Captain Utah

As in any other profession, we pilots have our distinct class of odd balls and nut jobs, that work amongst us. Very few of these "different " individuals escape our attention. The reason for this, is that we pilots tend to be a harmonious group of people. We expect to have fun and enjoy ourselves, while flying around the planet, doing our job. If were not having fun, something, or someone is wrong.

After thirty years of flying with more individuals than I could ever count, very few pilots I have had anything to do with, fall into the odd ball, nut job category. The pilots I am describing generally include the pilots who live different lifestyles than your average pilot, the pilots that exhibit odd behaviors while working, and the pilots who are simply classified as jerks, assholes, or dumb asses.

In my thirty years of flying I have flown with every type of personality imaginable, but there have been a few pilots who impressed me so much with their unique personalities, their stories need to be told. To cope with a month or more of flying with these individuals, I gave them nicknames and told my friends and family about the quirkiness of the pilots I flew with. All of them were captains.

1.Captain Comfort Food.

Captain Comfort Food always made me feel like I was the most important and finest copilot that existed. He also took great strides to make me as comfortable as I could be. He also loved and always carried, bananas. If I showed up to an aircraft, unsure of who I was flying with, I always knew as soon as I entered the cockpit, that Captain Comfort Food was the man of the hour.

He would always beat me to the airplane. I would always find a blanket with a pillow laying in my seat, put there by Captain Comfort Food. He would take two prepackaged cookies and a banana and lay them on top of the pillow, using the cookies for eyes and the banana for a smiling mouth. In my drink holder would always be a cup of juice with ice. This would happen without fail, every time I flew with him. He also would do the exterior walk around inspection for me as well.

No matter where we had a layover, he somehow managed to always have a large supply of bananas. I asked him once where his never ending supply came from and all I got was, "It's my magic trick", from him. I never asked again. He had large enough banana supply, to offer a crew of flight attendants bananas as well.

He had memorized every aspect of my life, including the names of my children, my ex wife and my most current girlfriend. He would talk to me like Mr Rogers on steroids and instead of a family album, he had pictures of his private airplane collection. He talked without emotion, but I knew his words were meaningful and genuine. He would present me with small gifts to give to my children.

On every layover, Captain Comfort Food would disappear and usually go out to the airport early, in order to do the walk around, blanket, pillow, cookie, banana thing. Oh, yeah and the juice. The only time I ever saw him on a layover was once after flying a red-eye. I was not tired, so I decided to eat breakfast. Captain Comfort Food was in the cafe eating. He signaled me over, stood up when I came to the table and graciously asked me to join him. After eating, he insisted on buying my meal for me.

During the normal tasks of flying, he would politely ask for the reading of a checklist, or any other thing performed in the normal operation of an aircraft. "Thank you very much for reading the checklist, I appreciate how well you did that", he would say. His announcements to the passengers were prolific. He had an uncanny ability to chatter on to the passengers and they loved it.

Captain Comfort Food eventually retired. We were all surprised but happy to see him show up at union meetings in his retirement. The last time I saw him was at one of these meetings and in his hand was a half eaten banana.



2. Captain Art, the Great Hunter.

Art was one pissed off individual. I do not know of one copilot that enjoyed flying with him, except me. Art had no social skills whatsoever and seemed to constantly be putting his foot in his mouth, yet had no idea that that's what he was doing. He flew as often as he could, because in his own words, "I hate my house and the woman that lives in it." Art was not your average happily married guy.

The pilots who had to fly with him, usually complained about his abrasive personality, always demanding things at inappropriate times, and extremely hard to communicate with. I lucked out with my first encounter with Captain Art. I had heard all the griping and harsh rhetoric about the man, so I had built up a large amount of angst.

Captain Art beat me to the airplane and was busy programming the navigation computers. I stepped into the cockpit and introduced myself. Captain Art took one look at me and said, "Let me know if the log book is clean." "Sure, right away" I said. As I started to sit in my seat I noticed a small photo album laying on the center console. It was open and there was a picture of Captain Art, holding a high powered rifle, kneeling next to a huge bear.

"That's a big damn bear, mind if I look" I said. "Go ahead, I just got back from a hunt in Alaska." It just so happened that captain Art and I were on our way to Anchorage, Alaska, for a 24 hour layover. I picked up the photo album and said, "Let me get my work done, then I want to hear all about this." About an hour later, we were cruising at altitude, with hours to go until we landed. Captain Art, obviously enjoyed hunting, so I decided to try to keep him on that topic for as long as I could. It was not hard to do.

As Captain Art's hunting story unfolded, I found myself mesmerized by his experiences. The photo album was full of boring pictures, but behind each one,was a story. The picture of the bush plane, to me was just that. Captain Art told me how the pilot had to land uphill on rough tundra, to get him to his hunting site. Primitive tents and dry food was all they had for days, while they hunted out in the middle of nowhere. No communication whatsoever was to be had in case of an emergency. Five days later the bush pilot landed and carried out as much meat as he could, then came back to carry out Captain Art and his guide, with more meat. The pilot had to takeoff downhill and then drop off a ledge into a steep ravine to pick up enough speed to fly away. That trip was all he talked about on the way to Anchorage.

Once in Anchorage, we made our way to our hotel and went our separate ways. I was in the lobby a short while later, when Captain Art saw me and asked if I wanted to go to his favorite bar. I accepted his offer and I was told we could walk there. Downtown Anchorage is full of great places, but like any city, it has it's seedy side. This was many years ago and the city was not nearly as nice as it is now. Captain Art marched me past the very nice establishments, then the nice establishments, then the OK ones and on to the bad ones and finally the very bad ones. It was summer in Alaska and there was still plenty of light outside for me to notice the passed out drunks, prostitutes and numerous scary men. Art was about as milquetoast as you could get. Tan slacks with short sleeve shirt, tan loafers, with a baseball style hat sporting a fly fisherman on it. The text book example of someone that was prime meat to be rolled.

He pushed his way through the crowd and entered his bar, that had no name that I could see. The bar was large with one long bar, lots of tables and a section dedicated to playing pool. The place was packed and everyone there seemed to be native Alaskans. Captain Art took a stool at the bar and pushed the one next to him, over to me. " I've been coming here for years", he said. "Your the first copilot to have the balls to come to a place like this" he said. I said, "Naw, I'm just not very bright."

The bartender came over and said, "Captain Art, you brought a friend!" I introduced myself and ordered a beer. Seconds later the beer was placed in front of me along with a menu. The food was great and we spent a few hours there. In that time, no less than twenty people came up to Captain Art to say hello, buy him a beer, or ask him about his last hunt. He seemed to be the most popular guy in the bar and also the friendliest. Captain Art was in his place of comfort.

He had indeed been coming here for years. Over time, he got to know some of the workers and patrons and started fishing with them on his layovers. He then started to come up on his days off and take small fishing trips with them. Eventually he was passed on to friends and relatives in the remote villages, who would take him hunting and fishing. The man was respected and adored by these people. In particular, he was esteemed for his fishing and hunting skills. It was something you had to see to believe, this man who no one wanted to fly with, being the most affable guy you could imagine.

One very drunk man, carrying a pool cue, approached Captain Art holding the pool cue as if it was a rifle. The man stood back about six feet, with the tip of the pool cue about 6 inches away from Captain Art's nose. He yelled "Bang!" then lowered the pool cue with a huge grin, showing a mouth with half it's teeth missing. He started to talk, but all he could do was blabber the inaudible words of a drunk. I could clearly hear the words, "great hunter" from him several times. We left the bar at about 1 am and stepped outside to a sky still filled with light. It was the middle of June and the sun was just below the horizon. I thanked Captain Art on the way back to the hotel and told him I would fly with him anytime, no matter how much of a pain in the ass he could be. He stopped walking, looked at me and let out a gut wrenching laugh. He put his hand on my shoulder and said, "I am the biggest pain in the ass in the world and I have to live with him!' From that moment on, every time I saw him, I called him Captain Art, the Great Hunter.

The next day, we went out to breakfast to a spot not far from the bar. Some of the same people from the night before were already there, having left the bar early in the morning and heading directly to the cafe. The cafe was a one person show, owned and operated for 20 years by the sweetest woman you could ever meet. We sat there and talked over coffee for a couple of hours. He told me of his many hunting expeditions. The stories would make a best seller.

On our way home, Captain Art, fell into his normal routine. Somewhere in that day, I reminded him that by his self admission, he was being a pain in the ass. He looked directly at me and with a quizzical look and honestly said, "I am?"

We flew together several times after that. Captain Art was a very senior pilot, so he mostly flew the Alaska trips and that is where I would normally see him. He always had a new photo album to show off and great stories to go along with it. Captain Art, the Great Hunter eventually retired. His plan in retirement was to mount all the horns, heads, and stuffed bodies he had collected over the years. He was even preparing to buy a separate home to put them in as his wife had always refused to allow any of it in their home.

Captain Art was a diamond in the rough and one of the most skilled pilots I have ever flown with.



3. Captain Bloody Ass

I apologize ahead of time for this spoiler alert. This story is disgusting and may make you nauseous. I had seen Captain Bloody Ass way before I flew with him. He was not hard to miss as he was huge, somewhere in the 350 pound range. I had always heard great things about him and the copilots enjoyed working with him.

He was known for his "information sheets". These were sheets of paper that were filled from top to bottom with valuable information on specific subjects, that were put together by him. He had a sheet on tax deductions, one on all the things to do in Boston and another for touring the Napa Valley. He kept these in his flight kit and if a subject came up that he had relentlessly studied and made a sheet for, he would yank it out and explain it in detail, then give you the copy. I have no idea how many subjects he had covered, but it seemed like a lot.

The first time i flew with him was on a trip that took us from the west coast to Boston. Yes, he had a fact sheet to give me and I used it for years. One of the first things I noticed about him, was that in order for him to sit in his seat, he had to enter the cockpit backwards. He would enter the flight deck with his gear and position that first. Then he would exit and immediately re-enter backwards, quickly maneuvering himself into his seat. It was like watching a Rubik's Cube in fast motion and I never figured out how he did it.

The transition to the twilight zone with him, began just after we leveled off. We were cruising in the mid 30,000s and had about four hours of our flight left. Captain Bloody Ass looked over at me and told me he had something he wanted me to know. I looked over at him and he said, "I have a problem with infections and boils in my crotch area. My doctor told me that it would help if I keep that area dry. I use a hair dryer to do that. I think I used the hair dryer too long today and popped a vein, because I'm bleeding down there. I want you to know that, so in case I pass out, you'll know it is probably from blood loss and you can get me help."

After jacking my jaw back into my skull, several things went through my mind. My first thought went to the 110 volt electrical outlet next to my seat. Airplanes have electrical systems very different from what you have in your home. To allow the mechanics to power some of their tools while working in the cockpit, there is an electrical outlet on the copilots side of the aircraft. I don't know why, but an image of Captain Bloody Ass, bent over holding his ass cheeks apart, with me holding a hair dryer for him as per his doctors orders, popped into my head.

After shaking that nightmare out of my head, I told Captain Bloody Ass that it was hard for me to believe that you could heat a vein up enough to pop and not be screaming in agony. I also told him that there could very well be something deeply wrong with him and he should see a doctor.

Captain Bloody Ass proceeded to tell me about his daughter and her family, who were going to meet him in Boston and stay at the hotel for the two days we were going to be there. "I'll see a doctor as soon as I get back" he said.

I let it go, which was the wrong thing to do. I figured if he did have a problem, I could land the plane by myself. Today, as a captain, I would never put my copilot in that position and certainly not a plane load of passengers.

Captain Bloody Ass went to the bathroom a lot. He would get up out of his seat at least once an hour or more and use the first class lavatory. On his first trip to the bathroom, a flight attendant was in the flight deck to open the door for me. She was standing behind Captain Bloody Asses seat, when I heard her say, "What's that?" I said, "What?" "That" she said, pointing to Captain Bloody Asses seat.

Captain Bloody Ass had taken a gray plastic trash bag and laid it on his seat. A thin layer of blood was spread across the entire plastic bag. I looked at her and in a panicky, loud voice, yelled, "I don't know!" She looked at me like I had worms coming out of my face. Captain Bloody Ass re-entered the cockpit in his usual backwards manner. The remainder of the flight was uneventful until we got to Boston.

After landing, Captain Bloody Ass told me to go ahead to the hotel pickup point. He told me that he walked slowly and it would take him a while to get there. I suggested to him that he go ahead and I would finish the flight deck duties. He agreed and left the aircraft. About 5 minutes later I left the aircraft. I said goodnight to the gate agent and proceeded through the terminal to the pickup point.

There is a long straight stretch of the terminal that you walked through to exit. I was walking through that part of the terminal when about 200 feet in front of me, I spotted Captain Bloody Ass, hobbling his way through the terminal. Between him and I was a cleaning woman. The floor of the terminal was poured and polished acrylic. She was holding a long stick with a rag on the end of it. She was rubbing the scuff marks of the days hurried passengers off the floor. She was facing me, walking backwards, with headphones on. She was in what I would call a Zen state. Music was filling her psyche, overwhelming the reality of constant scuff mark erasure. She almost looked like the finely balanced ice skater moving backwards with such ease, it reminded you of a cool mountain stream, flowing naturally, without effort.

During this time, I was catching up to her and Captain Bloody Ass. I was now about thirty feet away from Captain Bloody Ass and 15 feet away from the cleaning lady. I noticed something protruding from the right leg of Captain Bloody Ass. It was large and getting bigger. All at once, a large blood soaked lump of toilet paper, about the size of two large fists, fell to the floor, from the right pant leg of Captain Bloody Ass.

I saw this as I was passing the cleaning lady, who was aligned with the bloody mass of paper. My second mistake of the day was to make a wide sweeping evasive maneuver to avoid the bloody mass and NOT inform the cleaning woman of her impending CSI like encounter. I just kept moving, trying to obliterate the entire day out of my head.

I have no idea what happened to the cleaning woman. I am sure though, that when she came across the wad of blood soaked toilet paper, she wasn't thinking, "I wonder who's ass this came from?" As for me, that is the end of the story of Captain Bloody Ass. He had a great time with his family and we made it back without him passing out from blood loss. Captain Bloody Ass retired soon after this incident, but not because of his medical condition. Several pilots in his age group left to maximize their retirement.

So, what are the lessons here? I have been trained and tested for thirty years in a career where those above you, give you the experiences that lead you to being the best aviator you can be. I was hired 22 years ago to be a captain someday. Well, here I am, enjoying the best days of my career and I have the captains that tested me, to thank for that.

Captain Comfort Food showed me that no matter who you fly with, turn your spotlight on them and let them know they are appreciated.

Captain Art, The Great Hunter, taught me to look beyond the exterior of those you fly with and to take the time and patience to explore what is beneath.

Captain Bloody Ass helped me define my limits as a captain, around the concept of safety and the need to put all others above my immediate needs.

These are just three individuals of hundreds that have impacted who I am as a pilot. I thank them all and all the pilots who will take my wisdom as part of their future.

As for the title of this story, Captain Utah, well, that is something a young copilot educated me on recently. We were having a great trip and while hovering at a high rate of speed on our way to somewhere, he said to me, "I'm really glad your not a Captain Utah." "Captain Utah?" I said. He said, "Yeah, it stands for Up Tight Ass Hole."

I guess there is still much for me to learn.

Be Safe,

FlyGuy

IN THE PASSING LANE

The hi-ways of our national air transportation system, are fairly busy any day of the year. The jet routes, or roads, that pilots fly on, have multiple levels that are separated by one thousand feet. These jet routes start at 18,000 feet and go up to over 40,000 feet. Airplanes flying to the east, fly at odd altitudes and airplanes flying west, fly at even altitudes. Aircraft going in one direction are separated 2000 feet apart. Traffic going in the opposite direction is layered in between these aircraft 2000 feet apart. What you end up with are airplanes going 500 mph, flying in opposite directions, only 1000 feet apart. That's close!

In the cockpit, it ends up as a fun event to watch, over and over again, as you fly along the jet routes. Modern airliners are easily capable of maintaining this separation. All commercial aircraft have electronic devices that allow us to see the location and the altitude of aircraft around us, day or night, good weather, or bad. Sometimes, like today, you slowly catch up and pass a jet going in the same direction, 2000 feet above or below you. The video I attached was taken as we were overtaking a jet on our way from LAX to JFK, somewhere east of Albuquerque. The aircraft was 2000 feet below us. I did use the optical zoom on my camera to capture the exhaust trails from the engines.

The video is close to what we observe. Youtube has a good video depicting a 24 hour moving graphic of air traffic in the U.S. at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6E_Z_Ve-ayA.

I would like to direct anyone interested to my good buddy and pilot Joe, who maintains the podcast "Fly With Me."
He is strarting a live podcast that starts next week. Should be pretty entertaining. The following is the email he sent to me,

"The first Fly With Me Live broadcast will be Sunday, Feb 21 at 1:00 PM PST. It will be on Ustream.tv (link below). I hope you can join us. My guest will be "Betty" from the "Betty in the Sky With a Suitcase" podcast -- she'll appear via Skype video. And she's hilarious.

I will be encouraging viewers to call in via Skype to join in the conversation with us -- so make sure your Skype setup is ready! The call-in Skype address is "fwm_live".

If you don't want to call in, there will be chat via Ustream chat and the "social stream"(Twitter, Facebook, etc.). You can ask us questions about anything you want. And then we can just say whatever we want in return ;-) I hope you can participate, because this will be a lot of fun.

Also, let your friends know about the show -- I'm sure they'll enjoy it. You can just forward this email -- here's the link to the show: http://www.ustream.tv/channel/fly-with-me-live

Hope to see you there,

Joe

http://flywithjoe.com
Twitter: @Joe_dEon"


Be Safe,

FlyGuy

Fallen Soldier Redux

I continue to receive comments on my post, "FALLEN SOLDIER" One comment deserves attention. It was written by a member of the company honor guard. FlyGuy was humbled to tears when I read this individuals' comment. I wish I could shake the hands and look into the eyes of every one of these men and women, who give so much of themselves, to those who gave the ultimate sacrifice for all of us. The following comment has not been changed in any way. God Bless you all.

"Great story Fly Guy, however we are the XXXXX Air Lines Honor Guard. We have worked with the patriot riders on a few escorts.

We honor all those who serve in the military in any branch and in any capacity, we have honored those who have been MIA for over 65 years from WWII to a young man who passed away his last day of boot camp. I have personally never served a day in my life. I am honored to be surrounded by many agents who have served and few who have not but are just as dedicated. Some have served in Afghanistan, Iraq, Kuwait and Viet Nam, Two have lost family, one in Iraq and one in Afghanistan.

These people are dedicated and have no problem rendering honors in the rain, cold, wind and blistering heat on the ramp. I have people show up on their days off, before work, after work and even on vacation to help. This group is all volunteer, no extra pay or benefits no extra days off just the satisfaction that they have honored a person who has committed their lives to protecting ours and our great way of life. One thing I do not think most people realize is many times the escorts are themselves related to the service members. A few recent ones I will never forget.

An Air Force pilot that was shot down in Viet Nam in 1968 and finally recovered and identified was traveling through ATL on his way to be buried in Arlington National Cemetery. We went to render honors, and I went upstairs to get the escort, he had elderly woman with him and asked if she could come down as well, I agreed and we went down and preformed honors and when I gave him the card and coin to give to the next of kin he referred me to this small frail woman, she was the pilots wife. She is 81 years old and had been waiting 41 years for him to come home, she was in awe that a group of total strangers would take the time to honor a man none of us knew. She personally thanked everyone and then the Air Force escort pointed to his wrist, there on his wrist was an MIA/POW bracelet for this pilot he had been wearing for the last 17 years...

I had an escort come off a flight, a Command Sergeant Major, 30 years in the U.S. Army, a man to be both respected and feared. The honor guard had finished rendering honors on the remains he was escorting, an 18 year old “girl” who was killed in Afghanistan, I was getting ready to take the escort upstairs to board the flight when he asked me If I had any children, and if any were serving in the military, I told him “yes” I have three sons and my oldest was deployed in Afghanistan. He was trembling and asked that I give my boys a hug and next time I talked to my son in Afghanistan to let him know how much I loved him “because you never know.” The “girl” he was escorting was his daughter...

On April 24th we had an escort come off the flight from HNL and then connecting on to DFW I had done some research and had found out the remains were that of SSgt XXXXX of the United States Army Air Force, shot down in his B-24 in September of 1944. Normally if the remains is army the escort is army and so on. SSgt XXXXX escort was a United States Marine. This gentleman would not leave the remains for a second and was absolutely dedicated to watching over his ward. After rendering honors on SSgt XXXXX the escort asked if he could address the honor guard. At this point Captain XXXXX, USMC wanted to thank us and everyone at Delta Air Lines for the manner in we transported and the homecoming of SSgt XXXXX, his grandfather whom he had never met...

On October 8, 2008 my eldest son Sr. Airman Brian J McConnell Jr. USAF escorted the remains of my father MSgt Angus J. McConnell {USAF retired} through Atlanta. I was filled with many emotions that day, sadness for the loss of my dad and over whelming love and pride for my son and his commitment to honor his grandfather and get him home. I will forever be grateful to my Delta family for the respect and honor shown to my family and myself. Thank You All..."

Be Safe,

FlyGuy

International Flying

Greetings all,

I know I have been absent for a while, a new interest will do that to you. Last October I made a transition to international flying, which has made my job more interesting and enjoyable than ever. The picture I included here, was taken taxiing out of the Guatemala City airport. There are many active volcanoes in the area that keep things interesting. The volcano in the picture is popular with the local touring companies. I have been told that there are no safety rules at all on some of the tours. You can get as close to the lava flows as you want. One company offers shoes you can wear, so yours don't melt. FlyGuy likes a larger safety margin than that! I arrived in Guatemala City on new years eve, at 6:30 in the morning. I had high expectations of a loud and festive day and night.

I Googled "new years in Guatemala" and the first thing that popped up was a description of a popular thing that the men do. The men, it said, like to wear costumes mad out of fireworks. These costumes are quite elaborate and when lit, produce a running fireworks show. Compound this with numerous individuals running around at once, all on fire, producing a shower of sparks and explosive noises and most probably screaming at the same time. This was something that I had to see.

I asked the hotel employees where the action was on new years. I was told by everyone that "Today is a quiet day, everything will not be open." I ventured out of the hotel into a ghost town. The hotel staff was correct, everything it seemed was closed. We saw a crowd at the end of the block, so we went to see what they were doing. It turned out to be an organized run, with the participants wearing costumes. The first person I saw was running in a diaper. It was hilarious what people were wearing. I saw a guy in a barrel, Sponge Bob, Iron man, a pineapple, and all sorts of oddities. After about 20 minutes of this, the street once again became quiet and stayed that way for the rest of the night. We were lucky to find a small restaurant open, which was great.

I returned to Guatemala 2 days later carrying a large group of young performers, who marched in the Rose Parade in California. They talked about the excitement of being in America and how proud and honored they were by the cheering of the crowds they marched by. I don't think any of them was older than 18.

Last week I worked a flight to Jamaica. The Jamaicans are very fun people, who never seem to stop smiling. Next week I'll be in the Virgin Islands. I love this international stuff!

Be Safe,

FlyGuy

VANISHED

I had finished a two-day trip a few weeks ago, and started my commute home.  When I landed in Los Angeles, I heard the news about the Air France flight that had disappeared over the Atlantic.  I walked across the airport to my departure terminal, thinking about what the pilots went through, trying to save their ship.  I got onboard the jet taking me home, feeling melancholy.  I wanted to sit alone, but most of the seats were taken. 

 

When I find myself on a full flight and I have to sit between two people, I have found a way to make the travel easy on me.  I try to find a row that has two young ladies in it, about the age of my oldest daughter, who is twenty.  I do this because I know that they want to have nothing to do with me and will leave me alone for the entire flight.  I can sit in my seat, put in my earplugs and don my noise reduction headset and sit back.

 

On this flight I saw a small pair of legs at the end of a row and no head above the seat.  As I came up to the row, I saw two boys about six years old sitting next to each other.  The window seat was vacant.  “Excuse me gentleman, is that seat by the window taken?” I asked.  They looked up at me, looked at each other and simultaneously said, “Whoaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!”  “Do you guys mind?” I said.  They did not mind and I started to move around them to the window.  The father of one of the boys said, “Sir, you don’t have to sit there, you can sit in my seat.”  I looked at him and his pretty wife and said, “Sir I am a commercial airline pilot, I have more in common with these boys than any adult on this aircraft.”  I heard laughter from other passengers and moved into my seat.

 

I was immediately asked if I was a pilot.  When I told them that I was, one of the boys turned to his parents and yelled, “Mom, this man is a real pilot and he is sitting right by me!”  The mother of the boy said, “Shouldn’t he be flying the airplane up front?”  I told the boys that I was going to use my Iphone and control the airplane from my seat.  These guys were smart ones, they did not buy it.

 

We pushed back and the engines were started.  I told them how high we would be, how fast we would be going, and how cold it would be.  As we started to take the runway for takeoff, I said, “This is the part where I start to get scared.”  They looked at me and one of them said, “You mean to fly?”  I looked at them and whined, “I want my mommy.” just as the plane started to accelerate.   The boy at the aisle turned to his mother laughing and yelled, “Mom, he wants his mommy!”

 

I told the boy next to me that when I counted to three, the airplane would come off the ground and start flying.  After thousands of takeoffs, you get pretty good at knowing that.  I counted, 1, 2, 3, and the nose lifted up into the air.  The boys eyes got very big and he said in a low voice, “Your really smart.” 

 

I put my headset on and flipped the switch that takes the noise out of the air like a magician.  One of the boys asked me what I was listening to.  I told him it was church music and asked them both if they wanted to listen.  They both refused and immediately started playing with their electronic games.  I smiled as I leaned back, fell asleep and did not wake until the wheels touched down.  It was a brief respite from the mind churning disaster of the Air France loss. 

 

Over these 28 years of flying, I have experienced, second hand, the tragic loss of many, most of whom I did not know.  As pilots, we can’t help but put ourselves on the flight deck and in the pilot’s seats, trying to recover these aircraft from impending disaster.  There are the safety reports stating the facts, built from expert investigation, clearly showing the causes and contributing circumstances.  Some of these reports make you wince in anguish, knowing the accident was preventable.  The hardest ones to read are the accidents that clearly show the pilots were performing in perfect form and fearlessly doing everything and anything they could to save their ship, to the point of impact. 

 

Modern airliners are designed with self-reporting system monitors.  The electric, hydraulic, pneumatic, fuel, engine, environmental and other systems send out messages in-flight when certain predetermined parameters are met.  An example would be when the internal part of an engine starts to vibrate beyond a preset limit.  The engine may run just fine and I as a pilot would not know that the limit was exceeded, or that a message was sent.  The message would be logged and analyzed by the engineers at the airline and perhaps the manufacturer as well.

 

The Air France pilots never transmitted a message that they were experiencing mechanical problems, or any problem for that matter.  I read that they informed air traffic control that they were entering an area of severe weather, something that happens every day with airliners around the world.  Something went wrong and went wrong quickly.  The aircraft transmitted over 20 messages by itself, electronically informing the company that systems were failing.  Then there was nothing, the flight simply disappeared.

 

Yeah, it really bothers me.  All we can do as aviators is to learn what lessons we can and make our already safe air transportation system, safer yet.

 

Be Safe,

 

FlyGuy.

Hot Gas

The cacophony of a busy airport terminal reminds me of a living, breathing thing, with a mind of its own.  Arriving at these airports is just the start of the experience.   You know that parking your car, or being dropped off, is the easiest part of the painful process, that eventually leads to sitting in a seat, that moves through the sky.

 

As a commercial airline pilot I get to avoid most of the pain.  We are dropped off and picked up at every airport, our hotel keys are usually waiting for us, we can go to the front of the line at security, we do not have to wait in the gate area to board, it is illegal to enter my office and under the right conditions, a person could be shot if they tried.

 

Although we are shielded from much of this pain, we can’t help but feel yours.  It is agonizing to watch the flying public endure the constant barrage of ever changing rules, policies, fare structures, monotonous public addresses, lines, more lines, weather delays, cancellations, gate changes, oversells, holiday nightmares, bad food, no food, confiscated items, frustrated parents, beeping electric carts, overflowing bathrooms, expensive food courts, no one in sight to help you, signs that don’t help you, rude employees, no employees, etc.

 

My company's JFK operation is now spread over 3 terminals and a remote parking pad.  It is possible to go through security at one terminal, only to find out that your flight is actually leaving two terminals away.  My company set up an inter-terminal transportation system to move people from terminal to terminal, thus avoiding having to go through security a second time. The passengers are taken directly to their gate or holding area.  The problem I have recently noticed is that nobody has ever bothered to inform the passengers of this cumbersome process. 

 

I had one frustrated, angry, and tearful passenger explain to me how she eventually got to the proper gate, which I was waiting at, as I was working the flight to LAX.  She was dropped off at one terminal, spent forever going through security, and emerged into the wrong terminal.  She was told to proceed to the next terminal that was connected.  She did that only to find out she had to be transported from that terminal to the correct one.  She waited for the bus and was transported to a holding area at the next terminal.  There she met me and proceeded to vent.  I completely agreed with her and asked her

not to shoot the messenger, but that her saga was not quite over.  “Our airplane is parked remotely, so we all have to be transported out to it on a big people mover”, I said.  She thought I was joking.  I apologized and told her that once she got on that last bus, her worries were over.  I told her that she was in good hands; that her crew would take care of her and safely do the job that she had paid for.  “When you sit in your seat on my airplane, let go of all of this and relax.”  I gave her two dollars for a headset, so she could watch the 30 channels of entertainment onboard. 

 

We boarded the bus with the first group of passengers.  I was told there would be three busloads coming to the airplane.  I talked to the passengers near me and told them our flight time to LAX, the weather en-route, and that I anticipated no delays.  I could tell they were listening to everything I was telling them.  Others were straining to hear me.  I am continually humbled by the respect I receive from my passengers, even the angry ones.

 

With my passengers in their seats and the entry and flight deck doors closed, the time comes that every pilot enjoys, the movement of metal. 

 

 

 

Moving an aircraft around JFK is usually an experience all in itself.  Dozens of aircraft of every size are working their way through the labyrinth of taxiways, intersections, and long lines.  Very long lines.  Throw in some snow or a thunderstorm and we might enjoy a couple of hours of taxi time. Eventually we taxi into the takeoff position at the end of our assigned runway, my right hand would be resting on the throttles, awaiting a take off clearance.

 

The checklists are complete and we receive our takeoff clearance.  The moment has come to once again witness the miracle of powered flight, and the best part of the miracle, is that I get to make it happen.  As the throttles are slowly moved forward, the engine instruments are monitored as the power in the engines awake in a thundering roar.  Acceleration is fast and steady and I feel the awkward contortions of my aircraft diminish into a determined metallic beast, begging me to let go of its leash.

  My right hand is relaxed on the throttles, ready to reject our takeoff at the last possible moment, if needed.  Critical speeds are called out.  The engines would be howling at maximum power, devouring and shredding tons of air, smashing and compressing it into a hellish conflagration, then releasing it all at once, a fraction of a second later.  With nowhere else to go, the turbulent expanding gases escape from the narrow exhaust cone, pushing the machine faster. 

 

 These hot gases, produce 90% of the engines thrust by turning the big fan blades you see at the front of the engine.  These engines have accumulated over 26 million flight hours of service since their introduction.  Yeah, they are reliable and one of the reasons flying is so safe.  The thrill and rush of controlling these technological marvels with my fingertips is an experience that never gets old.

 

Be Safe,

 

FlyGuy.

 

FALLEN SOLDIER, THE REST OF THE STORY

My post, “Fallen Soldier”, received thousands of views this past weekend. I am writing this post to tell you what happened after that flight and some things I have just come to know.

After the family was taken off the aircraft, they were immediately escorted down to the ramp and the cargo door. I found out last week that the team of escorts that met the aircraft to assist the family, are employee volunteers. These employees come from all areas of the airline for the single purpose of giving a fallen soldier the honor, respect, and dignity they deserve during their final journey home. I am proud to tell you that the corporation I work for unconditionally supports the efforts of this group of volunteers.

They call themselves the Patriot Guard Riders and have all volunteer teams in Boston, Atlanta, Detroit, Norfolk, Salt Lake City, and Seattle. The Atlanta team has special jumpsuits made by a uniform supplier, displaying a military seal on the back. The team members render honors along with the military escorts and pay last respects to deceased service men and women as they are transported through the airport. Most volunteers are former service men and women or have family who are or were in the military. They have flags and when possible present a commemorative medallion on behalf of my company to the soldier’s family with the inscription: “We will not forget their sacrifice.”

I found this quote on the company's employee website, written by the senior vice president of customer service. I have replaced names with the letter “X”, to remain anonymous in my writing. “Were proud of our honor guard volunteers who represent XXXXX in paying special honors to the men and women who have served our country. The ceremony is not only meaningful to the families, but for everyone who has the privilege of seeing it.”

The article on the website was about the return of U.S Air Force Capt. Lorenza Conner, a pilot killed when he was shot down in Vietnam, in 1967. According to the article, his remains were discovered and identified last year. Apparently Capt Conner is a Georgia native and his remains were returning home for burial. One of our pilots, a Vietnam vet himself, piloted the last leg home from Honolulu. One of the Guard Riders was quoted, “I am doing this in part as a XXXXX employee, but I ride escort as a Ride Captain with the Patriot Guard Riders, escorting fallen soldiers home during funeral services.” Some of these volunteers use their free time to ride along with the remains to their final destination, all the way to burial.

I must throw in a thumbs up for the countless flight attendants who go out of their way to thank every service member in uniform as they exit the aircraft upon arrival. I listen to boarding announcements where along with the normal words, a statement is made to the cabin that there are military members on board today and that their service is appreciated.

Back to the family and their journey home with their son, husband and father. The team escorted the family to the cargo hold. After thanking the rest of the passengers, I proceeded to the pilot lounge as I had a couple of hours to go before my next flight. The lounge is a large area with computers, lockers, tables, chairs, etc. There normally is a lot of traffic there. I saw a friend of mine who was in my original training class twenty years ago. I have always liked Dave, he and I have bantered back and forth for years.

You see, Dave was a fighter pilot and I flew the heavy cargo planes. Dave was a dashing young fighter pilot in the day, crazy as they come and damn good at what he did. He taught fighter pilots, how to teach fighter pilots. His weapon of choice was the F-16. I flew cargo all over the world; doing some things I will never be able to tell you. My weapon of choice was a small Swiss army knife. It could open a can of beefaroni or a bottle of beer. My mission was to constantly seek the ultimate beaches, rivers, ice fields, and other naturally spectacular places, wherever I went.

Although Dave was an Air Force pilot, he managed to learn to swear like a sailor. Dave is now in his fifties and I can attest to the simple fact that he has officially made the transition to being a loud and crusty old fighter pilot. I had not seen him in a while so I walked up and pinched his left nipple as hard as I could. “Jesus, you dumb bastard, let me kick you in the nuts!”, he said, while not one other pilot bothered to look our way. “Hey, I was just making sure you were still alive. That stupid ass grin you keep on that pasty white sheet, you call a face, makes you look like a mannequin”, I said. And so it goes for a few minutes. We finally settle down and catch up on life, his in Florida, mine in California. I asked him if he had time to get a bite to eat. He said, “Yeah, I don’t sign in for a few hours, I work a flight to Norfolk at 4:30.”

“Norfolk!” I said. “Is it flight XXXX?” I said. Dave was flying the soldier home on his last leg. I proceeded to tell Dave what had happened on my flight. At one point, Dave flushed crimson red, and then tears welled up in his eyes. “Fuck, I cry like a god damn baby every time I hear stories like that”, he said. “Well listen up soldier, you have the honor of taking him home and I have a mission for you”, I said. We talked a bit longer and I had to leave. Dave knew the family was going to be escorted back down to the cargo hold to watch the soldiers’ remains be put aboard his aircraft. Dave was planning on getting to the gate early to introduce himself to the family and escort. He wanted to be standing with them outside, if the family wanted that. That crusty ass fighter pilot was on a mission and nothing was going to stop him from doing anything and everything he could for that family. They could not have been in better hands.

I have not seen Dave since that day. Somewhere down the road we will catch up with each other and I will ask him how the rest of that day went. In the mean time, the honor, respect, and dignity that our fallen soldiers deserve, will continue 24/7 at my company. I am sure other airlines have good people doing the same type of thing. As of Saturday, October 25th, the U.S. deaths in Iraq totaled 4,187. The U.S. deaths in Afghanistan totaled 549. Spc Deon L. Taylor, 30, Bronx, N.Y., Cpl Adrian Robles, 21, Scottsbluff, Neb. and Lance Cpl San Sim, 23, Santa Ana, Ca, who died this week in service to their country, deserve nothing less.

Be Safe,

FlyGuy

The Right Thing To Do

I was busy programming my flight computer for a JFK to San Francisco flight, when I heard the lead flight attendant make a public address announcement.  "If I could have your attention for a moment", she said.  She continued with, "We have a mother and young child that do not have seats together.  I am looking for two volunteers with adjacent seats who would like to volunteer to give up their seats, so they can sit together".  A few minutes later I heard her ask again for seat volunteers.

  I picked up the cabin inter phone and made an announcement over the public address system. I said, "Barbara, this is the captain speaking, If you cannot find two volunteers to give up their seats, the copilot and I are more than happy to give our seats away to the mother and child".  I heard laughter from the first class section over my ridiculous statement.

I turned around to look into the first class section.  As I did so, I saw two first class passengers get up out of their seats and walk back into coach.  Less than a minute later I saw a woman and a small boy sit in the same two first class seats.  Yes, they sat next to each other.   Gotta say I was pretty impressed with that random act of kindness.

  I told the copilot what I had just witnessed and he said, "Hell boss, if it makes you feel any better I would be more than willing to give up my seat for yours".  I am still mad at myself for not having a snappy comeback for that one, all I could muster was, "Alright smart ass, before start checklist".

Be Safe,

FlyGuy 

What is that thing?

The number one reason why I will never get tired of this job, is the simple fact that you never know what will come your way on any flight.  I recently had a once in a career experience that I would like to share with you.  

I was descending into JFK on a clear summer night, the first officer was the pilot flying.  We were vectored for a visual approach to runway 22 left.  Runway 22 left at JFK is in a dark area of the airfield.  The approach and touchdown was uneventful.  Once we were on the ground, the speed brakes deployed and the first officer extended the thrust reversers.  As I verified these configuration changes, I focused my attention on runway alignment and our deceleration.  I looked down the runway and noticed a dark area in the dark background of the runway.

Something was not right about that.  I said to the first officer, "I think there is something on the runway, right side".  He said, "Yeah that looks weird".  "How about you move to the left side of center line", I said.  He moved the aircraft laterally  and  about 3 seconds later, at about 120 mph, we zipped past a large engine cowling sitting in the middle of the right side of the runway.  I later figured out that our right engine missed that huge piece of metal by about 20 feet.

"Tower XXXXXX 1420", I said.  "Go ahead" was the reply from tower.  " At about the 4000 foot remaining marker, in the middle of the right side of the runway, there is a large engine cowling that poses a great danger".  "United XXXX go around", was the immediate response from the tower controller.  The ground and tower controllers at JFK are some of the best, anywhere.  I have a high degree of respect for the job they do everyday, without fail.  That tower controller coordinated the closure of runway 22 left, the canceling of all departures on runway 22 right and the sequencing of all airborne aircraft to the remaining available runway to land.

My words to the controller started a sequence of events that would take the better part of an hour to finally settle down to normal operations.  Where I was able to get a word in, I gave the controller as much information as I could.  The engine cowling was big, about 10 feet across.  The aircraft that landed in front of us asked me what color the cowling was.  I told them that at 120 mph I was just trying to void it, it was dark out there and I could not help him.  The tower controller told me that their ground radar was picking up an object about that size, in the area that I told him I saw the cowling.  The newer ground radar systems must be pretty good to pick up something that size.

There was about 10 seconds of silence, when that aircraft transmitted to the tower that they thought they might be missing an engine cowling.  Hitting that cowling at a high rate of speed could be catastrophic for any aircraft.  That night it was no harm, no foul.  A serious disruption in the normal operations of JFK, as the international departures were at their peak.

I doubt that this will ever happen to me again, but that is the same thing I said to my daughter when she backed into the neighbor's car the first time.

Be Safe,

FlyGuy.

Fallen Soldier

Another 4^th of July is here and all across the nation, millions of us will celebrate in thousands of different ways.  Our military members around the world will miss out on hometown celebrations, instead, performing the duties assigned to them.  This story is in honor of them.

 

As a commercial pilot, I too see the effects of the war in Iraq and Afghanistan.  Last month I showed up to start a trip and was approached by a gate agent.  “Captain, good morning, I wanted to inform you that we have H.R. on this flight”, she said.  H.R. stands for human remains.  “Are they military?”, I asked.  “Yes”, she said.  “Is there and escort?”, I asked.  “Yes, I already assigned him a seat”, she said.  “Would you please tell him to come to the flight deck, you can board him early”, I said.

 

A short while later, a young army sergeant entered the flight deck.  He was the image of the perfectly dressed soldier.  He introduced himself and I asked him about his soldier.  The escorts of these fallen soldiers talk about them as if they are still alive and with us.  “My soldier is on his way back to Virginia”, he said.  He proceeded to answer my questions, but offered no words on his own.  I asked him if there was anything I could do for him and he said no.  I told him that he has the toughest job in the military and that I appreciated the work that he does for the families of our fallen soldiers.  The first officer and I got up out of our seats to shake his hand.  He left the flight deck to find his seat.

 

We completed our preflight checks, pushed back and performed an uneventful departure.  About 30 minutes into our flight I received a call from the lead flight attendant in the cabin.  “I just found out the family of the soldier we are carrying, is onboard”, he said.  He then proceeded to tell me that the father, mother, wife and 2-year-old daughter were escorting their son, husband, and father home.  The family was upset because they were unable to see the container that the soldier was in before we left.  We were on our way to a major hub at which the family was going to wait 4 hours for the connecting flight home to Virginia. The father of the soldier told the flight attendant that knowing his son was below him in the cargo compartment and being unable to see him was too much for him and the family to bare.  He had asked the flight attendant if there was anything that could be done to allow them to see him upon our arrival.  The family wanted to be outside by the cargo door to watch the soldier being taken off the airplane.  I could hear the desperation in the flight attendants voice when he asked me if there was anything I could do.  “I’m on it”, I said.  I told him that I would get back to him.

 

Airborne communication with my company normally occurs in the form of email like messages.  I decided to bypass this system and contact my flight dispatcher directly on a secondary radio. There is a radio operator in the operations control center who connects you to the telephone of the dispatcher.  I was in direct contact with the dispatcher.  I explained the situation I had onboard with the family and what it was the family wanted.  He said he understood and that he would get back to me.

 

Two hours went by and I had not heard from the dispatcher.  We were going to get busy soon and I needed to know what to tell the family.  I sent a text message asking for an update.  I saved the return message from the dispatcher and this following is the text.

“Captain, sorry it has taken so long to get back to you.  There is policy on this now and I had to check on a few things.  Upon your arrival a dedicated escort team will meet the aircraft.  The team will escort the family to the ramp and planeside.  A van will be used to load the remains with a secondary van for the family.  The family will be taken to their departure area and escorted into the terminal where the remains can be seen on the ramp.  It is a private area for the family only.  When the connecting aircraft arrives, the family will be escorted onto the ramp and planeside to watch the remains being loaded for the final leg home.  Captain, most of us here in flight control are veterans.  Please pass our condolences on to the family, thanks.”

 

I sent a message back telling flight control thanks for a good job.  I printed out the message and gave it to the lead flight attendant to pass on to the father.  The lead flight attendant was very thankful and told me, “You have no idea how much this will mean to them.”  Things started getting busy for the descent, approach and landing. 

 

After landing, we cleared the runway and taxied to the ramp area.  The ramp is huge with 15 gates on either side of the alleyway.  It is always a busy area with aircraft maneuvering every which way to enter and exit.  When we entered the ramp and checked in with the ramp controller, we were told that all traffic was being held for us.  “There is a team in place to meet the aircraft”, we were told.  It looked like it was all coming together, then I realized that once we turned the seat belt sign off, everyone would stand up at once and delay the family from getting off the airplane.  As we approached our gate, I asked the copilot to tell the ramp controller we were going to stop short of the gate to make an announcement to the passengers.  He did that and the ramp controller said, “Take your time.” 

 

I stopped the aircraft and set the parking brake.  I pushed the public address button and said, “Ladies and gentleman, this is your captain speaking.  I have stopped short of our gate to make a special announcement.  We have a passenger on board who deserves our honor and respect.  His name is private XXXXXX, a soldier who recently lost his life.  Private XXXXXX is under your feet in the cargo hold.  Escorting him today is army sergeant XXXXXXX.  Also onboard are his father, mother, wife, and daughter.  Your entire flight crew is asking for all passengers to remain in their seats to allow the family to exit the aircraft first.  Thank you.”

 

We continued the turn to the gate, came to a stop and started our shutdown procedures.  A couple of minutes later I opened the cockpit door.  I found the two forward flight attendants crying, something you just do not see.  I was told that after we came to a stop, every passenger on the aircraft stayed in their seats, waiting for the family to exit the aircraft.  When the family got up and gathered their things, a passenger slowly started to clap their hands.  Moments later more passengers joined in and soon the entire aircraft was clapping.  Words of “God Bless You, I’m sorry, Thank you, Be proud, and other kind words were uttered to the family as they made their way down the aisle and out of the airplane.  They were escorted down to the ramp to finally be with the loved one lost. 

 

I never did see the family.  Another soldier died, another family grieved and we did what we could.  That is the way it works sometimes.  I get a call from the cabin and we work as a team to do what we can.  That day everybody from the flight crew, to the operations center, to the 184 passengers onboard, we did what we could.  Many of the passengers disembarking thanked me for the announcement I made.  They were just words, I could say them over and over again, but nothing I say will bring that soldier back.  I respectfully ask that all of you reflect on this day and the sacrifices that millions of men and women have made to ensure our freedom, safety, and the right to live a good life.

 

Be safe,

 

FlyGuy.

Jungle Pool

I found this incredible freshwater pool during a hike in the Dominican Republic.  I have never seen anything like this, natural, refreshingly cool water, and no people.  I have been working on a war story, that will soon be posted.

Be Safe, FlyGuy

Cheap Bastards

When my company hired me two decades ago, one of the first things I noticed about many of my fellow pilots was that they were cheap bastards. I consider this to be a compliment to my fellow aviators.

These pilots were not cheap when it came time to splitting the dinner bill, as they were all quite gracious in paying up. As a new guy, I had many meals and drinks bought for me by the captains I flew with. “I don’t want your money, just do this for your copilots when you’re a captain”, they would say. A friend of mine had one captain sternly make him take back the money he had just given the captain, for the prior evenings’ dinner bill. They were in the cockpit when the captain thrust the money back at the copilot and said, “God damn it, I told you I didn’t want any fuckin money and when I say I don’t want your fuckin money, that means I don’t want your fuckin money! We have two more days of flying together dip shit and if I see one fuckin red cent come out of your pocket, I will cut your dic off and use it for a pitot tube!” A fraction of a second later the senior flight attendant burst into the cockpit and screamed, “Everything you just said went over the public address system, stop talking!” The captain had been resting his hands on the center console, where the radio panels are. He had accidentally pushed the transmit button on the console, giving all 150 people on board a front row seat to his dialogue. He was mortified. Both pilots looked down the center aisle of the cabin and saw 300 eyeballs bulging out of people’s heads in disbelief. They had not left the gate yet, and had another four hours with these people. The captain performed an emotional Mea Culpa, hoping an offended passenger would not file a complaint.

Hotels offer a plethora of freebies that end up in the homes of pilots. There are soaps, shampoos, lotions, sewing kits, amenity kits, and other things of strategic value. On the nightstands in hotel rooms, there usually is a pad of stationary and a cheap pen. The stationary pads are commonly found in the cockpits, on the built in clipboards, but the pens are too valuable to leave behind. If there are free newspapers at the front desk, we are certain to take one. At some of the better hotels you can find a newspaper and a Wall Street Journal at the same time, major score.

There is the story of the pilot who finally sends his first child off to college. The young adult returns for the holidays and proceeds to tell the parents everything they have learned. The parents are told many things, but their child was most impressed by learning that most bars of soap are actually very big and shampoo comes in bottles that are bigger than their thumb. Being raised on hotel toiletries brought home by the student’s father, the young person was ignorant to this important part of life, only because the father, a pilot, was a cheap bastard.

Discounts and deals abound in the pilot world. Almost every airport eatery and hotel restaurant offers a percentage off of whatever we purchase to eat. There are coupons for free drinks or buffets. I have seen 50% off in some places, which none of us can pass up. I was at a coffee shop in a layover hotel recently, getting ready to head to the airport. The young woman working the counter got me my coffee and handed me two big chocolate chip cookies for free. Of course I shyly refused, but she insisted that I take the cookies. “You never know when you might get hungry”, She said. I was trying to smile and not drool at the same time. This treatment is not unusual. I was walking through the Cincinnati airport once, when a worker at the Mrs. Fields Cookies counter waved me over. “You can have all the left over cookies for five dollars”, the counter person said. I walked away with three bags of cookies and boasted about my good deal for weeks after. I had realized that the cookies kiosk was closing and instead of throwing the cookies away, they would offer them all at a price no pilot could refuse. I scored those bags of cookies several times but got so sick of them, that I eventually refused the good deal. The same thing happened in Buffalo New York one night. We were doing a turn around, so we were there for about an hour. I ran down to the cafeteria and ordered some wings. The man working the counter asked if I wanted extra wings. I said, “Sure, sounds good”. He brought out three large to go boxes of wings, mild, medium, and hot. We stuffed ourselves. When ordering a meal where the food is scooped up in a predetermined amount, the generous workers dishing out the food usually add a partial scoop more, smiling at us while they do it. I have never seen a pilot tell them to take it back.

There is a good chain of communication amongst pilots, allowing us to share the free things or good deals in our layover cities. A fellow pilot told me about free coffee at the hotel coffee shop in Boston. He said, “You have to be in uniform to get the free coffee”. I mentioned this to my copilot the evening we arrived at that hotel. The next morning I was in the lobby of the hotel studying the subway map. We had the entire day off and I was interested in visiting a museum. I was surprised to see the copilot walk by in his uniform, seven hours before we were to be picked up. He marched over to the coffee shop and picked up a free cup of coffee, saving himself about $2.50. “You make me proud”, I said. He smiled, held up the free cup of Joe in a salute, and then proceeded to pick up a newspaper someone left on a chair. He went back to his room, drank free coffee and read a free paper. It doesn’t get much better than that.

I worked the Hawaiian operation for several years. Our layover hotel was at a gargantuan hotel complex with three, forty story towers. Through the grapevine, I had found out that the rooftop of every tower had a hot tub on it with an ice chest of soda next to it. Access to the rooftop was limited to the expensive business rooms on the upper floors. This was by no means a deterrent to us pilots. I discovered that if I took the elevator as high as I could go without using a room key, I could then take the stairwell up the remaining floors, to the rooftop. I was not interested in the hot tub, but drinking a free soda and taking in the incredible view from forty stories up, was great. I spent many hours up there over those years and never saw another person on that roof. On my way down one day I decided to take the elevator from the highest floor. As I walked towards the elevator I saw a door open to what looked like a lounge. I walked into the room and realized this was a suite converted into the business club lounge.

The suite was gorgeous, fronting the ocean, filled with food, drinks, newspapers, and a self-serve bar. The best part of this situation was realizing that there were no hotel employees in the room. I was alone with platters of food, free drinks, and 24 hours off. I settled in like I owned the joint. I left two hours later, only when another hotel guest entered the room. I went back many times, but one day, when I walked in, I saw a woman sitting behind a desk. “Good afternoon sir, can I assist you?” she said. I wanted to say, “Yeah, can you just go away from this good deal I have?” I remained calm and said, “I am trying to find my boss, and I was told to meet him here.”

“Oh, no problem, what is his name, I can look him up and contact him.” she said.

I was digging myself into a hole. I politely refused her help and left quickly. I could tell she was eyeing me suspiciously. When I got to the elevators, I turned around to smile at her. Next to every elevator were a big bowl of tropical fruit and a stack of newspapers. In an act of defiance, I picked up a papaya, a mango, and a Wall Street Journal while smiling. The elevator arrived quickly and I left. I called the front desk and asked when the business lounge was staffed. I was told that at 4:30 every afternoon, the business lounge was staffed. I had my answer. From then on I made sure I never spent time in that room after 3:00.

I spread the word about the rooftop and lounge to my fellow pilots. One of my fellow pilots brought his wife with him on a trip to Honolulu. He convinced the wife to go to the rooftop with him and sit in the hot tub. It was a beautiful night and they ended up having sex, then more sex, then running around the rooftop naked. Just as they were getting back to putting their clothes on, a security team came out onto the roof. Both parties were surprised as hell to see each other. The pilot apologized to the security team as he was putting his clothes on, grabbed a couple of free sodas and left with his humiliated and unhappy wife.

There was a time when most airlines served good food, especially in first class. I am allowed to sit in first class when I travel off duty. The pass system at my company allows me to travel unlimited times a year. Some years ago a pilot told me that over the weekend he took his wife and children on a flight that was a round trip flight to another city. He flew out on the first leg enjoying a nice lunch and free drinks in first class. They were on the ground for an hour before the same aircraft with the pilot and his family still on it, returned to its point of origin. He and his family enjoyed a first class dinner on the way back, the children enjoying a few ice cream sundaes. That was how they spent their day and evening, enjoying free food, drinks, desserts, and movies. The monthly food bills were less than normal because the pilot was uncanny in his ability to be a cheap bastard.

Not that long ago I was riding to a hotel for a layover. Across the street from my hotel I saw a sign on the marquis of another hotel advertising free wireless Internet. My monthly schedule requests were due the next day and I needed Internet access to send my requests in. Instead of paying for the service in my hotel, I walked across the street that next morning to use the free Internet at the other hotel. I walked past the lobby and sat in a public area near a fireplace that had couches and coffee tables. As I was booting up my computer I saw a large urn of coffee across the room. “What the heck” I thought, it’s just a cup of coffee. I got up and fixed myself a large cup of coffee, just the way I like it. I was working on my computer with a solid Internet connection, drinking my coffee, when a hotel employee approached me. “Sir, the breakfast buffet is now open, would you like me to show you what we have this morning?” she said. Without the slightest hesitation, I said, “Why that would be great, thank you.”
I proceeded to make myself a waffle, gather a plate of eggs and bacon, a glass of juice, and a container of strawberry banana yogurt. I was still there three hours later when they closed down the breakfast area. I was asked if I would like anything else, so I asked if I could take a snack to go. I have shared this nugget with many of the pilots I fly with and they too have enjoyed a scrumptious morning buffet, across the street.

This story could go on and on as there are endless examples of pilots being cheap bastards, but there is one last example I would like to share with you.

About 16 years ago, I was an engineer on the Boeing 727. The captain brought a bag onboard at the beginning of our trip. He handed me the paper bag and told me to put it in a safe place. When we got to our destination that night, he asked me for the bag. During our four-day trip, each day would start out the same, he would hand me the bag, I would put it out of harms way, and he would ask for it at the end of the day. On the last day, as he handed me the bag, I heard the clinking of glass. “Be careful with that,” he said. I asked him what was in the bag. He told me there were about ten light bulbs in the bag. I asked him why he carried all of these light bulbs around. He said to me, “I take the burned out light bulbs from home and exchange them with the working light bulbs in our hotel rooms.” I was at a loss for words, but I remember thinking that this guy is one cheap bastard!  I am honored to be carrying his torch, twenty years later.

Be Safe,

FlyGuy

Cadet Barf

In the back of every passenger seat, on every aircraft I fly, there is a small bag that has one single purpose, to vomit in. I looked at one recently, and printed in six different languages, were the words, “comfort bag”. Countless unfortunate individuals have become acquainted with these little bags. They have no instructions printed on them. It is left to the individual and their specific situation, to determine the proper use of the bag. A few months ago I was catching a ride home with another carrier, soundly sleeping. During the descent of that flight I awoke to an awful smell and much commotion around me.

A young man sat down in the aisle seat next to me, his face ashen and his hands trembling. Behind me several people were getting up and moving as far away from him as possible. He had gotten sick in the row behind me. He did not use his little bag and had left a mess all over the seats and floor. It was obvious he had seen happier times. He looked over at me as if he was in trouble an apologized profusely. I told him that this happens all the time and showed him how to direct cool air to his face. I had a bottle of water with me and gave that to him as well. Soon, he felt better and I talked to him until we got to our arrival gate. He thanked me and said he was surprised that I stayed with him, as everyone else got as far away as possible. I told him I was used to it. What I did not tell him was how I had become immune to vomiting events. It is with great pleasure, after 25 years, I would like to share with you the story of Cadet Barf.

When I entered pilot training in the Air Force, my entire class was subjected to a myriad of training events, before flying a jet. We were told about the rigors of our training and what would be expected of us. There were grading standards in many areas and all would have to be passed satisfactorily, or we risked being eliminated from the program. We were also told that there was a time limit to the program as well. You could not keep trying to pass a part of the program over and over. At a certain point enough was enough and you were out. One of the reasons you could be eliminated was getting airsick. Like other events, you could get sick as a dog for a time, but if you could not get it under control, you were medically eliminated. The acrobatic and high G environment really played havoc with many trainees’ stomachs. It was the contention that getting airsick in combat was simply unacceptable and therefore your services were not needed. Another layer of stress was added to the already stressful training environment.

About six weeks after we started flying, we entered the acrobatic part of our training. We were taught to do several maneuvers in the high g force environment. This caused many of us to get sick inflight. In my class, one trainee was eliminated for airsickness. This of course, freaked us out more. Many of us were immune to airsickness and it was not a factor. It was a factor for FlyGuy and I struggled through several flying lessons trying to not vomit and fly my jet at the same time. I remember one flight where my instructor tried to get me sick. He had us all over the sky in a nonstop demonstration of every maneuver I had to learn and perform. We called these pilots, stick hogs, as they liked to do most of the flying and left little time for us, the students, to practice. “Are ya gonna puke?”, he yelled. “No sir, give me more of this shit, I love it!”, I would yell back louder, in one big lie. I started to sweat and felt nauseous. My concentration diminished as I felt my stomach flip flop and I started to drool, you know, that pre barf alarm clock that clangs the upchucking inevitable. “Show me another barrel roll.” He said. It was like being asked to disembowel myself. I was focusing on the maneuver when I regurgitated.

My greatest fear had come true. I don’t know how I did it, but I stopped the mass of vomit in my mouth. The training jets were unpressurized, this was one of the reasons we wore full face oxygen masks. You did not want to throw up in your oxygen mask. My teeth were acting like a lock on a canal and the locks were stuck closed. After completing the barrel roll, I was told to do more acrobatic maneuvers. Somewhere in this nightmare, I decided to swallow everything. I hope and pray that I never have to swallow something so foul, again. I did not throw up again on that flight but I feared a recurrence. I did not tell my instructor that I got sick as he would have had to log it in my grade book, and I did not want to give that stupid asshole the satisfaction of knowing he made me puke. I went to the bathroom and washed my mouth out for a while and cooled off. During my debrief, the instructor was kind and complimentary on my performance, and I avoided an airsickness write up in my grade book. There were a few instructors like this guy who were normal on the ground but turned into raging maniacs in the air. We students called them “flamers", as they screamed and yelled like they were on fire and you were the reason. Yeah, this guy was a flaming, stupid asshole, stick hog.

It took another three or four rides to not get sick during acrobatic flying. This was a huge relief to me. My classmates talked about their experiences getting airsick, many were much worse than mine. We always kept the little white sick sacks in our flight suit leg pockets. These were zippered pockets the length of our foreleg and about eight inches wide. This was the perfect size for full sick sacks. The key to vomiting success was to make sure that you got your little white bag out, then open the bag, get your oxygen mask off, and place your mouth into the barf bag. This was to ensure that you did not throw up all over yourself, the cockpit, and most importantly, your instructor. Timing in this matter was critical. There were plenty of sick sacks to go around as the instructors carried at least two. Once the sick sacks were full, it was imperative that you seal them off so as not to leak or break open. On more than one occasion a sick sack would break open while resting in the pant leg of a student pilot. There was one student who forgot his sick sacks and when he asked his instructor for a sick sack, he was told to throw up in his helmet bag. This was the flight bag we used to carry our helmet, checklist, and other items required for our flights. Nasty!

For a short time there were sick sack fights within my class. I am not sure how this demented fracas started. Someone realized that a full sick sack was a potent weapon. For about two weeks, flying sick sacks were regarded with abject terror amongst us students. Bloated, opened, sick sacks were placed in victims helmet bags, cars, and lockers. My first experience with this was during a debrief and hearing the words, “Jesus Christ, who fuckin did this!” Everyone turned to see one of the students holding a vomit covered hand over his helmet bag. Someone had dumped their sick sack into his helmet bag and he had reached into the bag to retrieve something and he came out with a hand full of vomit. I have rarely heard laughter that hard. The victims face turned crimson, he turned to the table next to him and flung the vomit off his hand into the faces of two other students. What happened next was a blur. Chairs flew back as everyone stood up, with most of us running for the door. Pushing, shoving, and bad words were coming from the vomit victim table. The instructors were ordering a stop to the melee and the rest of us were exiting the room. Things calmed down for the rest of that day but the vomit abuse continued, randomly, as sick sacks were filled. Under the cover of darkness, someone tossed a full sick sack onto the windshield of a car leaving the squadron parking lot one night. The driver of that car was the flaming, stupid asshole, stick hog. His car came to a screeching stop and he jumped out daring the tosser to identify himself, and if he did not identify himself, he would hunt him down. No one emerged from the shadows that evening, but later that year I found out the vomit tosser was another instructor pilot, who thought the guy was, well, a flaming, stupid asshole, stick hog. So it went for a couple of weeks, puke paranoia at an all time high. One of my classmates confided in me that he was a puke cheater. He filled sick sacks with yogurt from the snack bar, then used these vomit decoys as a defense against the real thing. I considered this a brilliant move and made myself two decoys. It is the sharing of such stupendous secrets like this, that make one a friend for life. The decoys worked great, but after a few days the decoys swelled from the biological processes in the yogurt. They looked like a bag of chips that are made in a factory at sea level, but are sold at a ski resort at 7,000 feet. We made new decoys and no one was the wiser. The next day our flight commander let it be known that the puke wars were over.

I became an instructor pilot after graduating from flight training. I returned to my base and was assigned to a training flight. Before I was allowed to take a student sortie, I was sent through a checkout program. I would fly with senior instructors and squadron leaders, who acted like students. I was supposed to treat them as if we were on a real training flight. I was excited to finally be in a real training squadron doing what I liked best. I showed up for my first checkout ride and was shocked to find flaming, stupid asshole, stick hog, waiting for me. “Great to have you back.” He said. We got our gear and headed out to the flight line. “Listen, I don’t feel that well today so I will let you do most of the flying.” He said. This was to be a contact flight with acrobatic and spin training.

As we entered our training area, I started to babble about my first maneuver, then demonstrated that maneuver. I then let him try it. I flew a series of maneuvers and was setting us up for a spin demonstration, when he dropped his mask, opened a sick sack and violently threw up. I acted as though I had not seen him get sick and forced my jet into the violent void of uncontrolled flight. This is a weird place to go as the aircraft loses all of its lift and starts to rotate around its central axis like a spinning top. If I remember correctly, the jet would rotate 360 degrees every three seconds, and drop about 700 feet with each turn. I would find out soon enough that this made many students sick. The intention of teaching this was to allow the student to get themselves out of this uncontrolled flight and get the jet flying again, a big confidence booster.

To get out of a spin, one has to force the jet into a cone of recovery and to get there requires an aggressive series of movements to the control surfaces. It is a violent maneuver to say the least and requires much altitude to recover in. I finished the spin recovery and asked my fake student to show me one. “Didn’t you see me drop my mask!” he yelled. I looked over and he had vomit all over him and the sidewall of the cockpit.
The centrifugal forces of the spin had sent the vomit flying to the side and away from me. This was due to the direction I chose to enter the spin as I did not want the vomit to come flying in my direction. It was a long time before I was so proud of myself again. In one moment I was able to pay back the dozens of students this flaming, stupid asshole, stick hog, had gotten sick. Because I was an instructor, he couldn’t do a thing to me and I told him he had to buy me a beer for throwing up in my jet.

During my years as an instructor, I flew with a few students who were in the process of being medically eliminated due to airsickness. They were told they had three extra rides to get it together or they were gone. Once they were assigned to you, they flew all three rides with the same instructor. I treated these poor men with kid gloves. I would talk to them all the way out to the training area, letting them know that I wanted them to succeed. I would tell them about my experience with airsickness and that they needed to relax and focus on one maneuver at a time. There were a few times that these students did get sick. While we were still sitting in our jet at the end of these fights, I would tell the student that there would be nothing in their grade book about getting sick, they needed to relax more, and when they got their wings they owed me a beer. Every one of those students completed the course and pinned on their wings. One of them flies commercially for the same company I fly for. I see him now and then and remind him he still owes me that beer. I opened sick sacks for many students and witnessed some gruesome vomiting, but no one came close to the infamous Cadet Barf.

A few times a year, the Air Force would fly in a plane load of ROTC cadets for orientation rides. These young adults were college students who were taking military courses that would lead to being commissioned as an officer in the Air Force. Most of them wanted to be pilots. Part of their program was to experience a flight in a real training jet. This gave them an idea of what they would be doing after graduating and it was an incentive to stay in the ROTC program. They would show up in groups of about fifty, usually early in the morning. They were given safety briefings and kept in a large classroom where they would wait for their flight. This was an all day affair and there was not much for them to do. Each squadron had a snack bar that served all kinds of things to eat. It was a self serve room where you could get or make things yourself and pay at a cash register operated by a student who was not flying. These ROTC cadets were told to be careful what they ate and to eat as little as possible. There were hot dogs, chili dogs, pizzas, burgers, sandwiches, ice cream bars, chips, candy bars, frozen breakfasts, nachos, sodas, and many other delicacies.

That day I was assigned three orientation flights with the visiting cadets. The cadets were enjoyable to fly with as they were happy to be there and excited about jet flying. I went to the classroom, found my first student and went out to fly. The flights lasted about thirty minutes. We would fly out to a training area and let the cadet try to fly a few simple maneuvers and we would demonstrate a few. On return to the base the cadet would be allowed to fly a bit more. That was it, quick and simple. At the end of the day, the cadets would be flown out to return home. My third and last flight was with a pleasant young man who was just finishing a chili dog. I noticed that he had a few ice cream sandwich wrappers, empty bags of chips, and soda cans in font of him on the table. “Did you eat all of that?” I asked. “Yes, sir, and two more hotdogs.” he said. “Was it the gas and go special?” I asked. “Yes, sir, but don’t worry about me sir, I can take whatever you give me, I’m immune to everything.” He said. The gas and go special was a good deal. You got two hotdogs, a can of chili, bag of chips, and a soda for two dollars. Cadet barf had consumed that and all the other stuff. Airsickness is an individual symptom and many people are not affected by it at all. I assumed he knew enough about his eating habits to know when to stop. He and I went out to the flight line, found our jet and took off. I suspected something was not right on our way out to the training area. I made a shallow turn after takeoff, where Cadet Barf grabbed the instrument panel in front of him and said, “Your a little aggressive there, aren’t you?” I told him this was normal flying and we really had not done anything wild yet. Cadet Barf remained silent. Upon reaching the area, I let him fly straight and then make a turn. I asked him if he wanted to see anything specific. He told me he wanted to see all the acrobatic “stuff. I flew for about three minutes showing him different maneuvers. After the demonstration, I asked him if he wanted to try a loop. My question was met with silence, I looked over at him and all vomit hell broke loose.

Cadet Barfs’ head jerked a few times and vomit came squirting out the sides of his oxygen mask. Not more than a second later another wave of vomit came out of his mask. I remember thinking that this kid was going to drown in his own puke if that mask did not drop off his face. “Take your oxygen mask off!” I said, but he just sat there jerking his head and gagging. The oxygen masks had microphones in them that were hot wired, which allowed us to talk to each other without having to push any buttons. This system worked well when you were not listening to someone gag.

I reached up and flipped open his sun and wind visors, then released one side of his oxygen mask, which swung open on one side. His face looked like a toddlers face after eating mashed ham, peas, and cereal for the first time. All the vomit in his mask fell onto his flight suit as he threw up onto the windscreen in front of him. I had never seen projectile vomit before, but there it was traveling straight out of his mouth to a point in space in front of him, which happened to be the windscreen. I pulled a sick sack out of my leg pocket, opened it and thrust it in front of his face. “Here use this!” I said. His hands were shaking as he grabbed the bag and filled it to the brim in an instant. I snapped another bag open, told him to give the full one to me, and take the empty one. He managed to do that and continued to fill the second bag up before I had tied the first one closed. I opened a third bag and exchange it for the full bag. He sat there with his mouth over the bag drooling, looking like he wanted to die. Meanwhile I was flying the jet, keeping myself oriented in the training area, closing and storing barf bags, and trying to help this poor bastard. I reached down to store the second full sick sack and when I looked back up, he had already filled the third bag. I gave him my fourth and last sick sack and told him to hang in there, we were going back to base. He just moaned and filled the last sick sack I had to the brim. What am I going to do now, I wondered. The only thing I could think to say was,”Take your gloves off and use those.” He fumbled with his gloves, pulled them off and filled them both up in less than a minute. By this time I had coordinated to depart my training area, and was heading back. The poor guy was holding both gloves in one hand. He was so sick that he had squeezed the contents out and onto himself. It took about 15 minutes to get back into the flight pattern. We would normally fly up the runway and pitch out in an aggressive manner, throw our gear and flaps down, and land. I asked for a straight in approach, the most gentle way of getting to the ground. Twice more, Cadet Barf vomited on the way back. As I lined up on final and got my gear down I surveyed the damage. I will never forget that horrible scene. It looked like someone had used cans of vomit spray and liberally sprayed Cadet Barf, the windscreen, most of the instrument panel, the floor beneath Cadet Barf, the upper canopy, the side wall, the throttle quadrant, and parts of my left side and leg. To complete the mission Cadet Barf vomited one more time after we landed and I noticed that the last part was a dry heave. I wondered if he was now empty of all the food he had eaten earlier in the day.

When we finished any flight, a crew chief was waiting for us in the parking area. We would taxi in perpendicular to our crew chief and make a sharp 90 degree turn as we came abeam him or her. These jets could turn on a dime and we liked to be precise for our crew chiefs. They were overworked, underpaid, and always happy to help us. They were young, maybe 19 to 20 something, full of energy. As we made our turn in, the crew chief would look at the instructor for a thumbs up or thumbs down sign. Thumbs up meant the jet was good to go for another flight, thumbs down meant something was not right or had to be fixed. I made the turn that day and from thirty feet away the crew chief got a puzzled look on his face. I stuck my hand out with a thumbs down, but the crew chief never saw it. At about that time he realized what it was he was looking at all over the windshield. He started jumping and cussing, shaking his fists and stomping the ground. I stopped the jet, shutdown and started the process of getting out of the cockpit. Poor Cadet Barf was so sick and disoriented, he needed help getting out. The crew chief was very upset and said to me, “Holy shit sir, what did you do, shoot him with a shotgun!” Normally any student who got sick in a cockpit was responsible for cleaning up their own mess. The crew chiefs would give them a bucket of water and some rags. In this case however, the cadets were not required to do their own cleanup. It would not have mattered anyway as Cadet Barf was barely capable of walking in a straight line, let alone focusing on cleaning up lots and lots of vomit. I told the crew chief that the cadet was going to have to wear that vomit covered flight suit until he got back home many hours from now, and that would be punishment enough. I also told him I would help him clean up the jet. This was a shock to him, I could tell. I said, “Come on, lets’ get to work.” I sent Cadet Barf into the squadron and told him I would debrief him shortly. That cockpit looked like someone had butchered small mammals in it. The crew chief kept gagging as we cleaned it all up. “Sir, how do you not get sick doing this?” he said. It was a defining moment for me, one that I have always remembered. I had become immune to the sights, sounds, and smells of vomit.

Going back into the squadron was like running a gauntlet of grief. My first stop as always was the parachute shop, to drop off my gear. The senior technician who oversaw the parachute shop saw me and waved me over. The chief master sergeant was pointing to a parachute and said, “How the hell do you puke on the BACK of a parachute sir?” He was holding Cadet Barfs’ parachute, pointing to a large amount of vomit. “This is going to have to be repacked!” he yelled. “Sorry chief.” Was all I could say. I left the parachute shop and entered the squadron to find Cadet Barf. I found him in the briefing room, at a table in a corner, alone. He stood up at attention as I approached and I told him to sit. He was apologizing profusely, when I held my hand up. I told him what he did was not normal, but I was quite sure that no human being would do such a thing to themselves on purpose. I made him promise me that he would not let this deter his quest to become a military pilot. I told him of my bout with airsickness and the many students that I had seen deal with it and get through the program. I told him to go to the bathroom and wait for me. I was close to one of the squadron supply clerks, who I went to for a favor. I went to the bathroom and Cadet Barf was there waiting for me. “Get out of that awful thing and put this on.” I said. I handed him a brand new flight suit, still in its’ plastic wrapping. “Just throw the one your wearing away and meet me back in the briefing room.” I said. Cadet Barf came back into the room, where I finished my debriefing. It was late and the leaders of the cadets were starting to round them up to leave. I could tell he wanted to talk more, but it was not to be. I dismissed him, he stood and gave me a salute, turned and left.


Years later, halfway around the world, I found myself flying an airlift mission for a global training exercise. We had the day off and some of us went to the local strip of clubs and bars lining a beautiful beach. We hung out at a joint with a thatched roof that only served ice cold beer, had sand for a floor, had no walls, and faced open ocean. The bar slowly filled up and soon we were elbow to elbow with other military members from around the world. I had one of the few precious bar stools facing the bartender and the Indian Ocean. I’m not sure what number beer I was on, when I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned to find a tall, handsome young man smiling at me. He shook my shoulders and said, “I did it. I got through pilot training and I’m flying Hercs out of Yokota! Remember me, I’m the guy that puked all over you!” “Oh Yeah, I remember.” I said. There was Cadet Barf, years older, and with much more confidence standing in front of me. I bought him a cold beer on the condition that he wouldn’t throw it all up on me. We talked for a while. He told me that the experience he had that day, as bad as it was, helped him fight harder to get his wings. What was amazing to me, was that he never got airsick in pilot training, not once! I asked him to explain that to me. “Hell man, I took it all out on you, in one day.” He said with a laugh. Yes, he did.

Be Safe, FlyGuy

You can listen to this story (soon to be posted) at my good buddy Joe's podcasting site at, http://joepodcaster.libsyn.com/