This post is about aviation, but it starts out with golf.
Specifically, it starts out with the first practice day, Tuesday, October 6, 2009, for The Presidents’ Cup golf tournament, held at Harding Park in San Francisco, California. This is a match play event between the 12 highest ranking golfers from the United States versus the 12 highest ranking golfers from the rest of the world, except Europe. (The reason Europe is excluded is because the more famous Ryder Cup pits the US versus the best European golfers. The Presidents’ Cup is, therefore, a “Ryder Cup” for the rest of the world.)
My wife and I volunteered to be marshals for the event, marshals being the people who control the foot traffic and tell people to be quiet and stand still while the golfers are hitting and putting, and yesterday we were assigned the task of controlling a fairway pedestrian crossover, using ropes to open the crossway when there were no golfers taking shots or walking down the fairway. All in all, a great way to see a lot of great golf, and great golfers. (And celebrities too. Michael Jordan for one, former Presidents Bill Clinton and George HW Bush for another.) But, and this is big, this is also Fleet Week in San Francisco, meaning the Blue Angels are in town. And, in fact, manning my gate early on with nothing much to do because the golfers were still several holes away, I heard an aircraft noise that had that sound that is hard to describe but is the sound that military fighter aircraft have and civilian air transports do not. I looked up, and there, out past the golf course running north up the shore line, were seven gold and blue F-18s, six in tight formation, one solo behind: The Blue Angels demonstration team plus the two seat, support and training aircraft. I mean, here I am, on a great golf course, a beautiful fall day with temperatures in the high 60’s, watching some of the most famous golfers in the world (yes, Tiger Woods, but also Freddie Couples, Greg Norman, Ernie Els), while The Blue Angels fly by. For me, at least, you just couldn’t make up a more perfect setting.
That evening, watching the local news, both to see what they covered of the first day of golf but also to see if they had anything on The Blue Angels, there were pieces on both, and for the Blue Angels they noted that they had arrived at San Francisco International Airport (KSFO/SFO) after having done a flyby up the coast and over The Bay. The film coverage showed the flight of six as they made their break for their visual approach and landing. It was a beautiful sight, as only a precision break can be, and it got me to thinking about breaks in general and memories of specific breaks.
The first question that always comes up is, “What is a break?”, and the second is, “Why do they do them?” (other than that they just look like an awful lot of fun to do, and they can, so they do). The Break was originally developed as a tactical maneuver to avoid enemy fire around the base when returning from a mission. The idea was to approach the field, in formation, at pattern altitude but at a high rate of speed. This obviously made it harder for ground fire to hit the aircraft, but left them still in formation and going too fast to land. The maneuver that resulted in their being separated, in trail, and slowed down, was called The Break, and it was done by having each aircraft, one at a time, roll into a 90 degree bank angle, turn 180 degrees, and roll out level on downwind. The 90 degree banked turn dissipated the speed very quickly—an airplane generates essentially zero lift at 90 degrees of bank so the only way to maintain level flight is to trade a lot of airspeed—and, it kept the aircraft within the general confines of the base. With each aircraft breaking off in a carefully timed sequence it put the formation in trail, and from that point on the approach and landing was conventional, a descending base leg, lined up and on speed/on glide path on final, flare over the numbers, landing one after the other.
Whether The Break is still a necessary return to base maneuver is a good question—most bases, both Air Force and Navy, are located well away from any potential enemy—but the tradition continues: fighters always arrive in formation and land after having been cleared for The Break. I saw this on a regular basis after I first upgraded to Boeing 727 Captain at ATA. ATA had a contract with the Air Force to fly personnel to and from Nellis Air Base, North Las Vegas, to Tonopah Air Base, which was near the little town of Tonopah, Nevada, but was, in fact, actually part of a giant restricted area in the interior of Nevada. Tonopah air base was a highly classified test center for stealth aircraft, but the area included everything from underground nuclear test sites to high speed, low level training runs. By the time ATA had the contract to ferry people back and forth the stealth program at Tonopah was publicly acknowledged, but still, parts were highly classified, a base within a base that you could see from the flight line but no one went into without proper clearance. And I mean no one. It was surrounded by fences, spot lights, guard towers, warnings about mines between the fences and machine guns armed to fire at any intruder. So I never got to go in there. But I did get to see a lot of aircraft departing and arriving, both F-117s at Tonopah, and F-16s and F-15s at Nellis. Since Nellis was also the home of the Thunderbirds, the Air Force demonstration team, we occasionally got to see The Break done to perfection, but it was always a sight to see, no matter who was doing it.
Later on I transitioned to Captain on the L-1011, which went all over the world. One of my favorite stops was Naval Station Rota. Rota is near the ocean in southwest Spain, orange, olive, Sherry and Flamenco country. Rota is a joint Spanish-US base (see previous post, “Azores,” for more on joint air bases) and the Spanish had a squadron of Harrier fighters based there. The Harrier is a vertical takeoff and landing fighter, and you have to see these things to believe them, flying fast like a fighter one second, and hovering and taxiing like a helicopter the next. The Break, for them, started normally, approaching the field in formation at high speed, just like fighters always do, breaking off one by one to line up downwind. But when they came across the threshold to land they were still about 50 feet in the air, doing about 50 knots. They decelerated to zero knots by the end of the runway, and, from a hover, rotated in place 90 degrees and taxied in to their spot on the ramp, descended the last 50 feet, and shut down. You just couldn’t believe your eyes: the fighter you just saw going by at 250 knots or so slowing to zero and landing from a hover.
On one of my last trips to the simulator for B-757 training we had some extra time at the end and the instructor asked if there was anything I wanted to try with the remaining time. I said, “Sure, I’d like to see what it’s like to fly The Break. So I lined it up with the runway several miles out at 1500 feet, shoved the throttles forward to accelerate to red line speed, chopped the power over the far end of the runway, rolled into a 90 degree turn, rolled out on downwind below maximum flap extension speed and from there on it was just another visual approach. Kind of disappointing. I think the thrill of The Break comes from, first, being in formation: this is the wolf pack coming back from the kill, with the Alpha Wolf leading the break with his pals following; second, it’s just a lot more exciting to see aircraft roll into 90 degree banked turns, one after the other, than it is to actually do one. Still, it’s got to be a thrill to come back to the field at high speed, in formation, and to hear the controller say, “Cleared for The Break.”
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Azores
I watched a food program on the Azores the other night, and watching it brought back good memories of the many times I had been to the Azores flying for ATA. The Azores, a 300 mile long series of islands formed by mountain tops sticking out of the ocean, with Pico, at over 7000 feet, the highest, are technically part of Portugal, but they are a long way from Portugal, well out in the North Atlantic, and have a history and culture somewhat different from the mainland. Because the islands were settled over a period of several hundred years, and because the distances between them are considerable, each island developed somewhat separately with its own traditions and culture. (The locals say they can still tell which island someone is from by the way they talk.) The islands have also become popular vacation spots for the Portuguese, both European Portuguese and Portuguese-Americans, many of whom have summer homes on the islands.
ATA (then American Trans Air) used to have a weekly run every summer out of BOS to both Ponta Delgado on the island of San Miguel, and to Lajes on the island of Terceira—the Boston-New Bedford area is home to many Portuguese-Americans, many originally from the Azores, having migrated there to work in the fishing industries. (I am amazed at what an impact the relatively small country of Portugal has had all over the world—if there is saltwater with fish in it, you will find a Portuguese community. Hawaii, for instance, has a large Portuguese component to its culture.) These flights were extremely popular with the Portuguese-American community for two reasons: one, they were a lot cheaper, being charters, than the scheduled airlines were; two, they were direct flights to the Azores—the only other way to get to the Azores from the US was to go to Europe first, normally Lisbon (Lisboa in Portuguese), and then fly back, a two day affair. So they always went completely full, and since everyone was usually going for a fairly long stay, and since everyone had family there for whom they were taking gifts from America, they were also some of the heaviest loads we ever flew.
Since the Azores were formed from volcanic peaks sticking out of the ocean, as a rule there aren’t many good places for airports. The airport at Ponta Delgado, for instance, was hacked out of the side of the mountain. It is also fairly short (for an L-1011, anyway), and had steep drop-offs at both ends. It was more like an aircraft carrier than an airport, and after a long night of flying, and having just broken out under a heavy overcast after shooting a non-precision, non-radar approach to see that little strip of runway clinging to the side of the mountain, the landings that resulted were also often closer to aircraft carrier landings than they were to air carrier landings. But it was all great fun, and the kind of thing that pilots love to do.
The exception to this rule is Lajes airport, on the big island of Terceira. Terceira is like the island of Maui (Hawaii), in that both were formed when two volcanoes were joined by the outflow from one of them, forming large, relatively flats areas in between. This created a perfect spot, in both cases, for airports.
Lajes is long enough to be an emergency landing site for the space shuttle, and wide enough to handle a B-52 (300 feet wide, versus the more common 150 feet). It was also the first place the pilot of an Air Transat Airbus 330 (August, 2001) headed when he lost power to both engines after a fuel leak over the North Atlantic, taking advantage of its huge runway to execute a safe, power off landing. Lajes has been used as a refueling stop since WWII, and has been a permanent, shared air base for the Portuguese and US Air Force ever since. And that was the other reason for my many trips to the Azores, military charters, Lajes being a regular stop on the US military world wide transportation circuit.
Unlike many shared facilities in the world, where the US military presence is often tolerated but not welcomed, the relationship between the Portuguese and US military at Lajes was very harmonious. (I put this in the past tense because I haven’t been to Lajes for several years now, and I assume this is all still true, but I’m looking back here.) For instance, the two air forces shared a common officers club with a pretty good golf course. You could get an American hamburger or Portuguese grilled squid in a tomato, garlic sauce in the clubhouse, and you could pay for it with either dollars or escudos (now euros). There were no hassles getting on or off the base, and air traffic control was equally professional and courteous regardless of whose air force was handling it.
The only real challenge to Lajes were the winter winds, and since the military operates year round, they couldn’t be avoided. Terceira is in the middle of the ocean, and the winds coming across the North Atlantic can be ferocious in the winter. Compounding this was the physical location of the airport, in the flat part of the island but snuggled up against a long ridge formed by the smaller of the two volcanoes, which caused the wind to curl up and over it and create a strong crosswind in the middle of the runway, while the larger volcano caused the prevailing winds to swirl in the opposite direction. The result was often three entirely different winds over the length of the runway, a headwind at touchdown, a crosswind midway, and a tailwind towards the end. Except sometimes they swapped, and the headwind became a tailwind and the crosswind would switch to the other side—you never really knew, but with three windsocks, one at each end and one in the middle—you at least had some clues. Fortunately, the L-1011 was probably the best aircraft ever made for handling these kinds of conditions, and while you often had a hand full of airplane and couldn’t take anything for granted, you also knew you had an aircraft that could handle virtually anything and would do whatever you asked it to do. It was a challenge but it was also great fun. (I wrote a post in 2008 titled “Track Up” about a particularly nasty approach into Oakland airport. The difference there was that I was then flying a B-757, and while the 757 is a terrific airplane, better than the 1011 certainly in terms of reliability, automation, and efficiency, it is no 1011 when it comes to gusty, crosswind landings. But I was new to the 757 at that point and I didn’t know that yet and expected more from it.)
The nearest town to the Lajes airport was a little place right on the water called Pria. Pria is a very typical little Azorean fishing village with great restaurants and cafes and it was all pretty cheap, too. One summer evening, handing off the aircraft we brought in to the crew taking it out, the outgoing captain said they had found a really great place to eat and we had to check it out, it was just down the beach from the hotel, wasn’t marked real well, but it looked like a big beach house of some sort and was the only one along that stretch, and we just had to try it.
Crew often pass along tips like this because they are always looking for places friendly to American crews and accommodating of our preferences (like separate checks, and not having to wait until 9 o’clock to eat, and menus we can understand), and someone always gives them a nickname like The Broken Chair or The Red Door and everyone knows where they are and what to expect there. I thought I knew every place to eat in Pria, but this sounded like it was worth checking out, and it didn’t even have a nickname yet.
So after checking in and cleaning up we—my copilot and my flight engineer and I—headed down the beach to look for this place. We found a place that had to be it, but to say it wasn’t marked well was an understatement—it wasn’t marked at all. It looked like a private house, with no signs or menus posted or anything that indicated it was a restaurant. It was still early in the evening (but late for us, and we were hungry), so we climbed up the stairs to a veranda and peaked inside and we could see what looked like it could be a restaurant, with a small bar and lots of tables and a door that could have gone to a kitchen, but we still weren’t sure. Then someone appeared inside and saw us peaking in, and came over and opened the door. We said we had heard that this was a good restaurant and wondered if we could get some dinner. He said something vague like, “Come on in, have a seat at the bar,” and disappeared. So we sat there for awhile and eventually someone else came out and asked us what we wanted to drink, and I think we had some beers, and slowly a few more people did come in, older couples mainly, and pretty soon we could smell good food smells, so that seemed promising, but we still hadn’t seen a menu or a waiter.
By now we were getting really hungry, and a little puzzled as to what exactly was going on, so I asked if we could see some menus. Whoever he was at the bar said, “Oh, there are no menus.” I said, “How are we going to know what to order?” and he said something to the effect of “Everyone just gets pretty much the same thing, but if you want I can take you to the kitchen and show you what we have.”
So I said, “Great,” and off we went, the three us, following this guy around in the kitchen and there were big pots of all kinds of good looking and good smelling things all around and I keep asking what each was and he keeps saying, “Oh, you don’t need to know the names, it’s not important,” and I’d say, “But I want to remember what it is so I know what to order,” and he says, “”Oh, don’t worry about that,” and finally we just gave up and figured what will be will be and hoped for the best, which at that point we were so hungry a spoon to lick would have been fine.
So we sat down at a big table, room for probably eight, and someone else comes over and says, “You will want to drink wine with dinner, and here in the summer we always drink Vino Verde, so do you want to order some Vino Verde?” I had never heard of Vino Verde but I knew it meant Green Wine and that didn’t sound so good, but it didn’t seem like it was really a question or a choice, and I looked at the other two guys and they just shrugged, so I said, “Sure, Vino Verde.” (It is actually a very light, slightly sparkling, slightly sweet wine that is perfect in warm weather with spicy food. And it does have a green tinge to it.)
Then, I don’t really remember in exactly what order, other people arrived and some sat down with us at our table, and slowly food started to arrive in big bowls, food I recognized from our kitchen tour, and more Vino Verde arrived and at this point, still having not seen a menu or a price list or any attempt to keep track of who ordered what, we just gave in and started eating and drinking and not worrying about how it was all going to work out. The men at our table, mostly older and very distinguished looking with very good English, seemed to know a lot about aviation and American Trans Air, and we had a great time talking and enjoying the food, which just kept arriving until I realized that we had something from every pot in the kitchen. Towards the end of the meal a very elegant man arrived at our table, dressed with a silk scarf and an expensive looking sweater with a jacket draped over his shoulders and offered us an after dinner drink. We still didn’t know what any of this was going to cost, and had had plenty of Vino Verde anyway, so we thanked him and declined, but he insisted, sat down and we all talked for awhile, still not knowing who anyone was.
Eventually, getting late, we thanked everyone for their company and said we needed to pay and get on our way, and no one seemed to pay much attention to any of that, and finally I said to one of the men who had been at the table since the beginning, and who seemed to be kind of a leader, that this was a wonderful restaurant, but very unusual, and he said, “Well, it isn’t exactly a restaurant. Do you know where you are?” And I said, “Well, I thought it was a restaurant, but I guess not. So where are we?” He said, “We are all generals in the Portuguese Air Force. I am the Chief of Staff. The man who offered you the after dinner drinks is a priest and also the Head Chaplain for the Portuguese Air Force. We all have summer homes here on the island and this is our private club.”
Needless to say we very embarrassed and apologetic, but he said, “No, no problem at all—we see each other enough and it is good to talk to other pilots and it’s our club and we can welcome whomever we want. We hope you enjoyed your evening.”
We never did see a bill but we did leave some money that we hoped went to the staff. I think we played golf the next day. I don’t really remember. We never did give it a nickname.
ATA (then American Trans Air) used to have a weekly run every summer out of BOS to both Ponta Delgado on the island of San Miguel, and to Lajes on the island of Terceira—the Boston-New Bedford area is home to many Portuguese-Americans, many originally from the Azores, having migrated there to work in the fishing industries. (I am amazed at what an impact the relatively small country of Portugal has had all over the world—if there is saltwater with fish in it, you will find a Portuguese community. Hawaii, for instance, has a large Portuguese component to its culture.) These flights were extremely popular with the Portuguese-American community for two reasons: one, they were a lot cheaper, being charters, than the scheduled airlines were; two, they were direct flights to the Azores—the only other way to get to the Azores from the US was to go to Europe first, normally Lisbon (Lisboa in Portuguese), and then fly back, a two day affair. So they always went completely full, and since everyone was usually going for a fairly long stay, and since everyone had family there for whom they were taking gifts from America, they were also some of the heaviest loads we ever flew.
Since the Azores were formed from volcanic peaks sticking out of the ocean, as a rule there aren’t many good places for airports. The airport at Ponta Delgado, for instance, was hacked out of the side of the mountain. It is also fairly short (for an L-1011, anyway), and had steep drop-offs at both ends. It was more like an aircraft carrier than an airport, and after a long night of flying, and having just broken out under a heavy overcast after shooting a non-precision, non-radar approach to see that little strip of runway clinging to the side of the mountain, the landings that resulted were also often closer to aircraft carrier landings than they were to air carrier landings. But it was all great fun, and the kind of thing that pilots love to do.
The exception to this rule is Lajes airport, on the big island of Terceira. Terceira is like the island of Maui (Hawaii), in that both were formed when two volcanoes were joined by the outflow from one of them, forming large, relatively flats areas in between. This created a perfect spot, in both cases, for airports.
Lajes is long enough to be an emergency landing site for the space shuttle, and wide enough to handle a B-52 (300 feet wide, versus the more common 150 feet). It was also the first place the pilot of an Air Transat Airbus 330 (August, 2001) headed when he lost power to both engines after a fuel leak over the North Atlantic, taking advantage of its huge runway to execute a safe, power off landing. Lajes has been used as a refueling stop since WWII, and has been a permanent, shared air base for the Portuguese and US Air Force ever since. And that was the other reason for my many trips to the Azores, military charters, Lajes being a regular stop on the US military world wide transportation circuit.
Unlike many shared facilities in the world, where the US military presence is often tolerated but not welcomed, the relationship between the Portuguese and US military at Lajes was very harmonious. (I put this in the past tense because I haven’t been to Lajes for several years now, and I assume this is all still true, but I’m looking back here.) For instance, the two air forces shared a common officers club with a pretty good golf course. You could get an American hamburger or Portuguese grilled squid in a tomato, garlic sauce in the clubhouse, and you could pay for it with either dollars or escudos (now euros). There were no hassles getting on or off the base, and air traffic control was equally professional and courteous regardless of whose air force was handling it.
The only real challenge to Lajes were the winter winds, and since the military operates year round, they couldn’t be avoided. Terceira is in the middle of the ocean, and the winds coming across the North Atlantic can be ferocious in the winter. Compounding this was the physical location of the airport, in the flat part of the island but snuggled up against a long ridge formed by the smaller of the two volcanoes, which caused the wind to curl up and over it and create a strong crosswind in the middle of the runway, while the larger volcano caused the prevailing winds to swirl in the opposite direction. The result was often three entirely different winds over the length of the runway, a headwind at touchdown, a crosswind midway, and a tailwind towards the end. Except sometimes they swapped, and the headwind became a tailwind and the crosswind would switch to the other side—you never really knew, but with three windsocks, one at each end and one in the middle—you at least had some clues. Fortunately, the L-1011 was probably the best aircraft ever made for handling these kinds of conditions, and while you often had a hand full of airplane and couldn’t take anything for granted, you also knew you had an aircraft that could handle virtually anything and would do whatever you asked it to do. It was a challenge but it was also great fun. (I wrote a post in 2008 titled “Track Up” about a particularly nasty approach into Oakland airport. The difference there was that I was then flying a B-757, and while the 757 is a terrific airplane, better than the 1011 certainly in terms of reliability, automation, and efficiency, it is no 1011 when it comes to gusty, crosswind landings. But I was new to the 757 at that point and I didn’t know that yet and expected more from it.)
The nearest town to the Lajes airport was a little place right on the water called Pria. Pria is a very typical little Azorean fishing village with great restaurants and cafes and it was all pretty cheap, too. One summer evening, handing off the aircraft we brought in to the crew taking it out, the outgoing captain said they had found a really great place to eat and we had to check it out, it was just down the beach from the hotel, wasn’t marked real well, but it looked like a big beach house of some sort and was the only one along that stretch, and we just had to try it.
Crew often pass along tips like this because they are always looking for places friendly to American crews and accommodating of our preferences (like separate checks, and not having to wait until 9 o’clock to eat, and menus we can understand), and someone always gives them a nickname like The Broken Chair or The Red Door and everyone knows where they are and what to expect there. I thought I knew every place to eat in Pria, but this sounded like it was worth checking out, and it didn’t even have a nickname yet.
So after checking in and cleaning up we—my copilot and my flight engineer and I—headed down the beach to look for this place. We found a place that had to be it, but to say it wasn’t marked well was an understatement—it wasn’t marked at all. It looked like a private house, with no signs or menus posted or anything that indicated it was a restaurant. It was still early in the evening (but late for us, and we were hungry), so we climbed up the stairs to a veranda and peaked inside and we could see what looked like it could be a restaurant, with a small bar and lots of tables and a door that could have gone to a kitchen, but we still weren’t sure. Then someone appeared inside and saw us peaking in, and came over and opened the door. We said we had heard that this was a good restaurant and wondered if we could get some dinner. He said something vague like, “Come on in, have a seat at the bar,” and disappeared. So we sat there for awhile and eventually someone else came out and asked us what we wanted to drink, and I think we had some beers, and slowly a few more people did come in, older couples mainly, and pretty soon we could smell good food smells, so that seemed promising, but we still hadn’t seen a menu or a waiter.
By now we were getting really hungry, and a little puzzled as to what exactly was going on, so I asked if we could see some menus. Whoever he was at the bar said, “Oh, there are no menus.” I said, “How are we going to know what to order?” and he said something to the effect of “Everyone just gets pretty much the same thing, but if you want I can take you to the kitchen and show you what we have.”
So I said, “Great,” and off we went, the three us, following this guy around in the kitchen and there were big pots of all kinds of good looking and good smelling things all around and I keep asking what each was and he keeps saying, “Oh, you don’t need to know the names, it’s not important,” and I’d say, “But I want to remember what it is so I know what to order,” and he says, “”Oh, don’t worry about that,” and finally we just gave up and figured what will be will be and hoped for the best, which at that point we were so hungry a spoon to lick would have been fine.
So we sat down at a big table, room for probably eight, and someone else comes over and says, “You will want to drink wine with dinner, and here in the summer we always drink Vino Verde, so do you want to order some Vino Verde?” I had never heard of Vino Verde but I knew it meant Green Wine and that didn’t sound so good, but it didn’t seem like it was really a question or a choice, and I looked at the other two guys and they just shrugged, so I said, “Sure, Vino Verde.” (It is actually a very light, slightly sparkling, slightly sweet wine that is perfect in warm weather with spicy food. And it does have a green tinge to it.)
Then, I don’t really remember in exactly what order, other people arrived and some sat down with us at our table, and slowly food started to arrive in big bowls, food I recognized from our kitchen tour, and more Vino Verde arrived and at this point, still having not seen a menu or a price list or any attempt to keep track of who ordered what, we just gave in and started eating and drinking and not worrying about how it was all going to work out. The men at our table, mostly older and very distinguished looking with very good English, seemed to know a lot about aviation and American Trans Air, and we had a great time talking and enjoying the food, which just kept arriving until I realized that we had something from every pot in the kitchen. Towards the end of the meal a very elegant man arrived at our table, dressed with a silk scarf and an expensive looking sweater with a jacket draped over his shoulders and offered us an after dinner drink. We still didn’t know what any of this was going to cost, and had had plenty of Vino Verde anyway, so we thanked him and declined, but he insisted, sat down and we all talked for awhile, still not knowing who anyone was.
Eventually, getting late, we thanked everyone for their company and said we needed to pay and get on our way, and no one seemed to pay much attention to any of that, and finally I said to one of the men who had been at the table since the beginning, and who seemed to be kind of a leader, that this was a wonderful restaurant, but very unusual, and he said, “Well, it isn’t exactly a restaurant. Do you know where you are?” And I said, “Well, I thought it was a restaurant, but I guess not. So where are we?” He said, “We are all generals in the Portuguese Air Force. I am the Chief of Staff. The man who offered you the after dinner drinks is a priest and also the Head Chaplain for the Portuguese Air Force. We all have summer homes here on the island and this is our private club.”
Needless to say we very embarrassed and apologetic, but he said, “No, no problem at all—we see each other enough and it is good to talk to other pilots and it’s our club and we can welcome whomever we want. We hope you enjoyed your evening.”
We never did see a bill but we did leave some money that we hoped went to the staff. I think we played golf the next day. I don’t really remember. We never did give it a nickname.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Big World, Small World
Back in the “old days,” back when transitioning from domestic to international flying usually meant also transitioning from two and three engine narrow body aircraft like the DC-9 and the 727 to three and four engine wide body aircraft like the L-1011 and the 747, one of the first things you noticed was that “the world gets bigger and the runways get shorter.” That’s how a senior captain once described the experience to his very inexperienced 1011 First Officer, me. What he meant was, you start to cover very large distances when you can fly at Mach .85 for nine hours, and you realize what a big place the world is. You also discover that to do that—to carry that much weight in terms of fuel to go that far with a big airplane full of people and bags—that you also need a lot more runway both to takeoff and land. Where you might have been pretty comfortable with a 7000 or 8000 foot runway before, 7000 feet was now a short runway.
But the more you fly and the more people you fly with, the smaller the world gets as well. (But it doesn’t make the runways any longer.) You meet so many people in aviation, and often spend quite a bit of time with them, get to know them well, and then things change—you change aircraft, or bases, or companies, and you never or seldom see them again. But you do meet and see other people who often knew the same people you did. In aviation, it is both a big world and a small world.
I remember, for instance, back in 2004 or 2005, doing a Honolulu turn out of San Francisco on the 757 for ATA, talking to my copilot who, it turned out, grew up in New London, New Hampshire. I told him that I knew New London very well, having lived just a few miles away in Hanover, New Hampshire for four years when I flew corporate jets for AMCA International out of Lebanon, New Hampshire. It turned out that he knew several of the other AMCA pilots as well, no surprise there, but what was a real surprise was that he also knew one of the captains I had flown with at a previous job, Cub Snively, because Cub was also from New London and one of his sons was my copilot’s best friend from childhood. He also told me that, sadly, Cub had died a few years earlier. (Pilots often seem to die young—I joke that it’s the coffee—but more likely it’s the strain we put on our bodies being awake at all sorts of odd hours combined with years of extra radiation bombardment. Or maybe it’s nothing, maybe we just remember the ones who die young.)
I’m thinking about all this right now because I got an email the other day from another former AMCA pilot, Keith Hasperg, who found me because he had stumbled across my blog. I hadn’t talked to Keith in many, many years, going back before ATA, but often thought about him, for two reasons: One, he was one of the funniest and smartest people I had ever known, and two, he was one of the best pilots I had every flown with, a very skilled pilot, but, unlike most “naturals,” very careful and conservative as well. So it was great to hear from him again. But he also had bad news—another of the AMCA pilots, Nate Lake, had died in July of 2007, and I had fallen so out of touch with Nate that I didn’t even know he had died—I just assumed I could call him any time I wanted or go up to New Hampshire and that he would be there. It struck particularly hard because Nate really was one of the best pilots I had ever known, and taught me an awful lot about how to fly airplanes well, simply by his example and his tactful, always diplomatic “suggestions” for better ways of doing things. He was also a great friend, and that doesn’t always happen.
I remember asking Nate once how it was he was able to hand fly the aircraft so well, exactly on altitude and airspeed—you almost couldn’t tell if the autopilot was on or not when Nate flew, except his hand flying was, if anything, smoother than the autopilot. He said that when he was in Navy primary flight training that they trained in tandem seat aircraft, and that his primary instructor carried a small stick with him. Communication was difficult from front to back, so this guy would just tap him on the helmet whenever he saw anything he didn’t like, like the altitude being off by 20 feet. Nate said it just got easier to never let anything deviate than to put up with that d… stick. What it really was was Nate’s careful way of telling me that anyone can do it, you just have to try.
After I left AMCA, I got into aviation writing and eventually got a contract to do what would turn out to be the first edition of my navigation book, The Aviator’s Guide to Modern Navigation. The first person I consulted before starting was Nate Lake because he was also a trained Navy navigator. He read all of my chapters in draft form and caught many mistakes and made many helpful suggestions. I owe him a lot. If it hadn’t been for aviation being such a small world, I never would have found out what a big world it is. If I have any excuse for not having gotten in touch with him later, it was that I thought he would live forever.
But the more you fly and the more people you fly with, the smaller the world gets as well. (But it doesn’t make the runways any longer.) You meet so many people in aviation, and often spend quite a bit of time with them, get to know them well, and then things change—you change aircraft, or bases, or companies, and you never or seldom see them again. But you do meet and see other people who often knew the same people you did. In aviation, it is both a big world and a small world.
I remember, for instance, back in 2004 or 2005, doing a Honolulu turn out of San Francisco on the 757 for ATA, talking to my copilot who, it turned out, grew up in New London, New Hampshire. I told him that I knew New London very well, having lived just a few miles away in Hanover, New Hampshire for four years when I flew corporate jets for AMCA International out of Lebanon, New Hampshire. It turned out that he knew several of the other AMCA pilots as well, no surprise there, but what was a real surprise was that he also knew one of the captains I had flown with at a previous job, Cub Snively, because Cub was also from New London and one of his sons was my copilot’s best friend from childhood. He also told me that, sadly, Cub had died a few years earlier. (Pilots often seem to die young—I joke that it’s the coffee—but more likely it’s the strain we put on our bodies being awake at all sorts of odd hours combined with years of extra radiation bombardment. Or maybe it’s nothing, maybe we just remember the ones who die young.)
I’m thinking about all this right now because I got an email the other day from another former AMCA pilot, Keith Hasperg, who found me because he had stumbled across my blog. I hadn’t talked to Keith in many, many years, going back before ATA, but often thought about him, for two reasons: One, he was one of the funniest and smartest people I had ever known, and two, he was one of the best pilots I had every flown with, a very skilled pilot, but, unlike most “naturals,” very careful and conservative as well. So it was great to hear from him again. But he also had bad news—another of the AMCA pilots, Nate Lake, had died in July of 2007, and I had fallen so out of touch with Nate that I didn’t even know he had died—I just assumed I could call him any time I wanted or go up to New Hampshire and that he would be there. It struck particularly hard because Nate really was one of the best pilots I had ever known, and taught me an awful lot about how to fly airplanes well, simply by his example and his tactful, always diplomatic “suggestions” for better ways of doing things. He was also a great friend, and that doesn’t always happen.
I remember asking Nate once how it was he was able to hand fly the aircraft so well, exactly on altitude and airspeed—you almost couldn’t tell if the autopilot was on or not when Nate flew, except his hand flying was, if anything, smoother than the autopilot. He said that when he was in Navy primary flight training that they trained in tandem seat aircraft, and that his primary instructor carried a small stick with him. Communication was difficult from front to back, so this guy would just tap him on the helmet whenever he saw anything he didn’t like, like the altitude being off by 20 feet. Nate said it just got easier to never let anything deviate than to put up with that d… stick. What it really was was Nate’s careful way of telling me that anyone can do it, you just have to try.
After I left AMCA, I got into aviation writing and eventually got a contract to do what would turn out to be the first edition of my navigation book, The Aviator’s Guide to Modern Navigation. The first person I consulted before starting was Nate Lake because he was also a trained Navy navigator. He read all of my chapters in draft form and caught many mistakes and made many helpful suggestions. I owe him a lot. If it hadn’t been for aviation being such a small world, I never would have found out what a big world it is. If I have any excuse for not having gotten in touch with him later, it was that I thought he would live forever.
Monday, October 27, 2008
We'll See
Winston Churchill is famous for many things, and one of those things was his quick wit. One of my favorite examples came after his defeat as Prime Minister following World War II. (Despite leading England from The Battle of Britain, Their Finest Hour, to eventual Victory in Europe, he was thanked for his efforts with rejection.) In the dumps, his wife apparently tried to cheer him up with a typically British, “Come on Winston. Chin up and all that. Might even be a blessing in disguise.”
He is alleged to have replied, “In which case, it is very cleverly disguised.”
I’ve had one of those “very cleverly disguised” moments with my proposed new book. After struggling for a couple of years with what exactly I wanted to write about (see my last post, “After Oshkosh"), and, having finally come up with an idea and a rough outline, I then had to decide if I really wanted to intrude upon a retirement schedule that I have grown very fond of (the best part of which is not having much of a schedule at all). I, of course, decided that I did want to—as much as I enjoy retirement I also know I need projects and a book is a good project—so I emailed my publisher with a quick summary and asked him if it sounded like something he was interested in. He promptly emailed me back saying that they weren’t doing any new aviation books, that they just couldn’t get shelf space for them anymore at the national retail level (read Barnes & Noble and Borders), and he hoped I could place it elsewhere. So, as the Brits like to say, “And Bob’s your uncle.” That’s that.
My retirement schedule is still intact, and as Mrs. Winston Churchill said, “Maybe it’s a blessing in disguise.” We’ll see. It’s still pretty cleverly disguised at this point.
He is alleged to have replied, “In which case, it is very cleverly disguised.”
I’ve had one of those “very cleverly disguised” moments with my proposed new book. After struggling for a couple of years with what exactly I wanted to write about (see my last post, “After Oshkosh"), and, having finally come up with an idea and a rough outline, I then had to decide if I really wanted to intrude upon a retirement schedule that I have grown very fond of (the best part of which is not having much of a schedule at all). I, of course, decided that I did want to—as much as I enjoy retirement I also know I need projects and a book is a good project—so I emailed my publisher with a quick summary and asked him if it sounded like something he was interested in. He promptly emailed me back saying that they weren’t doing any new aviation books, that they just couldn’t get shelf space for them anymore at the national retail level (read Barnes & Noble and Borders), and he hoped I could place it elsewhere. So, as the Brits like to say, “And Bob’s your uncle.” That’s that.
My retirement schedule is still intact, and as Mrs. Winston Churchill said, “Maybe it’s a blessing in disguise.” We’ll see. It’s still pretty cleverly disguised at this point.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
After Oshkosh
I have taken a bit of a vacation from doing regular posts since my week in Oshkosh this summer. There isn’t any specific reason for that, I just had other things to do and was still sort of absorbing the experiences of Oshkosh. I also began to feel that I may have told enough ATA stories: the stories could go on for a long time, but the important ones—the ones with, what seem to me anyway, important lessons—I think have been told.
One of my first thoughts in starting this blog was that I hoped some of the articles and stories would make their way into a book. I had an idea that I might write a book in which each chapter started with a story that would set the tone and background for the subject that followed. But I found that the stories took on a life of their own and were too long to serve as introductions to chapters; I also didn’t think they warranted a book of their own. I still wanted to do a book, but I couldn’t get a good idea of what I wanted to do or how to structure it.
Then, as usually happens, a book idea came to me once I had let go of the previous idea and after the experience of Oshkosh, a part of aviation I had been away from for many years. It was centered on the idea of adapting professional aviation standards to general aviation. I sort of touched on the issue in the post “Pro-Am,” where I talked about the differences between general aviation and professional aviation, and, in a way, it is something I have been thinking about since my very first book, written back in 1983 and now out of print, Fly Like a Pro.
I‘ve got a starting outline, and how that happened is an interesting story in itself. I had tried, back before going to Oshkosh and before I had a clear idea of where I wanted to go with the book, to make up an outline, or at least a list of topics, and had really struggled with it: no coherence, just a bunch of different ideas, some that could become chapters, others that were just thoughts, and I couldn’t even get a consistent writing style in listing them. I put it away, thinking it was a start and could be improved on later after I had thought about it more.
When the idea did click in my head to specifically focus on professional standards and general aviation, I didn’t even go back to that first outline. I just sat down with a notepad and a pencil, and within 30 minutes had a pretty good outline. A good start anyway, consistent in style with each idea for a chapter of about equal importance, and fairly complete. I have thought about a few additional ideas and it still needs a lot of fleshing out before I can submit it as a proposal to my publisher, but the hard part is done. (That experience of struggling when trying to make a dead end idea work versus everything falling into place once on the right path, is so common, it is kind of a lesson in itself: When it’s right, it works, when it isn’t, it doesn’t. And you can’t force it, you have to step back and hope you can get back on a path that makes sense.)
I also quit doing regular posts partly because I think I finally got down, shortly before leaving for Oshkosh, what I think the most important lessons were from my flying career, and I have, in fact, listed those three posts on the right hand side in a section titled “Credo.” So I have a sense that I have done what I wanted to do with this blog, and probably won’t be doing any more posts on a regular basis.
If you’re used to checking here to see if I there is anything new, I thank you and I apologize for not having done anything lately to justify your interest. It’s probably not going to get any better. If my proposal is accepted, I will be tied up writing on a daily basis for six to nine months and probably won’t do any posts. The next thing I need to think about is whether I really want to do that. But I probably will.
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