Magic Carpet Ride

I do apologize about the length of time between posts. I just couldn't come up with anything blog worthy after my previous entry. Eight months of not almost dying in Boston, while absolutely welcome, makes for pretty dull writing. Consequently, this blog post won't be nearly as exciting, but I've found myself with a bit of time this morning, and I've exhausted my internet forums and facebook. So let's see if I can get some of the cobwebs out of my writing muscle.

News for my non-airline friends: I have since changed aircraft from the EMB 145 to the ERJ 170/175. What that means to the layperson is that while I am still working for the same regional airline, I am flying a plane that is a little bit bigger than the one before it. Also, its engines are mounted just under the wings, AND it has winglets (those flippy things at the end of the wingtips, for the aviation-speak-impaired).... which makes it totally sexy. Also, most people can stand straight up as they board and find their way to their seats. In the previous airplane, people taller than 5' were forced into an uncomfortable "C" position as they shuffled to the back. Not a problem for yours truly!

So. Let's not talk about almost dying in Boston. Let's talk about life. Let's talk about something absolutely meaningless that means a lot to me.

 I've always dreamed of owning a convertible. When I was a teenager, I was very much into the 50's and 60's music - and pretty much everything about that era fascinated me. Honestly, I think I was born in the wrong time. I wanted a 1964 and 1/2 mustang convertible for as long as I can remember. To me, nothing embodied the American spirit as much as that car!

Fast forward to the early 2000's, when I was a flight instructor. One day, I decided to visit a dealership in North Little Rock. I'd driven by and ogled the mustangs for a while, but only now did I have the courage to drive my old Saturn in and ask to test drive one of their mustangs - particularly the red one with the top already pulled back. I had gussied myself up in my sharpest Wal-Mart attire in an attempt to fool the salesman and make myself look rich.

This mustang was fire-engine red. It was a GT convertible, and it was new! The salesman was in his 40's, with a goatee and a flirty manner - absolutely my specialty! I sat down in the driver's seat and felt like I was home. I breathed in the new car smell and ran my finger across the Mustang emblem on the steering wheel.  I didn't notice he'd left me until he plopped down into the passenger seat and handed me the key.

I fired it up. I pressed the gas pedal and smiled as the engine purred a little louder. We pealed outta that lot like we had just robbed a liquor store! Before I knew it, my right hand had found the oldies station just in time to hear the opening guitar licks of "Magic Carpet Ride," by Steppenwolf. I opened up the gas on a relatively empty stretch of highway (got up to a whopping 60 mph!!). The salesman and I did a little headbang as we sang the lyrics to "Magic Carpet Ride." The top was down, the sun was in our faces, and the wind in our hair made it feel like we were the only people on the planet. All too soon, we were back at the dealership, laughing like we were just wasting another summer day.

I knew I wasn't going to buy that car, and I felt a twinge of guilt when I handed the key back to the salesman and tried to make my way back to my Saturn. Somehow, I found myself inside his office, getting my credit checked. Not too much later, there was good news and bad news. The good news - my credit was excellent! Bad news - there wasn't that much of a history. Worse news - somehow the manager came around, and we got to talking about how much money I actually brought home.

The manager was furious. I stood my ground, looked him straight in the eye, and said matter of factly, "I'm a flight instructor. I made $500 last month!" It was a good month; that's more than I'd ever brought home before!

"Then your monthly payment would be your ENTIRE PAYCHECK!!" he exclaimed. "GET THE HELL OFF OF MY LOT!!"

I left there without a mustang, but I had stolen a memory to be savored and fodder for my dreams.

Years went by. Often, I dreamed about what it would feel like like to own that car - a summer's day, blasting music, waving to all the truckers, headed to an airline job I loved - only to wake up disappointed that I was stuck in the same place, with the same job and the same paycheck, living with the same man and in the same toxic relationship. My dream got me through the hardest times as a starving flight instructor when it seemed like I was never going to further my career. I could have purchased one when I left flight instruction and became a freight dawg, but I knew that before the loan ran its course, I'd take a pretty hefty paycut if I wanted to be an airline pilot. So, I continued to drive it only in my dreams.

A year after I upgraded to captain at my current airline gig, my dreams came true when I bought a 2011 Mustang GT convertible. It is Kona Blue, with a gray racing stripe down the center. Why yes, it does have a V8, 5.0 L "Coyote" engine, with over 400 horses at my command. I love the way how, when I step a little too aggressively on the gas pedal, the tires chirp, the seat belt tightens, and my back is pressed into the seat - almost like I'm being caressed. The engine begins with a roar and only gets louder, and I can feel the front end of the car lift ever so slightly as the rear tires dig in to the pavement and all of the engine instrument needles make their way clockwise. The technology in the sound system tries in vain to compensate for the noise by increasing the volume of the radio as the car accelerates. However, it's no match for the true music of that glorious engine!

Dear God!! Is anyone else horny?!?

As awesome as the car is with the top up, pulling the top down takes that awesome to an infinite power. Every song on the radio just sounds better. The problems of the day blow away when I'm barreling down the interstate, wind blown and bathed in sunlight. The currents of the warm air remind me of floating in the ocean. After a while, I notice my face hurts because I've been smiling for so long. Sometimes, I even forget to breathe. Let's face it, I'm no beauty queen. However, when that top is back, I suddenly get honks and waves, which are returned with a big smile. It is absolutely impossible to be in a pissy mood when I'm driving my mustang "topless!"

Sadly, I know that with the official arrival of Autumn, my topless days will become sparse until the top is up for good this winter. The trees are already changing, and baseball is giving way to football as the nation's pastime. The days are getting shorter, and my sun-sweetened home grown tomatoes are looking smaller and sadder. "Pumpkin Spice" is everywhere, and my friends are all excited about cooler weather. Because I tend to get those seasonal blues in the winter time, I feel like I'm hanging on to each day of summer the way I used to hang on to my father's leg when I was a child, crying and begging him not to go to work.

But today is "go-home day" (my Friday, for those not in the airline biz). The high in Kansas City is supposed to be in the low 80's - perfect "top-down" weather. Yes, I used to dream about how wonderful life would be when I could drive my mustang convertible to a job I loved, and I was right. It is wonderful. But I was wrong, too. The BEST part of life is driving that mustang convertible home.

I'm coming home topless, Sweet Cheeks!

Max Pucker Factor

It has been a long time since I have been extremely nervous in an airplane. I don't think "scared" quite describes the feeling. There wasn't time to feel scared. 

The day was scheduled to be a simple enough day. Just Cleveland to Boston, sit for 3 and a half hours, then fly back to Cleveland. After being reassigned the previous night, my crew and I woke up still grumbling about the injustices inflicted upon us. Due to a number of circumstances, fair or not, I spent the previous night in the crash pad after unsuccessfully arguing with crew scheduling on behalf of my crew to get hotel rooms in our crew base. My crew was forced to pay out of their own pockets for their hotel rooms; I felt like I'd failed them - I felt that a better captain would have taken better care of his or her crew. A better captain would have said the magic words to crew scheduling and gotten the crew some hotel rooms. Their pay is dismal enough.... add to that the fact that they've lost the money due to some flight cancellations, per diem, AND paying out of pocket for their rooms. I was angry with myself and the company, and fantasized about all three of us calling in sick, just to show them! They'd be sorry they didn't show some humanity and empathy!

In the end, our work ethic won out over our anger, and seeing that none of us was genuinely sick or fatigued, we all showed up fit for duty, if a little grumpy. We got along great as a crew, and worked together extremely well. We all knew each other well. No matter what was thrown at us, we all were able to handle it with humor and grace, because we were just good friends and gelled so beautifully. Having a great crew can make even the worst trip turn out to still be a lot of fun.

I showed up early. Sad. Pissed. In a funk. Feeling like a crappy leader. I'd gotten caught in the "Polar Vortex" at the beginning of the month, and ended up stuck in the crash pad for 4 days between trips because of the winter weather, airport closures, and massive cancellations. I thought to myself as I was walking to the crew room, "This month is half over. Cumulatively, I have spent all of 2 and a half days at home. I'm tired. I miss my husband and cat. It's Saturday, and there are no direct flights between here and there. If I'm lucky, I won't make it home until 1:30am central. If I make it at all. This trip is stupid. I should have been a nurse."  

More uncharacteristically negative thoughts went through my head as I went about printing the flight's paperwork and sipping my coffee. The Flight Attendant must have smelled my brown funk from down the hall. She showed up, gave me a smile, and tried cheering me up by telling me how wonderful I was to fly with, how people love me, and how no matter what had happened the previous day, I'd kept my smile, my sense of humor, and I kept her and the FO laughing, etc etc. I thanked her, but still wasn't ready to quit beating myself up yet. I needed to get home. But she'd worked so hard to cheer me up, so I smiled for her.

The flight to Boston was uneventful. My negativity spread to the FO, who obviously didn't want to be there, either. We had a depressing conversation over what seemed like a 5 hour flight. The sun was barely up, and I was ready for the day to be over already! 

It was cold, overcast, foggy, rainy, and every bit as gloomy in Boston as I felt inside. I landed the plane and taxied over to the gate. The flight attendant went inside the terminal, the FO went in the back to take a nap, and I pulled out my ukulele and practiced playing the chords to "Autumn Leaves." I gained enough proficiency to whistle the melody as I strummed along. Sweet melancholy overcame me as I listened to the the rain accompanying my sad concert for one. I finally went inside the airport for some lunch.

Food and the flight attendant were finally able to cheer me. I looked outside. To my surprise, it was snowing! Big, fat snowflakes were coming down. It was time to warm up the aircraft, fly back to Cleveland, and get home! Caffeine from Dunkin' Donuts' coffee and the sugar from a Boston Creme doughnut were coursing through my bloodstream, and the prospect of going home made me feel like myself again! We loaded up the plane and pushed off the gate. Because snow had accumulated on the aircraft, we had to go through the de-icing, and anti-icing process. For those of you unfamiliar with this, the deice trucks squirt a fluid on the plane that takes away snow and ice, then follow that with a fluid that prevents ice and snow from sticking to the aircraft. Usually, this process takes all of 5 - 15 minutes, depending on the skill and resources of the deice crew. I told the passengers that Boston was very good at this process, because they are so practiced at it.

45 painful minutes later, we were finally deiced/anti-iced and ready to taxi. We listened to the latest weather/field condition report on our taxi, double-checked our numbers, and taxied to the runway for departure. Lucky for us, we were number 1 in line. The runway itself was shorter than I liked, but still plenty long enough according to our weight, company provided takeoff data, field conditions, and all of the information available to us.

Cleared for takeoff, I passed the controls to the First Officer. He brought up the power. The runway was dusted with a slight amount of snow, but we could see the runway markings and lights through it, and the field condition report gave no mention to any runway contamination. The first 1,000 feet of pavement went by. 

As you gain experience, you gain a feel for the amount of time things should take. Silent alarms go off in your head when things take longer than they should - like, oh, say, accelerating down a runway, for instance.

As we made our way down the runway, the contamination got progressively worse. It wasn't the hard-packed snow we'd been used to all winter. It was thick, heavy, slushy snow that prevented us from accelerating normally. By the time we got to 80 knots, it was clear to me that we were either going flying - or we were going swimming (beyond the 7000 foot runway we were using was the Atlantic Ocean). Aborting the takeoff was not an option. If we'd attempted an aborted takeoff in those conditions, we would have slid off the end of the runway and into the ocean. Luckily, the man at the controls next to me was a seasoned veteran with a great deal of experience, and he knew this, too.

My eyes went from the airspeed indicator, to the runway, to the engine instruments - high oil pressure on engine #2 - in the amber and climbing - to the runway, and nervously back to the airspeed indicator again. I saw the "2,000' distance remaining" sign fly by, and we were only at 117 knots, about 15 knots too slow to get airborne. I knew if we lost an engine, we'd be screwed. I wondered if we were screwed anyway! 

Then, we began skidding to the right. This isn't working! We've got to get off this damned runway, I thought. I shouted, "V1, ROTATE!" even though we were no where near takeoff speed. My thought was that if we could just get airborne enough to get off the slush and into ground effect, we could accelerate enough to fly. He yanked back the control column..... nothing happened at first..... then - POP! Right up into the air! It took what seemed like an eternity to climb, but we did. Finally! The outside world disappeared as we were immediately sucked up into the clouds and all I could see was gray. 

Tower handed us off to Boston departure. The FO had neglected to program in the proper frequency, so I had to look it up. Before I switched frequencies, I managed a warning to the plane behind us for departure. Thank God, as I fumbled to find the proper frequency, I heard the aircraft behind us say, "we're not going to take the runway until it's been plowed."

We still had to fly the plane. Once all of our tasks were complete and we had time to discuss what happened, the FO broke the silence and said, "That one wins. That's the most nervous I've ever been in an airplane."

I said, "Yeah.... when we get to Cleveland, I'm going to call maintenance and have them pry the seat out of my ass."

We discussed what happened at length. Why was Boston so piss poor at plowing their runways? Why weren't they using any of their longer runways for departure? What would have happened if we HAD called in sick, and 2 less experienced/skilled pilots were at the controls? 

We were full. 50 passengers, 2 of them children. We were lucky - beyond that runway was ocean. If we departed that same strip of pavement in the opposite direction, we would be faced with downtown Boston and skyscrapers. We never would have made it. Our accident would have been dissected in every ground school at every airline, and on every message board the internet has to offer. 

I reflected on my day. How horrible would it have been if I'd spent my last day on Earth feeling sorry for myself? I thought about the last people I corresponded with. I thought about my husband and parents, and how hearing "experts" drone on about the mistakes I'd made as they grieved my loss would affect them. I thought about the headlines and the NTSB investigation. I thought about the arguments that might transpire between my colleagues about what I did and what I should have done. 

I thought about my last Facebook post - eerily referring to crossing off an item from my bucket list (if you must know, it was eating a Boston Creme doughnut in Boston..... I need to put more exciting items on my list). I thought about my last texts and message board postings. I thought about the people in the back, and how the loss of their lives would affect the people who loved them. I thought about the flight attendant, who is a dear friend of mine, and the plans she had for the near future. 

I thought about witnessing my own funeral. I hoped my friends would trade stories about how funny I was, and the awesome or crazy crap I did. I made plans to haunt the crew room. Well, ours, and the other 2 regional carrier's crew rooms, too! I thought about how fun it would be to roam the halls at night, playing "Autumn Leaves" on the ukulele and whistling eerily. I wondered if being dead would make me a better player, because all I had was soul. Ha! 

I didn't make it home that night. Yes, I was bummed, but I was so thankful I was alive to come home. I hugged my crew goodbye and made my way to my Jeep, parked in the employee parking lot.

Finally, in the privacy of the dark, the cold, and the quiet...... I put my face to my hands.... and sobbed my thanks to the Lord above. It was as if the tensions, emotions, and events of the day had taken the shape of tears. As each tear fell, I felt better - until I could cry no more. I drove away reborn, cleansed, a new person. And I did what any self-respecting woman would do - I picked up a pizza on the way to the crash pad, opened up a bottle of wine, and enjoyed the rest of my evening in peace.