It's Go-Home Day! Unfortunately, as we were on the approach to runway 6L, I witnessed the flight I wanted to catch - Waterski 3312 - take runway 6R for departure. My next attempt is the 8:45 pm flight, which leaves me with several hours to kill. I thought briefly about using this time wisely by calling the Crowne Plaza to come pick me up and getting a room so I could go for a run and take a shower lest I have to sit in the jumpseat. However, as I walked by Dunkin' Donuts I noticed there wasn't a line - and the coffee was calling my name! I figured I'd save the $$ for the crappy schedule I'm sure to get in October.
Seriously, it's like the people of Crew Planning get together every month for a delicious dinner, probably catered by some big name and then billed to the Company. I picture a ritual in which they hold hands, pray, recite the Company's Mission Statements with their hearts in their throats and a eyes welling up with tears of pride. They break the bread and share the wine. After the feast, they pick their teeth, put on our dreadful boarding music, pass around the bong, and try to one-up each other on how to make each base more miserable than they were the last month. Especially the bases that are composed of crewmembers who have been displaced from a base where they were really happy. They'll sit in a circle and let the creative juices flow. Someone takes a hit, "ffffffft........ cough cough.... all right.... How 'bout this?" EXHALE....... "Let's give them a 0225 show on a Sunday (because everyone knows it's next to impossible to commute on a Saturday), make them fly 7 legs, include a 4:55 minute sit somewhere that doesn't have a crew room, follow that with a reduced-rest overnight with one leg the next day, and top it off with a 36 hour overnight somewhere in a cow pasture so there's nothing to do, and THEN, we end the trip too late for them to catch a flight home!!"
This elicits a round of applause and clinking of shotglasses filled with top-shelf tequila as they continue their brainstorm of trip-pairing misery. After their work is done, they play Naked Twister and send the one no one can stand to go get twinkies from the convenience store. The first person to fall asleep awakens to find a video of himself on YouTube getting duct taped to the couch. His friends fart bare-assed in his face as he wets his pants because someone put his hand in a bowl of warm water. As dawn breaks the next day, they wipe their sleepy eyes, brew coffee as they shake off their buzz, exchange hugs, and watch the facebook news feed in breathless anticipation for the hilarious reactions of the pilots as they see what's in store for them.
I'm sorry, this month's bid is still fresh in my mind. Just when you think the trips can't get any worse, they do.
This will all be worth it one day. I really do believe that. One day, I won't be living paycheck to paycheck. One day, I'll be doing the long-haul stuff. One day, I will make this dream work. One day.
But for now, I find happiness in the opportunity to work with the best people in the world. I like that every traveler I encounter has a story. I find happiness in little things that no other job in the world would offer me.
I watched the sunrise this morning through ever-changing pastels, the night sky going from black to blue just before the first rays of sunlight break through the pink, purple, and orange clouds..... sipping my coffee and enjoying a completely smooth ride as even ATC is quiet..... that makes "paying your dues" not so bad.
Crew Planning..... bring it on. I choose to be happy.
Thursday, September 15, 2011
Monday, September 5, 2011
A time-wasting stroll down memory lane.
First Officer's Log; Day 2 of 4. Time 16:16 Eastern. Location, NYC.
To quote from one of my favorite Twilight Zone episodes, the one in which the main character finds himself the lone survivor of a nuclear holocaust, leaving him with no responsibilities so he can finally pursue the magic of enriching his mind with all the glorious information that the world's books have to offer, "Ahh. Time enough at last!"
Yes, time enough at last to rot in my hotel room for 24 hours on this Labor Day. Flight schedules are reduced this weekend. In fact, this weekend marks not only the unofficial end of Summer, but also the official end of Summer Flying Schedules - much to the commuting pilot's dismay. As a result, even when our captain offered this morning to whore all of us out to Scheduling (give us work instead of heading to the hotel after only flying one leg today), they had everything covered for once. Sure, when I want to work, they don't need me. Instead they call me when I'm making lasagna, drinking wine, and dancing in the kitchen to Dean Martin's music on Cheat Day, thousands of miles away from my Cleveland base.
It's been this way since I started with this company. I started off like every other pilot out there - at the bottom of the seniority list, on reserve. What that means to my non-airline speaking followers is that I was on-call. A pilot or flight attendant on reserve at my company is given 90 minutes from the time Scheduling initially calls to be at the door of the airplane, ready to fly. Reserve schedules generally consist of 12 hour shifts, usually 4am - 4pm for pilots and 3am - 3pm for flight attendants. Since I had no residence in St. Louis (I had just moved out of the hangar I was living in provided by my previous employer and moved in with my boyfriend in Jefferson City - alas, beyond the 1:30 callout time), and driving 4 hours round-trip every night, just to be available was out of the question, I had to stay in hotels in the STL area. I was new, I was eager, I was so excited to finally make the big time - flying for an airline!! I called scheduling each day. You know - just to remind them that I was at their beck and call. Most of the time, however, they had no work for me. If anything, it was a round-trip somewhere, leaving me back in base to fend for myself. While I'm certainly not wealthy now, first-year FO pay is beyond dismal and it wasn't long before I ran out of money.
I tried calling the numbers advertised for "pilots only crash-pads" in the crew room, but was met with, "You're a pilot? Uhhh...... let me get your number. We're full now, we'll call you if there's an opening." Too proud to ask for help, and full of dreams and a spirit of adventure, I decided it was best to live in my Jeep. After all, I was on probation, and the surest way to lose my awesome new job was to show up late for work! I spent my days walking around parks and malls in my uniform pants, reading books and checking my phone every 5 minutes. Didn't want to miss a call!
I spent my nights in the parking lot of the on-airport bar at CPS (the East St. Louis airport where I flew freight). You may laugh, but I felt safe there! I knew the freight schedules and hangar door combination, so when I felt especially grungy and was sure everyone was asleep, I'd sneak in to take a quick shower and slip out before anyone was the wiser. I didn't want my peers at my former freight job to know my situation. They were excited for me that I had moved on to "bigger and better things!" I called scheduling and BEGGED for work. It was obvious they were tired of hearing from me when they less-than delicately told me, with all the warmth of a dead penguin frozen to an iceberg - that if they needed me, they'd call. Finally, after a few months of this, I got a line - meaning a real schedule so I could sleep in my own bed at night.
Looking back, this is sad in so many ways. The public would shit a golden egg roll and wipe with platinum chopsticks if they knew that the pilot flying them to Newark slept in her uniform for 3 consecutive nights, under a blanket in her jeep at the Bar's parking lot near East St. Louis, while being rewarded with pay that is less than that of the person who picked up their burger patty they ordered while waiting for their flight. It is with the memory of this experience that I almost take delight in telling them politely to piss up a rope when they call me and beg me to cover a flight.
Back to the here and now. While I am flying with a fun crew this trip, no one wants to go out and explore the city because it costs money. Instead, it was, "well, see you tomorrow morning at 8!" SLAM. CLICK. Which is probably a good thing, because I'm running a bit short on dough, too <again!>; in fact I'm counting the days until the "big paycheck" on the 15th. This is sad because we were paid only a few days ago. Also, with the new diet I'm on, I'd have to carry protein powder, almond butter, a portable scale to weigh my food, and an avocado with me wherever we go in the event that we're not back to the safety of the hotel within a few hours. If we find ourselves in the unfortunate situation of being mugged, I'd have to bargain with the mugger, "yes, you may have my purse, money, and credit cards, but please leave me with my food scale, protein powder, and enough money to purchase an avocado so I don't ruin my diet with street vendor food!"
So here I sit, jotting down memories of how I got here.
The old me would brave the walk to the gas station next door, purchase enough alcohol to get me through cut-off time, and YouTube Tom Waits and Eric Clapton songs while playing Bejeweled Blitz until my eyes got so blurry it was time to collapse into bed. Sleep with my foot on the floor in order to stop the room from spinning, with the trash can next to me - while I have no plans to use it, it's there just in case.
The new me misses the old me in times like this. However, the new me loves waking up without reaching for the "morning after" cocktail of advil and gatorade!
It's taken me almost 10 years to get on the right track after my little bargain with God, made as I was waiting in the emergency room to undergo emergency surgery after shattering my ankle and leg. Ah, but this is a story for another blog entry. Time to shake up that protein powder and ready the almond butter!
To quote from one of my favorite Twilight Zone episodes, the one in which the main character finds himself the lone survivor of a nuclear holocaust, leaving him with no responsibilities so he can finally pursue the magic of enriching his mind with all the glorious information that the world's books have to offer, "Ahh. Time enough at last!"
Yes, time enough at last to rot in my hotel room for 24 hours on this Labor Day. Flight schedules are reduced this weekend. In fact, this weekend marks not only the unofficial end of Summer, but also the official end of Summer Flying Schedules - much to the commuting pilot's dismay. As a result, even when our captain offered this morning to whore all of us out to Scheduling (give us work instead of heading to the hotel after only flying one leg today), they had everything covered for once. Sure, when I want to work, they don't need me. Instead they call me when I'm making lasagna, drinking wine, and dancing in the kitchen to Dean Martin's music on Cheat Day, thousands of miles away from my Cleveland base.
It's been this way since I started with this company. I started off like every other pilot out there - at the bottom of the seniority list, on reserve. What that means to my non-airline speaking followers is that I was on-call. A pilot or flight attendant on reserve at my company is given 90 minutes from the time Scheduling initially calls to be at the door of the airplane, ready to fly. Reserve schedules generally consist of 12 hour shifts, usually 4am - 4pm for pilots and 3am - 3pm for flight attendants. Since I had no residence in St. Louis (I had just moved out of the hangar I was living in provided by my previous employer and moved in with my boyfriend in Jefferson City - alas, beyond the 1:30 callout time), and driving 4 hours round-trip every night, just to be available was out of the question, I had to stay in hotels in the STL area. I was new, I was eager, I was so excited to finally make the big time - flying for an airline!! I called scheduling each day. You know - just to remind them that I was at their beck and call. Most of the time, however, they had no work for me. If anything, it was a round-trip somewhere, leaving me back in base to fend for myself. While I'm certainly not wealthy now, first-year FO pay is beyond dismal and it wasn't long before I ran out of money.
I tried calling the numbers advertised for "pilots only crash-pads" in the crew room, but was met with, "You're a pilot? Uhhh...... let me get your number. We're full now, we'll call you if there's an opening." Too proud to ask for help, and full of dreams and a spirit of adventure, I decided it was best to live in my Jeep. After all, I was on probation, and the surest way to lose my awesome new job was to show up late for work! I spent my days walking around parks and malls in my uniform pants, reading books and checking my phone every 5 minutes. Didn't want to miss a call!
I spent my nights in the parking lot of the on-airport bar at CPS (the East St. Louis airport where I flew freight). You may laugh, but I felt safe there! I knew the freight schedules and hangar door combination, so when I felt especially grungy and was sure everyone was asleep, I'd sneak in to take a quick shower and slip out before anyone was the wiser. I didn't want my peers at my former freight job to know my situation. They were excited for me that I had moved on to "bigger and better things!" I called scheduling and BEGGED for work. It was obvious they were tired of hearing from me when they less-than delicately told me, with all the warmth of a dead penguin frozen to an iceberg - that if they needed me, they'd call. Finally, after a few months of this, I got a line - meaning a real schedule so I could sleep in my own bed at night.
Looking back, this is sad in so many ways. The public would shit a golden egg roll and wipe with platinum chopsticks if they knew that the pilot flying them to Newark slept in her uniform for 3 consecutive nights, under a blanket in her jeep at the Bar's parking lot near East St. Louis, while being rewarded with pay that is less than that of the person who picked up their burger patty they ordered while waiting for their flight. It is with the memory of this experience that I almost take delight in telling them politely to piss up a rope when they call me and beg me to cover a flight.
Back to the here and now. While I am flying with a fun crew this trip, no one wants to go out and explore the city because it costs money. Instead, it was, "well, see you tomorrow morning at 8!" SLAM. CLICK. Which is probably a good thing, because I'm running a bit short on dough, too <again!>; in fact I'm counting the days until the "big paycheck" on the 15th. This is sad because we were paid only a few days ago. Also, with the new diet I'm on, I'd have to carry protein powder, almond butter, a portable scale to weigh my food, and an avocado with me wherever we go in the event that we're not back to the safety of the hotel within a few hours. If we find ourselves in the unfortunate situation of being mugged, I'd have to bargain with the mugger, "yes, you may have my purse, money, and credit cards, but please leave me with my food scale, protein powder, and enough money to purchase an avocado so I don't ruin my diet with street vendor food!"
So here I sit, jotting down memories of how I got here.
The old me would brave the walk to the gas station next door, purchase enough alcohol to get me through cut-off time, and YouTube Tom Waits and Eric Clapton songs while playing Bejeweled Blitz until my eyes got so blurry it was time to collapse into bed. Sleep with my foot on the floor in order to stop the room from spinning, with the trash can next to me - while I have no plans to use it, it's there just in case.
The new me misses the old me in times like this. However, the new me loves waking up without reaching for the "morning after" cocktail of advil and gatorade!
It's taken me almost 10 years to get on the right track after my little bargain with God, made as I was waiting in the emergency room to undergo emergency surgery after shattering my ankle and leg. Ah, but this is a story for another blog entry. Time to shake up that protein powder and ready the almond butter!
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