Hooray For Hazel

I have been intending to write this for quite some time, but between watching her play and watching her eat and watching her sleep, I haven’t wanted to miss a minute.  So, as I sit at a roadside Tim Horton’s along a stretch of state highway in Flint, Michigan, I will write about the day I can’t get out of my head.  The day that plays constantly with such vivid recollection that it seems that I’m still there.  And maybe, one day, when I’m sitting with her and she asks what it was like, the day that she was born, I can open this up and tell her the story that has forever changed my life.  This is the Story of Hazel.  And by the way, the following is a complete retelling of the events.  Nothing added at all.

****

“Alright, so are you ready for me to brief this approach?” I ask the Captain as we prepare for the last landing of the night.  The stars and moon shine brightly over the somewhat barren landscape of the mountain west.  Pockets of lights illuminate the sparsely populated towns but grow in number as we approach the larger metropolitan area where our runway will be.  

“Sure, and remember, mountains.” He says and laughs.  

The joke, probably not as funny when you aren’t tired, makes me laugh along with him. “Yeah, I get it, I’ll try to miss as many as I can.”  A small line of text flashes at the bottom of our flight computer. “Hang, on, looks like we have new weather coming up which is weird because it isn’t due out for another 30 minutes. Runway change maybe?”  I pull up the message and have to read it several times.   Its contents, only capable of displaying capital letters, appear to be yelling at me. 

SCHEDULING REQUESTS FO BOYES CONTACT SCHEDULING UPON ARRIVAL.  ACKNOWLEDGE THIS MESSAGE.

My heart races.  Months prior, I had given Nicole the emergency hotline number for scheduling.  “If something happens or you go into labor early,” I said that night before leaving on a trip, “you call this number, tell them you are going to the hospital and that I need to come home immediately.”  

I look up at the Captain who has just finished reading the message as well.  This is Day 3 with him and we covered family pleasantries as a subject days ago.  His eyes are wide and his teeth shine white behind his smile in the moonlit cockpit.  “Do you think...?”

When we pull into the gate, I immediately turn on my phone which is met with a never-ending buzz and ding of messages coming through.  My worst fear has been realized.  Nicole has gone into labor and I’m in the middle of nowhere on the last flight of the night.  I don’t know what to do.  On the verge of tears and panic, I call scheduling who releases me from the trip.  Not only can I not leave tonight, the first opportunity to get home won’t be until tomorrow afternoon.  

I am devastated.

Just before I start tapping my phone to call the hotel van, it becomes impossible to turn on.  I can’t see the screen anymore through the...tears?  I think they are tears.  And then it bursts into flames.  I immediately throw it to the ground and watch as it turns into a cat and walks away.  “What the...” I ask to myself as I am whisked away from the airport and into an absolute darkness.  

I feel the familiar touch of my pillow against my cheek.  I remember that it was just last night we were with friends watching the Cardinals in the NLCS and eating pizza.  I remember that Nicole is getting induced in two days and that our friends had told us we should do one last nice dinner together before our lives are changed forever.  I remember Nicole thinking that was a great idea and I remember going to bed that night knowing I wasn’t going to work again until months later.

When I open my eyes, I see my clock on the nightstand.  It reads 06:25.  I take a deep breath and let out an incredible sigh of relief.  My worst nightmare, I muse to myself, was literally a nightmare.  

“Are you awake?” Nicole asks to my back.

“Thankfully,” I reply as I roll over.  She has to hear this story.  It’s so fu...

She interrupts my thoughts. “I’ve been having contractions since 2 AM.”  

One layer of disorientation immediately transforms into another.  “Are you serious? Why didn’t you wake me up?  How far apart are they?  Do they hurt?”  Dumb question. I know.  Of course they hurt.  What I meant to ask was, have they gotten stronger.  I have prided myself in doing a lot of reading on the subject of childbirth and know that as labor progresses, they get more intense.  Of course, she doesn’t know that’s what I was asking and gives me a look that makes me want to take back not just that but everything I’ve said for two days.

“Well, they don’t tickle! I feel so bad because now we aren’t going to be able to do that nice dinner tonight,” Nicole says to me as she rolls onto her back and picks up her phone.  I remember that a few days prior, I had her download on an app for her phone so she could track her contractions.   She writhes in pain.  It’s one thing to hear that the love of your life is having contractions.  It’s a thing that I assume happens before giving birth and that I’ve only seen on TV.  It’s an entirely other thing to watch her experience one.  My heart jumps into my throat and I lay there, frozen, unsure of what to say or do.  So I just watch.  And watch. And watch.  Sweet Jesus how long do these things last again? 

She picks up her phone once more and then looks at me, weary.  I resist the urge to ask if that’s a contraction so as to avoid having to take back another several days worth of words.  “How far apart I ask,” trying to sound as calm as possible.  

“Nine minutes,” she answers and then adds, “Chris, they hurt so much.”  I reach back into the recesses of my memories to remember what was said during our birthing class.  5-1-1.  Yeah, five minutes apart, 1 minute long, for an hour.  And then to a story the nurse told about going and playing cards when she was starting labor.  It helped, she had said, to take her mind off the pain.

“Why didn’t you wake me?” I ask.

And in the most loving way tells me, “What were you going to do at 2 AM?  At least one of us should be rested for today in case decisions have to be made.”  I love this woman so much.   

I spring into action.  “Okay, how about this plan?  How about you go take a nice hot shower, I’ll go right after you, and then if they haven’t gotten worse, why don’t we go out to breakfast in the direction of the hospital so at least we are close,” I proposed.  Nicole had made it very clear that she did not want to be dirty going into the hospital and she didn’t want a smelly husband.  So that was first.  Second was to do something to take her mind off of it.  If she is only at nine minutes, they definitely wouldn’t admit her yet.

”Alright,” she says as she rolls out of bed and walks into the bathroom.  A minute later, she yells for me to start her timer on her phone.  When I open the app, I see the time between the one she is having at present and the one she had in bed were only 4 minutes apart.  Oh shit. It ends.  Nicole steps into the shower and I start pacing. Oh shit.  Oh shit.  Oh shit.  

“Chris!  Again!” She yells from the shower.  Did I really just pace and do nothing for 4 minutes?  Oh shit, is that only 4 minutes again?!  I run through a checklist in my head the things that we still need to take care of before she goes.  I pack a bag for myself with probably too much underwear and not enough shorts.  Nicole had packed her “Go Bag” weeks ago so I grab it and put it by the stairs next to mine.  Several more times, she has contractions spaced by 4 minutes before eventually, and painfully, walking out of the shower.  “Your turn,” she says.

I’m not arguing with her today even though in my mind, I’m screaming DO WE EVEN HAVE TIME!!    Deep breaths.  Deep breaths.  I run into the shower and break the land speed record for fastest shower.  By the time I get out, she has had another contraction laying on the bed but laying down seems to make her feel better.  And it’s already been 5 minutes since her last one.  They are spacing back out again.  Nicole gets out of bed and walks down to the living room to turn on the TV.  At least, if she is going to be in pain, she can use the TV to distract her a little. 

It goes without saying that we aren’t going to breakfast.  I carry the bag to the first floor before pulling out the card from the hospital.  I dial the Maternity Center to talk to a nurse who quickly and friendly answers the phone.  Her demeanor calms me.  It is then that I notice my hands are clammy and shaking.  After a deep breath, I explain the morning to her.  

“Alright, well, it sounds like she is doing great!  You tell her that.  Tell her she’s doing great.  The rapid increase in frequency is very common if this is the first time she’s gotten up.  Have her lay down for a little and get her something to eat.  They will space back out again if you just have her relax.  When they are less than 4 minutes apart for an hour, you guys come on in and we’ll have a room for you!” The nurse explains as Nicole finishes another contraction.  

Jesus Christ. I stand in the living room where Nicole has just finished writhing in pain on the couch and speak as softly as I can. “Hun.  I just called the hospital.  They want you to eat and wait until they are 4 minutes apart for an hour.  Can I get you something to eat?” 

“Just a granola bar.”  

“No, you aren’t eating a granola bar.  I’m going to make you eggs.  What kind do you want?”  She doesn’t fight me on it and puts in her order.  I run into the kitchen to make her breakfast, heart racing.  I don’t think I’ve ever made breakfast on adrenaline before. Note to readers: I do not recommend making breakfast on adrenaline.  I run into the living room with her breakfast while running back into the kitchen to make mine.  She hasn’t had a contraction in 8 minutes.  The nurse was right. Also, this is going to be a long day.  

I put my egg on an English Muffin and hear her having a contraction.  Shit, coffee.  I rush to make a pot of coffee and before it’s finished brewing, she has another. When I walk back into the room to check on her this time, she is in what can only be described as indescribable pain.  Again, remembering back to the nurse in the birthing class, I put my hands on her lower back and try to give her a massage to help with the pain.  “DON’T TOUCH ME!” Nicole grunts through the contraction.  Constructively taken, I go back to just being helpless. 

Once the contraction ends, she sits back up to finish her breakfast.  I run back into the kitchen where I scarf down my meal and wash dishes.  Then back into the living room to put socks and shoes on and to check on Nicole.  I sit on the chair right as she was finishing another particularly strong contraction.  Reaching down to put on my first sock, I pull so hard the entire sock shreds in half before it gets completely on my foot.   I need to calm down.  Two deep breaths and some teasing from Nicole before I retrieve another pair of socks.

With the SUV packed, gassed up and moved to the side of the house, I once again walk back into the room mid-contraction.  She has apparently stopped watching TV and is in so much pain she can’t lay still.  She writhes and rocks from her back to her side through the duration of the contraction.  That’s enough.  “Okay, let’s go to the hospital. The worst they can do is make us wait a little while but at least we’ll be close.”  I help Nicole off the couch and into the car.  On the 25 minute drive to the hospital, I figure she should have at least 4 contractions.  She only has two.  We both really hope this isn’t going to be a wasted trip.   

“Okay, I’ll drop you off out front and go park the car.” I tell Nicole as we pull into the hospital.  

“No, I don’t want that.  We can walk.” She objects.  I put my foot down once today.  If she wants to walk, she can walk.  Of course, she has another contraction walking into the hospital but like the All-Star she is, takes it like a 60 second punch to the gut then, as if nothing had happened, continues walking into the hospital.

Still unsure if they will even admit her, we walk into the Maternity Welcome Center where the nurse smiles and greets us.  Once she takes down Nicole’s information, we are escorted to a back examination room where Nicole is, well, examined.  

“I started having contractions early this morning but they have been pretty randomly spaced out for much of the morning.”  Nicole explains to the nurse.

“Yeah, I remember your husband telling me on the phone this morning.  Well, you are 4 centimeters dilated and 80% effaced.  That’s good!”  She turns to her computer screen, clicks a few times, then looks at Nicole and says, “Looks like someone is going to have a Birthday today!” I don’t know if it’s from the stress of the morning or the excitement to meet our little baby, but both of us turn to blubbering messes.

“Do you know the sex?” She asks us while dialing a number on her phone.  We don’t.  “Well, you are going to find out soon....yes, this is Bridget in the Maternity Welcome Center....yes, we have someone here who is ready to meet their baby!”  

****

For rest of the morning and afternoon, Nicole labored sitting on a birthing ball.  Every 6-7 minutes, I watched as she suffered in a pain she would later describe as being the worst thing she’s ever felt in her life.  The ball, she said, was the only thing she tried that made it less bad.  After she ate her lunch, she suggested I go down to the cafeteria and have a big meal.  I agreed.  I figured (or was it hoped) things would be getting serious around dinner time.  When I returned, she had been moved to her bed.  

The baby’s heart rate was acting funny with her on the ball so they moved her to the bed and gave her petosin to get the labor moving a little bit.  At that point, Nicole, the trooper that she is, after 14 hours of contractions, ordered an epidural.  Minutes after the anesthesiologist walked out of the room, Nicole was asleep in the bed where she didn’t move for the next hour.  Hooked up to the monitor, I watched the machine tell me she was having a particularly aggressive contraction.  And still she slept.  

Between her naps, we both watched Game 2 of the NLCS.  And once the game was over, we turned on HGTV.  How funny would it be, we both quipped, if we saw our episode in the hospital right before our child was born?

****

“That would be funny,” I laugh as I pull out my phone.  It’s approaching 6pm in the evening and aside from the occasional nurse coming in to check on us, it’s been quiet.  In what can only be described as the literal opposite of 10 hours prior, with Nicole laying on the couch in incredible pain and me running around the house trying to get us out the door, Nicole is laying in the bed laughing at something a House Hunter was saying on TV and I am laying on the couch trying to find out if they will play our episode today.  

“Shoot.  I don’t see it.  I don’t think they will,” I admit just as the nurse comes bursting in the door. From my comfortable position on the couch, I sit up slowly to see what this commotion is all about.  She runs up to the machine monitoring the baby.  It’s then that I notice the heart rate has dropped VERY low.  

“Roll onto your back.  There’s something wrong.” She says, in a near panic.  The nurse reaches behind Nicole and places an oxygen mask on her face. I leap to my feet to get the tray table out of the way as the nurse makes her way to the side of the bed I’m siting on.  I look at Nicole who looks at me with panic in her eyes, physically unable to talk.  

“What’s going on?” I ask the nurse.  

“The baby’s heart rate has dropped dangerously low,” she says without looking up or stopping what she is doing.  “I’ve called the doctor and she is on her way.  I want to break the bag but the doctor wants to be here.  I just wish she would let me break the bag.”

My head is spinning.  Nicole looks to be panicking.  Just 30 seconds ago, we were both laughing.  And now...honestly, I have no idea what or where now is.  “What happened?” 

“I TOLD YOU!  The baby’s heart rate dropped!” The nurse said and then stormed out of the room.  

To Be Continued

The Exciting Conclusion

"Center, we are declaring an emergency and will require the longest runway."

Radio silence.

It's a practiced dance in aviation.  Aircraft declare emergencies daily for a variety of issues, very few are seriously life threatening.  Still, you can almost feel the tension over the radio.  Having been on the listening end of this conversation many times over the years, I can imagine the conversations in cockpits throughout the region.  I wonder what's happening?  Who was that again and where are they going?  I wonder if I know them?

Center calls back.  "Roger, I understand you are declaring an emergency.  When you get time, I need a brief description, souls on board and fuel remaining.  Your request has been forwarded to the tower and you can expect the runway of your choosing.  Descend at pilot's discretion and maintain 4000 feet."

As an emergency aircraft, you are given the latitude to do pretty much whatever you want.  Most pilots don't like wielding that power because many of us have been on the "make way" end of it over the years.  Flying into a busy airspace, traffic is tightly metered and speed restricted.  An emergency aircraft sends the rest of that dance into controlled chaos.  The emergency aircraft is not metered.  It has been given the green light all the way to the runway.  Everyone else in the vicinity is slowed or sped up, put in a holding pattern, spun away or even told to go around.  Traffic on the ground is held and the runway effectively closed for everyone but the emergency aircraft.

As we get closer to the runway, my heart begins to beat harder.  My brain is trying its hardest to convince my body to chill out.  We've tied-up every possible loose end.  A blown tire would have left debris on the runway in Denver or caused abnormal indications when the gear was raised.  Engines have run normally for the better part of 3 hours.  Hydraulics reservoirs are full and pressure normal.  Electrical indications are normal.  Fuel consumption is on schedule.  What we are doing is out of an abundance of caution.  Beyond an abundance, really.  So, there is no need to be anxious.  I look over to the Captain and brief the plan.  Same as always.  At the end, I add in the abnormal procedures.

"Alright, so the book says to land with auto-brakes off and land as soft as possible.  I'm going to come in on speed but leave the power in until about 10 feet.  When we touch down, I'll use full-reverse and slowly come on the brakes.  Back me up on the rudders in case it actually is a blown tire.  As we've told ATC, we'll plan on stopping on the runway to have our landing gear inspected by maintenance before continuing to the gate.  Any questions?"  The Captain shook his head and we continued to the runway.

"Gear down.  Flaps 30.  Abnormal landing checklist."  The moment of truth.  If anything was wrong, this would be the last chance for an indication.  The captain reaches out and pulls down the seemingly aggressively large 2-feet long gear handle.  The 3-gear indicating lights cycle from extinguished to red indicating the gear is officially in transit.  We can feel the subtle swinging of the metal arms as hydraulic fluid rushes to the actuators and swings the landing gear in place.  Within a second, all three lights illuminate green.  A bit of relief.

Moments later, the tower clears us to land and adds,"alright, the equipment is standing by at the approach end of the runway and midfield.  They are going to follow you down the runway until you come to a full stop.  We are looking at you now with binoculars and it appears your landing gear is normal from what we can tell.  Cleared to land."

Everything is set and I focus my attention 4 miles ahead at the approaching runway.  Even in the middle of the day, it is blatantly evident that the over 2 mile long stretch of concrete that is our destination is being hugged on its right side by flashing red and white lights.  Several large fire trucks, ambulances and airport operations vehicles sit close enough to be immediately of assistance but far enough away to let us do our thing.  Somewhere among them, I imagine there is a truck with two maintenance technicians but they don't have lights and so invisible to us.  From the terminal, I muse to myself, this must appear to be a real spectacle.

"1000 feet, cleared to land," the captain calls out.  "All systems are in the green."

I continue to fly the airplane without any help from the autopilot to the ground. At around 60 feet, the beginning of the pavement passes under the nose and the airplane starts to count down the feet above the runway.  "50..40..30....20.......10."  Right before 20, I pull the nose up to flare the aircraft.  The cadence of the call-outs from the computer slows as the aircraft briefly suspends its descent over the runway.  With the engines still at approach power, the aircraft could float the entire length of the runway.  At the 10 second mark, however, I slowly bring the throttles back to idle.  The drag is too much and the aircraft begins to sink.  When the wheels finally touch, it's nothing more than a low frequency rumble from somewhere behind us.  One of my best and smoothest landings ever.

I feel the spoilers, the large panels on top of the wing, deploy marking the official end of the flight.  As they extend to nearly straight up, lift on top of the wing is nearly zeroed out and the aircraft settles onto the runway.  Nothing feels abnormal, I think to myself.  With the nose still in the air, I reach to the front of the throttles and unlock the thrust reversers, sending them into idle reverse.  The nose settles onto the ground and I pull back on the reverser handles sending the engines into full reverse.  Nothing feels abnormal.  Feet on the brakes, I gently start to add pressure.  The pads grab onto the discs and slowly I increase pressure on the pedals.  Nothing feels abnormal.  At just under 100 mph, the reversers are stowed.  Seconds later, I bring the aircraft to a full stop in the center of the runway and EXHALE.  Had I been holding my breath this entire time?

Looking over at the Captain, I smile.  "Well, I've definitely had worse landings."  He smiles back and we both look out the window as the fire trucks converge on us.  He gets on the PA and lets everyone know in the back what is happening, as he did throughout the flight and we await news from under the airplane.

"Tower, this is Rescue 1.  We shot the gear with IR.  Temps are hot but normal.  Sending in the mechanics."  As expected, the brakes are hot after stopping a 150,000lb aircraft from 150mph.  A few minutes later, over the radio, "Tower, this is Rescue 1.  The mechanics have inspected the landing gear and have found nothing abnormal.  They are good to taxi to the gate for closer inspection."

After coming to a stop, there really couldn't be any bad news.  The potentially dangerous part was over.  We taxi the aircraft into the gate, set the parking brake and part ways.  The trip is over.  Time to go home.

****

While sitting in the back of the plane as I commuted home to St Louis that night, I reflected on the day's events.  Even though we treated it as an emergency, we knew deep inside that nothing was really ever wrong.  We went above and beyond what was required of us just so that we could ensure the safest possible outcome when we landed.  Later, evaluation of the flight data recorder would determine that an atmospheric anomaly caused the sudden jerk to the left. Nothing a normal pilot couldn't handle.

As I expected I would, in the midst of the stress of a potential serious malfunction and emergency landing, I performed on par. My now approaching a decade of aviation experience had prepared me well to live up to the task of executing a never-before-tried maneuver perfectly after only having read about it in a manual.

Still there was one thing I couldn't shake. It wasn't the nearly 3 hours of stress and problem solving that went into the flight.  It wasn't seeing the emergency vehicles waiting for us at the airport and knowing WHY they were there.  It wasn't the moment that lasted a hour in the feet above the runway as the wheels touched down.  It wasn't even the smiles and profuse thanks from the passengers as they walked off the airplane.

Before every flight, I send a text to Nicole which she always return. "I love you, bye."  It is something we've been doing for as long as I can remember. While it seems cute at the surface, it is a gesture that I strive to make even on the busiest of preflights and I do so because of situations like these.  While highly implausible, there is always a chance that the text I send before pushing back from the gate will be my last.  Those four words may be the last she ever hears from me and I don't want the last thing she sees to be a haha or the beginning of a bad joke.  I want her to know that from the moment I send it until the time I can talk to her again, even if that time is never, how I feel.  I love you.  Bye.

As I was sitting there in my window seat looking down at the Gateway Arch, lit bright against the Mississippi, I couldn't help but think of our ritual.  I pulled out my phone and looked at my texts one last time before touching down.  What was sticking in my mind was that soon our ritual will change.  I will have to send, "I love you both," and her reply will be, "We love you too."

An Abnormality, contInued

I looked over at the Captain, who was staring dutifully at his instrument display and decided to break the ice.  “Hey, so, did you feel...”

He interrupted me, “That was weird, right?”

My mind was now floating firmly in the realm of relief and confusion.  I hadn’t imagined it, so at least I wasn’t crazy.  That didn’t solve the problem that now two of us felt something that we couldn’t quite explain.

At this point, having no other better ideas about what had happened on the runway in Denver, logically my next course of action was to determine if anything was malfunctioning.  After pressing what is effectively a button that tests all flight related subsystems, the airplane returned a, “no dummy, everything is fine” indication.  I was almost hoping there was a hydraulic or flight control issue because at least that would tell me that something had caused the sudden jerk to the left.  There was nothing.  Passing through 10,000 feet, the Captain reached up to call the lead flight attendant to tell them of the planned smooth flight.  While he does this, I listen in.  

“Hey guys, we’re through 10.  Should be a pretty good ride all the way in.  And real quick, did any of you feel anything weird during take off?” The captain asked, not wanting to prompt a response.  

“Yeah, this is Jimmy in the back, I was going to call and tell you but we felt a pretty big jerk back here that we’ve never felt before.  Is everything okay?” One of the flight attendants asked.  The Captain replied that everything was fine and that we were trying to diagnose what happened.  

The problem had now left the cockpit.  At 180 mph during a takeoff, even after a thousand takeoffs, your mind is still hyper alert to changes in the norm.  During training, we often simulate engine failures and fires at the most vulnerable parts of the flight so, from a behavioral standpoint, the time when a pilot most expects a problem is shortly before lift off.  With at least one flight attendant feeling something wrong, we knew that the jerk wasn't just from hyper-vigilance.

After several more minutes of thinking about it, I asked the Captain, “do you think it was a blown tire?  That would explain both the lurch and the lack of indications up here.  I mean, it was hot in Denver, we are heavy and this is pretty much the fastest these tires are going to ever spin.  Want me to call back and ask to do a sweep?”  As silly as it may sound, unlike cars, all the aircraft I've flown do not have tire-pressure indications and thus no way to tell if one had deflated.  The Captain agreed.

Pulling back up my charts, I dialed in the Denver tower frequency.  “Denver tower, we just departed off runway 8 and think there is a possibility we blew a tire on takeoff.  Could you send ops to do a sweep to see if there is any debris is on the runway?  Most likely indications would be about the last 3000 feet.”

At approaching 100 miles from Denver, the signal was weak.  They replied, “Absolutely.  I’ll send them out immediately.  Standby for the results.  If we can’t reach you, we’ll forward the results to Kansas City Center.”

With still just under two hours to go, the Captain wasn’t going to just wait around for the results.  “Okay, so let’s treat this like a malfunction.  We’ve gone through the manuals, we’ve contacted Denver.  Instead of just wait, why don’t we call and talk to maintenance.  You take the airplane and radios, I’m going to call the company.

During a flight, all airplanes have the ability to radio a ground station and be connected to any number of agencies.  For a medical emergency, we have a doctor on call at the University of Pittsburgh Medical Center to answer any medical related questions.  We can reach them via VHF or HF frequencies at virtually any point on the globe. We don’t often use these communications channels, but in this instance, when it’s better to talk about it rather than text about it through our integrated messaging system, we call.

For the next 20-30 minutes, the Captain is on the line talking with maintenance, dispatch and our operational control.  I listen in on the backup radio while I am handling the en route radio, essentially flying the airplane solo.  It is on these days I am so happy there are two of us here so that we can divide and conquer the problem.

During the time the Captain  is talking to the Company, I hear back from Air Traffic Control that Denver tower found no indications of anything amiss on the runway.  That is both a relief and increases the frustration.  SOMETHING caused it. I tell the Captain the news which he then relays to maintenance.  Shortly after, I hear him thanking everyone on the line and joining me, mentally at least, back in the cockpit.

“So they have no idea either” he says.  “They’ve pulled the sensor data the airplane sends them and are seeing nothing abnormal.  Maintenance offered to have mechanics us on landing to inspect the gear before we taxi but in order to do that, we have to be an emergency aircraft.  So, when we get into the final center airspace, we declare an emergency.  They don’t think anything is wrong but out of an abundance of caution, if something IS wrong, it’s better to have the fire trucks at the runway than in the firehouse.  Do you agree so far?”  I nodded, of course I did.  “Until we can rule out that something is NOT wrong, we operate under the assumption that something is.  Since the only thing I can think of that wouldn't show up anywhere is a blown tire, we run the emergency procedure for that.

“One last thing.  On the lead-up to the landing, I’m going to be busy doing a lot of the big picture things.  I’m confident in your abilities so, from here on out, you’re flying and you’ll do the landing. Are you okay with that?”

All pilots are confident in their abilities.  It’s part of the type-A egomania that accompanies most of us.  Getting a comment like that in the lead up to landing on possibly flat tire or malfunctioning gear, is a real vote of confidence.  “Of course. I’ll start reviewing the manuals.”

“Sounds good, I’m going to bring the flight attendants in the loop and let the passengers know,” he says so calmly that you’d think he's done this hundreds of time.  No time to reflect on that, time to prepare.

Our iPads contain a wealth of information.  One of the manuals contains a “best practices” for every possible situation anyone could think we would encounter, to include several pages on landing gear malfunctions.  And that’s where I spent the remaining time at cruise.

After over an hour and a half of thinking and talking and thinking and talking and thinking, we finally are handed off to the final center controller before descending. The frequency is congested with dozens of mid-day flights transitioning the airspace or climbing or descending into it.  Ops normal for a weekday afternoon.  Time to set things in motion

“Center, we are checking on at flight level 350 and are declaring an emergency.  We will require fire trucks to meet us at the runway upon arrival and request the longest runway available.”

An Abnormality

“Ladies and Gentlemen, from the flight deck, we are number one for takeoff.  Two hours and twenty minutes en route to Atlanta once we are airborne.  Flight Attendants, please prepare the cabin for departure.”  I switch from PA to the cabin button on my audio control panel as I wait for the confirmation that everyone is seated in the back.

“Okay, while we wait, I see runway 8 on the pavement, runway 8 in the box.  We are on the EXTAN5 departure, SHAYK transition, first fix is KIDNG.  We’ll LNAV out there up to 23,000 feet and no airspeed restrictions.  Any questions?” the captain briefs as we approach the end of the runway.  I shake my head as a bell rings in the cockpit to let me know the flight attendants are calling to confirm they are ready.

“None.  Okay, they are ready in the back.  Before take-off checklist...”  I finish up the last checklist, flip the last few switches and advise the tower we are ready to go.  We pull onto the over 2 mile long runway in Denver, conduct a last minute sanity check, and before we start pouring jet fuel into the engines at over 3000 gallons per hour, he asks if I’m ready to go.  “Yup,” I reply, “let’s go home.”

The throttles are brought to life.  Moments later, we can both hear and feel as the engines reach takeoff pitch; the deafening sound of rushing superheated air exiting the engine and interacting with the relatively cooler atmosphere combined with the feeling of the deep mechanical whirring of the turbines as they spin at nearly 15,000 RPM.  Still, with all that noise and sound, the airplane only sluggishly accelerates down the runway.  At 5500 feet above sea level, the airplane will need to be traveling over 180mph before there is enough air flowing over the wing to create adequate lift.

“V1,” I call out.  We’ve reached the “decision speed.”  From here on out, there is a very short list of things that are going to keep us from taking-off, so short that even engine fire or failure isn’t on it.  At V1, there is no longer enough runway to stop so in 99.9% of instances, it is actually safer to take-off and come back and land.  Shortly after V1 comes Vr and the call-out, “Rotate.”

The Captain lifts the nose off the ground until we are pitched about 6 degrees above the horizon, waiting for the wings to fly.  It is always at this moment I am most in awe.  At over 180 mph, we just wait for the airplane to fly while it is balancing on its rear tires, nose gear raised six feet in the air. Normally, your butt feels the subtle change of direction as the 180,000lb jet gives up the earth to join the sky.

A sudden jerk to the left.  What the...  My eyes dart from my instrument screen to the Captain.  He’s staring straight ahead.  He moves control wheel abruptly to the right to keep the wings level.  He steps on the rudder to bring the airplane back to the centerline.  With the nose still pitched in the air, I will the airplane to fly.  Less than a breath later, the familiar feeling of liftoff.  Confirmed by the instruments, “Positive rate,” I say to the Captain who then commands the gear to come up.  And we are off.

My senses are heightened thanks to the sudden squirt of adrenaline into my blood stream.  We sit in silence for the first ten minutes of the flight saying nothing to each other than the required checklists and radio calls.  My mind searches for something to justify what happened in that brief second on the runway.  Maybe I imagined it?  Maybe the Captain hit a bump or swerved to avoid a deer.  No that’s stupid.

I look over at the Captain who watching his instrument display as we climbed eastward away from the Rockies and decided to break the ice.  “Hey, so, did you feel...”

He interrupted me, “that was really weird, right?”

To Be Continued

The Routine

Sitting in a Starbucks in Downtown Milwaukee with a hot cup of coffee, I look out the window to see the city waking and getting started.  Groggy businessmen and women come through the door, bundled up to guard against the cold, and greet the baristas with warm familiarity.  “Your usual?” asks the young man behind the counter.  The businesswoman, purse and briefcase in hand, smiles, looks up to the overhead speaker playing Christmas music, and orders a Christmas pastry as well.

This routine plays out in seemingly every big or small city in the Western Hemisphere.  Just as much as it is part of their morning routines, it is part of mine.  When I don’t have to fly in the morning, I find the nearest coffee shop to sit down with a cup of coffee and watch the world awaken.  From capital cities of Charleston, WV to Sacramento, CA; from the mountains of Guatamala City, Guatamala and Salt Lake City, UT to the coastal port cities of San Juan, P.R and Seattle, WA; from the rainforests of San Jose, Costa Rica and San Salvador, El Salvador to the deserts of Albuquerque, NM and Phoenix, AZ; from the sprawling metropolises of Mexico City, Mexico and New York City, NY to the comparitively minute downtowns of Richmond, VA and Kansas City, MO, it always the same.  People,struggling against the inertia of far too little sleep, seek the warmth and energy promised in a small cup of liquid.  They are off to meetings, the airport, or coming in from a morning run.  They buy a single cup or carry out an order for the whole office.  The only difference I can ever tell is the language being spoken and the climate it is spoken in.

From my comfortable corner leather chair near the warmth of the gas fireplace, I sit and read.  It is then that I realize, man, I haven’t blogged in awhile.  When I open the website, it hasn’t just been awhile.  It’s been a year and a half and that’s the problem with routine.  As I sit here and watch the world get started, I enter my own routine that has somehow pushed writing to the far fringes.

Not making time is not the only problem.  My job has become a routine of its own.  For the vast majority of trips, everything goes as planned.  As compared to my regional airline, I’ve never once been involved in a flight cancelation.  I’ve never had maintenance delay more than 30 minutes.  I’ve yet to have to divert for weather.  I’ve never “timed-out” although I have been close.  There is very little chaos, very little confusion, very little anything interesting.

It is for that I apologize.  I know people have really enjoyed reading my blogs almost as much as I’ve enjoyed writing them. There have been less than a handful of situations that have even remotely warranted addressing in a blog in the last 1.5 years and I promise to share them here in the new year.  For everything else, it’s just been routine.

There's no place like home, there's no...

Darkness.  The sweet, chocolaty blackness of my dreams surrounds and soothes me like a warm blanket on a crisp winter morning.  Cutting through the haze of comfort, a bell chimes.  It's slow and soft at first but with every ting, louder and faster than the previous, the silkiness of the moment becomes agitated and begins to drift....

My eyes open.  Where am I? I think to myself while searching the darkened room in an effort to survey my surroundings.  Am I in Seattle?  Mexico?  Miami?  The last of the blackness fades and I discover myself laying in a twin bed.  It's Atlanta, the room I've rented for use when I can't get home to St Louis or have to come to work a day early.  It sure beats spending money on a hotel room.  Do I have a trip today, I think to myself as my attention is once again drawn to the loud chimes in the room.  It's not my alarm.  It's a phone call.  Oh, I'm on call.

"Hello?" I strain into the phone trying to feign alertness.  It clearly hasn't worked.  I can hear confusion in my own voice. The woman on the other end relays the bad news.

"Mr. Boyes.  There is a trip on your schedule," she informs me and drones on about details that almost put me back to sleep.  They've had an equipment substitution.  A MD88 broke somewhere and they are using a spare 737 and reserve crew to cover it.

I'm not flying to any exotic location today. I'm not crossing the majestic Rocky Mountains nor am I going to fly into the deep blues of the Caribbean. Birmingham, Alabama.  Today, I get to be the 'Bama shuttle, the 30 minute wonder.  Well, the 30 minute wonder times 4.  I get to do the Atlanta to Birmingham round-trip, twice. And, today, that is fine with me.  It's the last day of 6 on call. I just want to go home.

****

"Climb checklist," the captain announces as we both reach to flip switches and press buttons.  

"Climb checklist.  Altimeters:" I call out awaiting his response.

"Standard, cross-check."   He says, pointing at all three altitude measuring devices in the airplane. 

"Climb checklist, complete."  I say putting the checklist away and, in a single motion, grabbing my coffee and bringing it to my lips. It's leg 3 and we are on our way back to Birmingham for the second time.  The cruise portion of the flight is short, but long enough for me to reflect on how smooth everything has been.  I look down to check my watch.  Even with the long line in Atlanta on the first flight, I could still make my commute flight home.  No granola bars or overpriced airport food or cold leftovers for dinner tonight!  I am looking forward to a hot, home-cooked meal with my wife.

A short 15 minutes later, we are bouncing through the clouds getting vectors for landing.  I can't but help but notice the weather has appreciably worsened compared to the first trip of the day.  A tropical storm is making landfall on the Louisiana/Texas border but its squid-like rain bands haven't made it all the way out to central Alabama.  At least, they hadn't as of almost two hours ago.

It's quiet on the radio.  The voice of the controller cuts through the silence infrequently and only to give us instructions.  It appears as if, at least for the moment, we are alone out here.  Birmingham approach frequency is the yin to Atlanta's yang. "Cleared for the approach and contact tower," the controller tells us.  I repeat it back and am reaching to change the radio's frequency when she interrupts the silence again. "Oh and before you go..."

Usually statements like that are innocuous.  Usually it's followed by some kind of advisory to let us know it's bumpy ahead or previous airplanes have reported wind shifts, or even asking for how flight conditions are at our present altitude.  But this is "Go Home Day."  It's the pilot's version of break a leg.  A good pilot never says, "hey guys, it's go home day!  It's been a smooth trip and this will be more of the same!  Maybe we'll get in early."  Many pilots even hesitate to think about it being Go Home Day until they're are sitting on their front porch having a beer.  If you do, you risk summoning the Go Home Gremlins and they are vindictive little bastards.  Some of the weirdest things that have ever happened to delay me have happened on Go Home Day.    And it's not just me.  One particular pilot has made a comedic video about a day in the life of pilots.  Fast-forward to the 3:00 mark for the example of Go Home Leg.

I'm not sure what the Captain or I did to summon the Go Home Gremlins, but they showed up nonetheless.  "Oh and before you go, multiple tornadoes have been reported west of the airport.  Have a good day."  I didn't immediately respond.  Did I hear her correctly?  

"Um, roger...did you say tornadoes?"  I ask looking over at the Captain.  "Did she tornadoes?"

"That's affirmative.  Storm spotters have spotted tornadoes about 10 miles west of the airport."  She repeats almost annoyed that I bothered to clarify her previous statement.  We are 5 miles east of Birmingham flying west at 160 mph.  That's nearly 3 miles every minute.  Quick mental math puts us 4-5 minutes from them.  It's even closer if they are moving our direction. 

"Alright, well, could you at least tell us what direction they are moving?" I ask her trying to help the Captain figure out if we just need to get the hell out of here.  She replies back that they are moving to the north, away from the airport.  I look to the Captain, and in an agitated tone say to him, "Christ, I'm glad they waited until we were almost on top of them to let us know.  Thanks for the 'heads-up'."    

Just as I finish my thought, we break out of the clouds and survey the airport.  The surface is clear.  There are some low clouds off to the north and a rain shield west of the airport obscuring the normally-visible downtown buildings.  One last peek at the on-board radar shows nothing of serious concern within 10 miles, so we make the decision to land and do so uneventfully.

After a brief wait for the ramp personnel to come park us, we arrive at the gate and I pull out my cell phone to check the radar.  I immediately see the cell to the west and, as described, it is moving to the north and away from the airport.  In fact, most of the severe weather is west of the city, moving north.  Slightly relieved, I look over to the Captain and show him my radar.  He takes a quick glance and in stands up to greet the disembarking passengers, "Well, let's board up and get out of here.  I don't want to be here when those things move this way."  

Quickly, we both work through our duties to configure the airplane for the return trip to Atlanta.  Unlike the more relaxed demeanor we both displayed before the previous 3 legs, this time, it was all mostly done in silence.  We finished our tasks and all that was left was to finish boarding the airplane. There was palpable tension throughout the airplane but everyone pretended to ignore it.    

The flight attendants, who were just starting their day on this particular leg, told us they were in the gate area when a tornado announcement was made before we landed.  They were informed that they were not currently going to the shelter but where to go if they had to shelter.  As people boarded, everyone tried to make small talk and treat this as every other normal flight but, deep down, I could feel the nerves and prying eyes as more people than usual looked into the cockpit.  Who are these guys?  Will we be safe?  

One of the questions I get the most is, "have you ever been afraid in an airplane."  Of course, the answer is always "no."  At no point in my career have I been afraid for my life, which I know is the question they are asking.  I've been afraid of getting lost when I was a brand new private pilot.  I've been afraid of students flying solo for their first time as instructor.  And I've been afraid of not passing check-rides as an airline pilot.  Not once, however, have I ever been afraid that I wouldn't make it through the day.  Today, was no different, but for the first time, I felt a new kind of anxiety and it happened right after the boarding door closed.  

The gate agent handed us our paperwork, gave us the obligatory "have a good flight," and left to close the boarding door.  I pulled out my cell phone one last time to check the radar.  A new purple box had formed southwest of Birmingham and was pointed right at the city.  I clicked on the box and read it to the Captain.  "A tornado warning has been issued for Jefferson County.  A tornado producing storm was located..."  

"Where is it?" the Captain asks, interrupting me.  I tell him it looked like it is about 10-20 miles south of us and moving towards us at 30mph.  "Alright, well, we will be long gone before it gets here," he says less confidently than he has all day.

I feel my heart rate increase.  I just wanted to get in the air.  Once airborne, we would be fine. Tornadoes and their associated systems are small.  At between 375 and 490 mph (our climb and cruising speeds), it's easy to get away and around them.  While we are on the ground, there isn't anything we can do.  If we don't get out of here before the storm gets here, the airplane could be damaged requiring inspections.  More generally, I just don't want to be around when there are tornadoes.  "Alright, call for taxi" he instructs.  I more than gratefully comply.  

"Taxi to runway 24 via echo.  Just got off the phone with Atlanta.  Due to flow, the best wheels up time we could get you is 10 after the hour.  Time now, 38," ground control advises us.  Like a punctured balloon, I feel the wind rushing from my lungs.  

I look over at the Captain as he stares straight ahead, face tense.  "You've got to be shitting me," he let out in frustration.  "First they slam dunk us head first into tornadoes and now won't even fight to get us a better wheels up with more inbound?  Send a message to dispatch and then call ground to see if we can get some priority."

To: Dispatch

TORNADO WARNING SOUTH OF BHM.  WHEELS UP IN 30 MINUTES.  CALL ATL AND GET PRIORITY PLZ.

I hit send.  My next call was Birmingham ground.  "Ground.  Could you give Atlanta a call and get us some priority.  Another tornado warning just popped up south of here and we'd really like to not be here when it gets here."  There was a brief pause before they replied with a short "standby."  

The silence of the next few minutes is painful.  While I was doing as he asked, the Captain had pulled up to the runway and had been using the on-board radar to find a good path out.  The winds won't allow us to take off away from it all, so we are going to have to take off west toward the weather before turning back to the east.  And it's my leg.  I reach into my bag and grab a piece of gum, needing something to do so I could stop fidgeting.  

The radio comes alive again.  "Okay, the best I can do is 50.  Be ready to go right at that time."  Ten minutes waiting is better than 30.  It would undoubtedly be a long ten minutes though.  Once again, we return our gaze to the on-board radar as the Captain speaks up. "Okay, We'll decide for sure once we line up, but right now, let's see if we can make an immediate left turn back to the east."

As shocking as it sounds, turning toward the incoming weather really is the best course of action.  The storm is still an uncomfortably comfortable distance to the south.  Looking to the north and west, a grey curtain of rain from thunderstorms moving to the north obstructs any possible exits  We reconfigure the takeoff power to full power and wait the last few minutes until our window opens.

 I look at the clock. Three minutes to go. "Check your phone one more time for me," the Captain says.  A quick check raises my hopes. It's still south and would continue to be by the time our wheels leave the ground.

Right on schedule, tower clears us for take off. The Captain aligns us in the center of the runway and gives me control of the airplane. "Your controls. Let's go home."

I advance the throttles.  The engines, having waited patiently for this moment, let out deafening roars so loud that it can be felt deep within my chest. Beneath the roaring, the mechanical groan of the turbines resonates throughout the cabin and we begin to rumble down the two mile long concrete strip.  At 150 mph, I pull back on yoke, lifting the nose into the air.  A second later, ,we are airborne.  As I turn back back toward east and get the aircraft pointed in the direction of Atlanta, I look outside and see breaks in the clouds and blue skies beyond.  I reach up, turn the autopilot on and smile to myself.  Tornadoes.  Well played Go Home Day, well played.

Ground School

I walked out of the smaller of the two cafeterias in Delta's Global Headquarters and back to class on the 3rd floor of the training building.  Still soggy from the hour in the pool and tummy full of turkey, I made sure both my bottle of water and bottle of soda were at the ready to stave off any afternoon sleepiness.

It was Day 2 and Death By PowerPoint had commenced.  At all airlines across the country from the smallest regional operators to the largest international carriers, the first section of training is known as "Indoc" or indoctrination.  Just like at most companies, it is the most bland of administrative exercises to include setting up your benefits and meetings with supervisors and various company departments as an introduction to your "piece of the puzzle."  Aside from the occasional guest speaker, we all settled into our desks, notepad at the ready to ingest everything possible about the operations side of the airline.  

In order to get certified by the FAA to be an airline, there are specific topics that must be covered in Indoc.  They include...everything.  There are dozens of manuals that detail how the airline operates, most of them non-specific to any single airplane, and we had to go over every single chapter of every single manual in slideshow format.  

So, we sat for hours in class class going over the hundreds of chapters that comprise our "operating license" and other airline specific manuals.  The following Thursday, a mere 8 days from the first day of class, we were sent home to study on our own.

The company has to give new pilots a minimum of a week to go over the computer-based training materials specific to each airplane.  For me, with the wedding approaching, in order to fit me into the schedule and accommodate the life event, I was given almost a month.  Upon returning, there were 3 class days of review to go over anything we may not have understood from the self-study and then a test. Aside from the two hours of studying every night, I often stayed in the building late to work on "flows."

While every airplane essentially flies the same, the supporting infrastructure is vastly different.  In the 737, an aircraft designed in the 1950s, the systems logic surrounding the aircraft is very different from the ERJ, an airplane designed in the late 90s.  If all I had to do was sit down in my seat at the runway and then get out once we landed, the training course would be simple and take a few days.  It's everything else, the mundane preflight and taxi tasks that verify the proper operation of every component and system of the aircraft that takes a lot of time to memorize.

One of the nice things about working for a large, safety-minded corporation, is the money they invest in training.  There are 4 levels of training devices available for my use in preparing me before I step foot into the real jet.  The first, and most basic, is the "Paper Tiger."  In each classroom, attached to the walls are posters of the cockpit.  I had little use for this since they also sent us home a copy of those posters to use while studying.

The next step up is a sci-fi like computer trainer where most of the cockpit is on touch screen monitors oriented as if it were an actual cockpit.  This is where I spent most of my time studying.  You could touch the screen and actually see and hear what happens. This it the area where you iron out your flows.

A flow, you ask?  A flow is a pattern in which you move your hands and eyes and is different depending on the task you are completing.  For example, before landing, my left hand sweeps from the overhead to the throttles (Igniters-on, gear-down,  flaps-set, speed brake-armed).  The after starting engine flow is a circle shape (Electric-transfer, probe heat-on, anti ice-as req, air conditioning-on, APU-as req, subsystem test-complete).  Once the flow is complete, it is quickly verified by reading from the checklist in the off-chance something in the flow wasn't completely normally.

The feedback in this "Procedures Trainer" is immediate.  I spent hours practicing getting into an airplane that was completely shutdown and getting it ready for takeoff one flow at a time.  At first, you read off the manual.  Read a step, do a step, watch what happens.  After doing that once or twice, you begin to hear and see what it is like to start up an airplane's systems.  After a few tries, you start seeing a patterns and before you know it, what was taking an hour to do is now only taking 15 minutes.

The next step up is a full cockpit mock-up sitting in a room and by full-mock up, it looked like someone just sawed the front end off of a 737 and put it in a room.  You could actually "fly" this flight training device, albeit not very easily.  Unlike the Procedures Trainer, you could have a more realistic experience.  Following 6 days in these trainers, an evaluation was completed to ensure I was familiar enough with the generic day-to-day procedures to adequately move on to the simulators where I finally got to learn how the ol' girl flies.

Following two weeks in the full-motion simulators, I passed two check-rides and was ready to finally take on the task of carrying passengers.