In the last installment of MTI, “The Madman and the Miracle, Part 1,” Marc discussed the life of a ‘commuter.’ Which is someone who lives in a different city than he flies (works) from. He also set up the scenario of trying to make an impossible commute home. If you haven’t read it, check it out here. We re-join our hero, in need of a miracle.
So where were we? I set up the scenario. I live in Portland but fly out of San Francisco. I had been working for almost seven days straight and was ready to be home. The problem? My last flight of the week, from Los Angeles to San Francisco, arrived just ten minutes before the last flight from San Francisco to Portland left. That flight was leaving from a different terminal, with different security, and flown by another airline. I had already given up all hope and was looking at hotels in San Francisco for the night, but something told me, “Don’t give them your credit card info just yet.”
Jack, the captain I had been flying with for the past two days, turned to me, “When’s your last flight home leave?” I had said,
“Don’t worry about it, I’ll never make it. It’s leaves ten minutes after we land.”
“Well, we have to at least try. We’ll go fast.” I saw a wry smile on Jack’s insane face. His face looked insane because he hadn’t shaved in a week. It was his silent protest against the “government” and “the Company” making him wear a mask in the airport. In the cockpit, when he would remove his mask, which was allowed, his ruddy face and mischievous eyes, gave him the impish appearance of a grey-haired, drunken leprechaun (he hadn’t been drinking, he just looked that way with the week-old beard).
He also looked insane because… he was insane. I had just spent the better part of two solid days with him. On the previous leg, I had witnessed him click off the autopilot and dive the airplane towards the ground at 6000 feet per minute (in case you’re not a pilot, that’s a lot), to make an altitude restriction we were going to be 150 feet above (in pilot terms, that’s not a lot). We ended up being over 2000 feet below the altitude, two miles before we needed to be. As he clicked on the autopilot, he said something like, “See, that’s how you do it.” Meanwhile everyone in the back of the airplane had to check to see if they had accidentally bought a ticket for Space Mountain.
He was what I would describe as a cowboy. He had been flying the same kind of airplane for almost 30 years. He knew everything about it and knew how the FAA and Company rules for flying it had changed over the years. Maybe he was disillusioned with the impermanence of “rules”, but he had adopted his own way. To be fair, most of “his way” was more conservative, although sometimes logically inconsistent. He liked to add extra fuel to a well-calculated flight plan, “just in case we needed it,” yet wasted hundreds of extra pounds of gas while on the ground by running and extra motor because, “Damn if the Company was going tell him he should single-engine taxi.”
I liked Jack. I did not like to fly with Jack. I am a very much a “do it by the book” kind of pilot, mostly because I am inherently lazy and don’t like to have to learn two ways of doing everything: “The book way and ‘my way.’” I had flown with guys like Jack before. Most of the time I would describe them as having “good hands,” and they would probably be good in an emergency, but also probably get into more minor trouble on a daily basis because they push and stretch, “the rules.” It’s also mentally taxing as a first officer, because I tend to be a people pleaser. When you are flying with a “by the rules” kind of guy, it’s easy. You don’t have to ask, “What the f@#$ is this guy doing?” all the time, because you already know. When you fly with a cowboy, you are constantly walking a tight rope of trying to make him happy with his “non-standard” ways and trying to make sure you are also legally checking all the boxes and safety precautions of the Company and FAA at the same time. Anyway, after two days of walking the mental tight rope, I was exhausted and ready to be done with Jack.
I am not convinced his motivation to “go fast” was entirely for my behalf. Jack had been complaining about how long the day had been since the end of leg one. We were on leg four. This was his “go-home leg” as well. He had managed to take naps in between flights on the last two legs, which may have increased his useful consciousness, but also added to the insane mystique. He twice woke up ten minutes (maybe less) from departure, his hair all disheveled, his eyes blinking the sleep out of them, turned to me, and said, “Let’s go.” Anyway, Jack was ready to be home, which turns out was a “win” for me as well.
In Part 3 of “The Miracle and the Madman,” Marc will continue his flight with the Madman, Jack. By breaking all the rules and flying the speed of heat, will Marc make it to SFO on time? Will Marc be able to wrap up this 3-part blog that was meant to be 500 words?
