there were also a few comments about women, just like in the above poster. However, all conversation ceased whenever there was a radio call or a ding from the back.

Prior to our descent, our captain was informed that an elderly lady passenger was ill. He promptly notified the company and was informed that an ambulance would be waiting. Though sorry for her, this passenger’s illness actually helped me because the captain raced his airplane to the gate, and since my bags were in the crew’s storage bin, told me to make a run for it once the EMTs were on board. Even better, the captain had requested his passengers to remain in their seats to assist the EMTs, so imagine their reaction when they saw a captain [me] dash from the plane. I’m sure they were relieved when their real captain thanked them when they finally exited.

The airport bus to the cargo lot only runs twice and hour and I had twelve minutes to get there from the gate. Racing down the corridor, I leaped onto the escalator, and since a train had just arrived, grabbed my bags and skipped steps to make it. Counting down the seconds, my anxiety increased as the train stopped two more times before arriving at the terminal. Once the doors opened, I flew up the escalator, ran through the terminal, out the door, arriving at the bus stop. Thirty seconds later, the bus arrived. Incredible. Nearly eight hours had passed since I had checked in for me first jump seat, and I was relieved to finally be on my way home. Had it not been for the elderly lady’s misfortune, I would have had to wait for the next bus. Thirty minutes may not seem like much, but when you’ve been away as much as I have, that time is precious.

So why do I put up with commuting? Simple. I prefer living in another state, which means I accept the annoyances of commuting a thousand miles to work. Is it worth it? Sure, because I use that time to write, and it also invites new adventures. Granted, it’s a gypsy lifestyle, but one I wouldn’t trade for the world.

Oh, My . . .

By Mark W. Danielson

A group of passengers were enroute to LA for a Cinco De Mayo celebration. The flight from Dallas was rough until crossing the line of thunderstorms. After that, the white-knuckle ride was over. Seated in 7F, the approach into LAX was superb. The cold front had cleared the air, and the Hollywood sign was clearly visible. As the aircraft neared the ground, the power came back and then the plane wobbled. Suddenly, fingers began digging into arm rests and unfortunate companions seated next to them. The wing dipped left, then right, and then the plane landed with a thump. Except for one, “Oh, my”, the cabin remained silent until the aircraft cleared the runway. Soon after, the flight attendant announced, “Welcome to Los Angeles,” in as pleasant a voice as he could muster. The cockpit door remained closed while the pilots discussed the landing. In forty minutes, they would be pushing back to do it all over again.

Most likely, anyone who routinely flies on airliners have ridden through landings like this, and more often than not, base their flying experience on the landing. Most will never know or care about what it took to get this airplane to its destination. Passengers have no reason to know that the thunderstorms along their route would have ripped their airplane to pieces had the pilots not avoided them. Nor do they have any reason to understand how gusty crosswinds can affect the landing. But in defense of all airline pilots, I’m going to explain landings in layman’s terms.

For golfers, landings are like putts. You stoop down, evaluate the terrain, maybe toss a piece of grass to check the wind, and then take your shot. You have spent years practicing your putts and yet you still miss now and then. Nine times out of ten you can sink a three-footer, but then you just misjudge your power, wind, or slope and miss. Bummer. Better luck next time.

For bowlers, landings are like bowling strikes. If you’re consistent enough, you should bowl a strike every time. Plenty of people have done it, and when you think about it, there’s no reason why you shouldn’t. After all, there is no wind or terrain to affect your ball. Blame it on your shoe or the bowler in the next lane, but this time you throw a gutter ball. Hmm; not what you expected was it? Down another gulp and try it again.

For anglers, landings are like bass fishing. Experience has told you where the fish are, how to cast, and what hooks to use. You have won several tournaments because of your expertise, and yet this time, just as you lower your net to scoop your fish, it breaks away and leaves you with nothing more than a story. Oh, so close. Cast away.

For ice skaters, you have performed the same jump hundreds of times. You have won numerous competitions since you were eight years old in front of audiences large and small. And yet this time, your timing is off and you end up on your rear, much to your coach’s dismay. Tears flow as you await your score. No flowers this time.

I could go on, but the fact is every landing is a combination of skill and luck. Every airline pilot strives to make their airplane kiss the ground, but sometimes, the conditions are beyond their control. While pilots can manipulate their flight controls, they have no control over the elements. Gusty winds can affect an aircraft as much as human elements. The most important factor in airline flying is safety, and the most important aspect of a landing is touching down in the first three thousand feet of runway. If these conditions cannot be met, then the pilots are expected to abort the landing and try it again. So although every touchdown may not be perfectly smooth, realize that it was performed safely and thank the crew for getting you to your destination. Happy Cinco De Mayo. :)

Photo by Jeffery Groener

Peanut Butter Crackers

By Mark W. Danielson

When it comes to flying for an airline, everything is seniority based. Presumably, every new pilot that's hired is equally qualified and will eventually make captain. In most cases, this system works well because it eliminates age, sex, race, and religion bias. Your date of hire not only determines when you can upgrade seats, meaning higher pay, but it also determines your monthly flight schedule. You see, pilots bid on their flight schedules each month, so while those who are very senior can hand-pick their trips, the bottom-feeders get whatever’s left over. As such, every junior pilot can’t wait for those senior to them to retire or bid onto a different aircraft so they can move up in seniority. Of course, no one likes to hear about their fellow pilots dying, but whenever such news breaks out, pilots can’t help but to check the deceased’s seniority number. Trust me, as morbid as this may sound, it happens all the time.

Of course, seniority knows no borders. On layovers, while crossing busy streets, senior pilots are expected to cross first. That way, if anything happens, the junior pilot will move up a notch. And while a senior pilot may remind a junior pilot to fasten his/her seat belt, you’ll rarely find a junior pilot reciprocating. No sir, no ma’am; this way, if something bad happens, they’ll move up another notch. It’s the cold hard truth.

Now, we all know about the recent peanut butter scare about salmonella that's left yet another industry crippled. Among the reportedly tainted products are peanut butter crackers; the six pack that makes for a great snack. Give me one of those and a Diet Coke and I'm good for at least three hours. That is, unless I get food poisoning--and die. I've had several bouts with food poisoning overseas, and I'm sure it would be a horrific way to go.

So, with seniority in mind, I have to wonder is this why my first officer kept offering me his six pack of peanut butter crackers? Did I mention that he’s a farm boy from South Carolina where they grow lots of peanuts? Now, I’m not accusing him of anything, but I do find it interesting that he always placed them in plain site, but never once touched them on any of our ten flights together. Later, he jokingly said that he offered these crackers to all of his captains. Hmmm. Something ain’t right here. Of course, I can’t be positive that he was trying to poison me until the next scare comes along--say with cheese crackers. Then if he offers me cheese crackers instead of peanut butter, I’ll know for sure. Until then, I’ll willingly chock up his cracker offer as an act of kindness, but I’ll still bring my own snacks and drink water from a sealed bottle.