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Yesterday the FAA released new rules governing pilot duty time and flight time limitations. The aim is to reduce the effects of fatigue, which was mentioned in the NTSB’s report on the fatal crash of a Colgan Air flight near Buffalo, New York, in February 2009.

An article in USA Today highlights some of the changes, including an increase from eight to ten hours for the minimum rest period between duty periods. The intent is for pilots to get eight hours of actual sleep between flights.

Anything you read on this subject is likely to say it’s the pilots fighting for these rules, and that the airlines are resisting change because it will raise their costs. Speaking only for myself, I was happy with the rules we had, and I’m concerned about the the new rules.

First of all, the entire thing strikes me as a typical knee-jerk reaction to an accident: If only we had the right law, this bad thing wouldn’t have happened. The NTSB report on the Buffalo accident mentioned pilot fatigue, which was the main reason for the push for these new rules. Yet the Board voted against making fatigue a contributing factor in that accident, instead focusing on the lack of experience of the pilots and their response to the situation (see this Wikinews article).

There’s nothing in the new rules which would have mitigated any pilot fatigue in this particular accident. It wasn’t that the pilots didn’t have enough rest time. It was how they used the time they had, and the fact that they considered a hotel room beyond their budget.

Other aspects of the new rules also give me concern. I commute to work, flying from the D.C. area to New York (either La Guardia or JFK International airport). Like well over half of my company’s New York-based pilots, I have chosen not to live near those airports. Getting to work on time and ready for work (i.e. rested) is my responsibility, and I take it seriously.

If I have a trip that signs in at 5 p.m., I will usually take the 10:30 a.m. shuttle. This allows me several backup flights in case I don’t make the 10:30 (e.g. no room on the flight or it cancels for some reason). If I know ahead of time that travel is iffy, perhaps due to a winter storm watch, I will commute up a day ahead of time and get a hotel room. I’ve even taken the train when flights were canceling. On a normal commuting day, once I get to the airport I often take a brief nap before report time.

The new rules address the commuting issue and seem to imply that time spent commuting to work will be counted against duty time. [In several articles, this commuting time is incorrectly referred to as “deadheading,” but a deadhead is a scheduled, positive-space flight which is part of a pilot’s trip, and it’s already included in duty time.] Does this mean my duty day starts at 10:30 a.m.? If so, I won’t have adequate time left in my duty day to fly my trip, and so will be forced to commute in a day early for every single trip.

Will this ensure that I’m adequately rested? No. You can lead a pilot to a rest period, but you can’t make him sleep. The only effect I can see is that I will lose an extra day of my life for every trip, not to mention the extra expense of getting a hotel (or maintaining a crash pad).

And conspicuously absent from this consideration are the pilots who drive three hours or more to get to work. Not exactly a restful experience (compared to my nap on my flight from D.C.). But commuting by car is invisible in the new rules.

Being fit and ready for duty has always been the individual responsibility of each pilot, and this won’t change. But the new rules will, I fear, have a negative impact on my quality of life.

My last trip in October included a lot of firsts for me. The trip began in New York and stopped in Amsterdam, Mumbai, Amsterdam again, then back to New York. We had approximately 24 hours at each destination. I’ve been to Amsterdam several times, and it’s a nice trip. The departure from New York is in the afternoon, and arrival is just after midnight eastern time (a little after 6 a.m. and still dark in Amsterdam). As international flights go, it’s not too hard on the sleep schedule.

We departed Amsterdam at 10 a.m. for Mumbai. This was my first flight as an airline pilot completely outside the U.S. (I had done some flying in Japan in light aircraft many years ago). As the relief pilot for this leg, I went on break about 30 minutes after takeoff. When I returned to the cockpit a little over two hours later, we were over northern Turkey, just south of the Caspian Sea. Another first. Up to this time, I had never flown farther east than Istanbul. I took over the flying duties as the guy flying this leg went on his break. The next couple of hours were very busy in the cockpit due to the terrain we were overflying. When we’re over a wide area of high elevation, we always have to plan an escape route in case of a sudden loss of pressurization.

The oxygen masks that drop from the overhead panel will only last about 15 minutes, so we would have to descend quickly to where the air is breathable — about 10,000 feet. But for long periods on this flight we were over areas with a minimum safe altitude much higher than this. In one case, I saw a Grid MORA of 21,000 feet. (Grid MORA is the Minimum Off Route Altitude within each grid on the map). This was another first for me: highest terrain I’ve flown over.

Fireworks during Diwali (Photo by J. Anand)

Each flight segment had an associated diversion plan, which the company very thoughtfully included in our Airway Manual. All we had to do is load the appropriate emergency route for each segment as we proceeded eastbound, then make sure we were both aware of the planned escape route.

The other firsts for me included nations I’ve never flown over: Iran, Pakistan, Afghanistan, India, Turkmenistan, Azerbaijan and Georgia.

To top it all off, we landed in Mumbai at about 10 p.m. local time on the first day of Diwali, or Festival of Lights, one of the most important festivals of the year for Hindus. Every populated area we saw in India had continuous fireworks going off. It was mesmerizing; I’ve never seen such a display of non-stop, widespread fireworks. On final approach, we could see them going off between us and the airport. I’m not sure anyone was actually trying to hit us, but one rocket burst above and to the left of us. The celebration was still going strong an hour later when we arrived at our layover hotel.

One final first for me in Mumbai: the time zone was a half hour off, i.e. it was Zulu+5.5 hours (EDT+9.5).

I’m right in the middle of studying to renew my flight instructor certificate, and thought I’d take a break to explain why. I became a CFI (Certificated Flight Instructor) back in 1980; one of the main motivations at that time was to find a way to build flying time without paying for every hour out of my own pocket. It’s a time-honored tradition.

Other pilot certificates, such as the private pilot license, commercial license or Airline Transport Pilot, have no expiration date. Once you earn them, you never have to repeat all that training. It is true that to exercise the privileges of your private pilot license you must be within two years of a Biennial Flight Review (BFR), but there’s no check ride involved.

The CFI has an expiration date printed right on it. Every two years, the holder of the certificate must apply for renewal. If it lapses, even by one day, the only way to get a new one is to repeat the entire course of training and a check ride. For an active flight instructor, renewal is just a matter of stopping by the FAA office and showing a record of the number of pilots you’ve trained (assuming they passed their check rides).

But I’m not an active instructor. I haven’t taught a student from scratch for almost 20 years. I used to give occasional instrument competency checks to instrument rated pilots, but I haven’t even done that in the last five years. My option is to complete a refresher course, either by attending a live weekend seminar (24 hours of classroom time) or by completing an on-line course of study and tests. I’m in the process of completing the on-line course, and just took a break to write this.

Why go to the trouble to renew a certificate I don’t use? The bottom line is that I just worked too hard to get it. Besides the basic CFI, I also added the instrument instructor and multi-engine instructor ratings. In the flying world, you’ll often seen this certificate represented as CFIIME (Certificated Flight Instructor, Instrument, Multi-Engine). Plus, truth be told, it’s really not a bad idea to occasionally review the basic elements of teaching and learning. I’m kind of enjoying it and soon I’ll have a new certificate, with an expiration of 10-31-13.

I fly a lot. OK, I know that’s no surprise, but I’m talking about flying as a passenger, sitting in back, getting to and from work. And maybe I’m a curmudgeon, or it’s just familiarity breeding contempt, but I find myself cringing at all the canned phrases and announcements I hear during the process. Phrases I hear from my own co-workers.

One of my favorites is the airport security announcement, repeated several times each hour, which lets us know the current threat level, as determined by the Department of Homeland Security. I love the way it starts: “May I have your attention for an important security announcement.” Look around. Not one person is paying attention. No one stops. No one even hears it any more. It’s like that irritating voice advising you every five seconds: “Caution. The moving walkway is ending.”

But I listen to it, wondering what the threat level is today. Wait for it. Wait for it…. Orange again! Yep, that’s where my money was. Oh, it’s not Red? I didn’t think so. My first clue was the absence of cammy-wearing, M-16-toting soldiers. Not Green? Will we ever see Green again? “That’s right, it’s Green. You are officially encouraged to pay no attention to security and imagine you once again live a world we haven’t seen in over a decade.” Oh Green, how I long for you!

At the gate area (often referred to by gate agents, for some inexplicable reason, as the “gatehouse”), we get a lot of PAs such as “This will serve as a gate change announcement” or “This will serve as a final boarding announcement.” And it serves well, but I’m always left to wonder why they didn’t just trot out the real thing. Be bold! Make a final boarding announcement! And while we’re at it, if it’s really a final boarding announcement, wouldn’t it be made just once? I’ve heard up to half a dozen “final” boarding announcements for the same flight. It’s hard to blame the passenger who waits for the seventh.

Welcome aboard! Photo: Tom Raftery

Once on the plane, I’m welcomed aboard at every opportunity. Every PA by the crew inevitably starts with “Once again, welcome aboard.” I’ve been welcomed as many as nine times before pushback, and then, for good measure, another time or two shortly after takeoff. C’mon, it’s not the Queen Mary. No one’s placing a lei around my neck or giving me a mai tai, and I’m not going to be sending postcards about this travel experience.

Many flight attendants don’t seem capable of formulating a simple request such as “Please fasten your seatbelt.” Instead, it’s “We do ask that you fasten your seatbelt.” With some, the insertion of “We do” becomes epidemic, infecting almost every simple PA.

One of my favorites is the after-landing PA. Some flight attendants must get a bonus for how quickly they can get on that PA to welcome you to your destination; I’ve often heard it before we exit the runway. It goes something like “Crazy Clown Airlines would like to be the first to welcome you to New York,” like there’s a mob trying to beat them to the punch. I like to get the jump on them when I’m traveling with someone. Right after landing, I’ll turn and say a simple “Welcome to New York.” Life’s little victories.

With Hurricane Irene safely behind us, I thought I’d share a story from my pre-airline days, about one of my scariest experiences as a pilot.

From my logbook, here are my entries for a flight in November 1985. There is only a small space for remarks, so they’re not detailed. But they’re enough to remind me vividly of that day. These entries are verbatim and therefore cryptic:

——————–
11-2 M20C N78959 W09 – McCollum, Kennesaw GA 3.9 hrs w/Paul, Barb. Visit Shavers. LORAN to NC, then VOR; IFR most of time

11-4 M20C N78959 McCollum – Statesville NC 2.0 hrs
Gloomy forecast. Heaviest rain ever!! Engine out @7000’ over Barrett’s Mt due to showers

11-4 M20C N78959 Statesville – LYH 1.3 hrs
Emergency landing @ Statesville, MVFR (thank God!) Try to push on. More showers; Precautionary landing LYH. Stayed @ Holiday Inn

11-5 M20C N78959 LYH-W09 1.3 hrs
Mostly IFR, little rain. Good to be home!!
——————–

Paul is a friend since high school days, and I’m surprised he even went with me on this trip, considering another experience we had flying to the Bahamas several years earlier (a story for another time perhaps). Along with his wife, Barb, we set out to Georgia to visit another high school friend and his wife.

It was a nice visit, and when it came time to return home, I checked the weather. Rain in the forecast, but that’s why the FAA invented the Instrument Rating (which I had). So I felt bullet-proof, and filed for the flight home.

The rain that lay ahead turned out to be some of the heaviest I’ve ever encountered, and it caused flooding that ranks as the second worst in Virginia history. (Go here for a list of the ten worst.)

Mooney M20C (not the one we flew)

The airplane we flew was an old 1963 Mooney, which belonged to a student of mine. He let me use it for free whenever I wanted; I just paid for gas. The Mooney is a very nice four-seat plane with little room inside — it’s built for speed.

On the November 4th flight from Georgia, we started encountering rain in North Carolina, which got progressively heavier to the point that the plane actually leaked (rain coming in through seams in the roof and dripping on Barb in the back). It got so loud from the sheer volume of water impacting the plane that it was unlike anything I had experienced in an airplane. I felt more like I was on a submarine, and could barely hear the controller over the headset.

Then the engine just stone cold quit.

The absence of the roar of the engine left us in a small (and oh God, it felt small at that moment), leaky vessel at 7,000 feet, in the heaviest rain I had ever seen. Looking back through the fog of time, it would be silly to think that I could accurately describe all of my emotions and thoughts at that moment, but I distinctly remember a couple of things.

I had two competing thoughts that demanded air time in my brain. One was something along the lines of, “Well, you idiot, this is how you get yourself into Flying magazine, and all the pilots reading your story in the Aftermath section will be tsk, tsking about what a bonehead you were for flying into conditions beyond your capability.” The other thought was a sense of overwhelming guilt at putting my trusting friend and his wife in this situation. I kid you not, the guilt feeling was one of my strongest emotions.

I could feel the effect of adrenaline, and I remember consciously thinking that I had to keep it together for my friends’ sake. I looked at Paul, sitting to the right of me, and he was looking wide-eyed back at me. He knew this was serious, but he was taking his cues from me and I tried hard to give the appearance of calm.

All of the above—the thoughts, the looks—were in the first few seconds after the engine quit. I keyed the mike and told the controller “Washington Center, Mooney 959. We’ve had an engine failure”

I had the radio turned way up so that I could hear the controller, and she responded, “Roger 959, what are your intentions?” This struck me as somewhat humorous at the moment, but I thought it best not to share my amusement with Paul. I simply said, “We need to land.”

Of course, we were going to land, whether we needed to or not. The question was, would we survive the landing?

The controller said, “Roger 959, turn right heading 180 degrees, vectors for Barrett’s Mountain. Current weather at the field: 200 foot overcast, visibility one half mile, heavy thunderstorms. Winds …” I can’t remember the specific winds, but I do remember clearly that it was 200 and a half…classic ILS weather minimums. This was the minimum weather to fly an ILS with an engine running. And I was going to attempt it deadstick!

I should mention that the terrain was mountainous, and the Barrett’s Mountain airport sits at 1,030′ MSL (above sea level). It was not a pretty prospect.

Then, halfway through the turn (because what option did I have but to try?), we popped out of the side of tall cumulus buildups and into clear air. I immediately rolled the wings level and stopped my turn; no way I was going back in the clouds. Ahead were more clouds, but there were gaps and I could see the ground. I would take my chances with an off-airport landing that I could see rather than a deadstick to 200 feet that I couldn’t see. (Note: if we had been another half mile west, we would have completed this turn in the clouds and the outcome of this story would likely have been much different.)

VFR Sectional chart showing Statesville airport (Barrett's Mountain airport is now apparently a private field named Little Mountain Airport)

I’m not sure what my altitude was at this time (although I was still comfortably above the terrain I could see) or if I could have glided all the way to Statesville. I was delighted with the prospect of just picking an open field. Our chances of living had skyrocketed!

Once clear of the rain, the engine began coughing back to life. Throughout this ordeal, the prop had been turning, windmilling in the slipstream (you really have to work at it to get the prop to actually stop without the engine running). Each time the prop turns it causes the magnetos to fire the spark plugs (two sets in each cylinder for redundancy), so the engine is constantly trying to restart in a case like this.

It turns out the reason for the engine failure was the sheer amount of water being ingested. A combustion engine requires intake air to operate, and the heavy rain was displacing the air, so the engine just quit. I might have been able to avoid the failure by selecting “Alternate Air,” which provides a different pathway for air to reach the engine, bypassing the air filter. Alternate Air is usually selected in cases where the air filter ices up, but could well have worked for this case too…I’ll never know.

Anyway, as the water worked its way through the system, the engine was sputtering, and it finally coughed back to life somewhere around 2,000 feet. By the time I was on final approach at Statesville, it was purring as sweet as ever.

Epilog: Somehow I convinced Paul and Barb to get back in the plane and continue home to Leesburg (W09 was the airport identifier for Leesburg then; now it’s JYO). This really is a testament to my persuasive skills, but it still amazes me 26 years later.

I thought we could stay east of the rain, but I was wrong, and once we started encountering rain on the flight out of Statesville, Paul started pointing down, gesturing that he wanted to get on the ground. So I diverted to Lynchburg, Virginia, where we stayed the night. The approach in to Lynchburg was no piece of cake — right down to a 200 foot ceiling and a half mile visibility in rain showers. You can bet I was watching those engine instruments during approach, and I was really glad to be on the ground…again.

I recently had an extensive delay on a flight from New York to Las Vegas. We pushed back from the gate on time, and as I went to start the engines I could see the dark skies to the west, our intended direction of flight. As we waited on the ramp for clearance to taxi, I heard the Ground Controller telling several planes to switch back to the Clearance Delivery frequency for a new route of flight. That’s never a good sign, and it tells us that certain departure routes are closed due to weather.

After being cleared to taxi to the end of a long line of planes, we were also told to switch radios to pick up a new clearance. Our intended departure fix, Robbinsville VOR, was shut down because of thunderstorms, and our new route would take us farther to the north. But the area of weather was extensive, and for a while it effectively shut down all departures from JFK Airport.

Heavy rain showers hit the airport and the line of planes remained stationary. We shut down our engines to save fuel, running our much less fuel-demanding APU (Auxiliary Power Unit) to provide electrical and air conditioning needs.

The delay was extensive, and we made several PAs to our passengers with updates on the weather and our (lack of) progress. In a situation like this, things can change quickly, and once the weather moves through the area, the controllers will get out the departures as fast as New York Center can handle them. We want to be ready to go when this happens.

Why am I going into so much detail about a delay that’s not all that uncommon? Because there’s a new wrinkle in the airline business, and it’s called The Passenger Bill of Rights. This bill became law this past Spring in response to some situations where passengers were essentially held hostage on an airplane for several hours. With the new law, an airline can be fined up to $27,500 per passenger if the airplane is on the ground for more than three hours without giving passengers an opportunity to deplane.

It sounds good on the face of it, but there are always some unintended consequences, and here’s how it affected us that evening. As we reached the two-hour point, we realized that another hour on the ground would make our company potentially liable for a fine approaching five million dollars. So we contacted our operations folks, and the decision was made to taxi back to the gate. The reason for making the decision at the two-hour point is that getting back to the gate would take some time since we had to get out of line and find an open route back to the terminal.

As it turned out, we got back to our ramp area after about 40 minutes of maneuvering by the ground controller to get other planes out of our way in this near-gridlock situation. Once on the ramp, we couldn’t park at the gate due to lightning — ramp personnel can’t come out when there’s lightning, for their own safety. With time running out on the three-hour limit, a mobile lounge was brought up to the plane so that a door could be opened and passengers could be given their legal right to deplane. We made it with eight minutes to spare.

Four or five passengers did take the opportunity to get off, and after getting some more fuel, we pushed back again with a fresh three-hour clock. The thunderstorm had passed and the airport was open, but the taxiways were still full of planes and it took nearly an hour before we even got cleared to taxi out from the ramp area.

As we approached the two-hour point again, we had a decision to make. Up ahead was a turn onto taxiway Foxtrot. Once we made that turn it would be next to impossible for us to get out of line and return to the gate. Not wanting to make a multi-million dollar decision on our own, we called our dispatcher (we’re allowed to use our phones on the ground for operational necessity). I explained the situation, including our position in line (number 19 or 20 for takeoff) and the departure rate (about one takeoff every two minutes). If we decided to return to the gate a second time, it would probably result in a flight cancellation, or at least the necessity to call out a fresh crew, which would probably take two hours or more.

The crew would get paid for the flight even if it cancelled, but pilots tend to be mission-oriented. Our dispatcher deferred to us, and we ultimately decided to take the gamble. We ended up taking off with 18 minutes to spare.

The bottom line is that because of our return to the gate, we experienced another two hour and 40 minute delay before getting airborne. With the additional  time spent at the gate getting refueled, we took off nearly six hours late. Had we not returned to the gate, we probably would have shaved close to two hours off this.

So, the Passenger Bill of Rights may be great in concept (and was probably appreciated by the few who elected to get off our plane). But ironically, it can actually increase the delay that passengers experience. Our flight, which was scheduled to arrive in Las Vegas at 8:40 P.M. made it to the gate at 2:55 A.M. I was fresh as a daisy…the topic of an upcoming blog.

Can you name this airport?

And now for something completely different: as promised earlier, here’s a picture of another airport’s runways. Can you name the airport? Hint: it’s not in the U.S.

The difficulty factor is high, I know, but you guys so easily identified Boston that I had to make this one tougher. If no one gets this by my next blog, I’ll give some hints. (And I’m going to try to step up the frequency of these blogs.)

Like a lot of airline pilots, I’m always on the lookout for a good trip to pick up, either to add to my schedule or trade for a less desirable trip. “Open time” is what we call the list of trips with no current pilot assignment. The list is dynamic, and trips pop up throughout the month when assigned pilots become unavailable for some reason. Maybe they had to bow out due to jury duty or military duty (a lot of airline pilots are also in the Reserve). Maybe someone broke a leg skiing or had some other medical situation.

Looking through the open time list is like panning for gold, and occasionally you hit pay dirt. Who would want to trade a three-day domestic trip, with eight separate flights and worth only 15 hours of pay, for a nice, leisurely three-day trip to Istanbul, with just two flights and 22 hours of pay? Answer: almost everyone. After all, we get paid by the hour, so increasing the ratio of block hours to working days is a priority for most pilots. An Istanbul trip won’t stay on the open time list for even a full day before somebody snags it. It also doesn’t hurt that a trip of this length will have a third pilot on board, so that each pilot can have a rest en route. The flight pay continues during the rest break. (I’ve heard this affectionately referred to as “dozing for dollars.”)

I was recently able to trade a three-day Las Vegas for a three-day Dublin. The trans-Atlantic trip was worth almost four more hours of flight pay, and because it’s been a long time since I’ve been to Dublin, I was happy when my swap request went through. There wouldn’t be a third pilot on this short international trip; only flights with a scheduled block time of over eight hours have that extra pilot (this is gate-to-gate time, not just flight time).

Report time was 7:30 pm for a 9:00 pushback from the gate. That meant I would be flying on the backside of the clock, getting into Dublin around 3 a.m. Eastern time (8 a.m. in Dublin). Sleep management is an important consideration for these flights, especially when there’s no relief pilot on board, so I got to the airport early and took a two-hour nap in a comfortable recliner before report time.

I flew the leg going over, and the trip was uneventful. But it was quite windy in Dublin for the approach. They were calling the winds “two four zero at two four gust three seven.” which meant that the winds were aligned about 40° off the runway heading for runway 28 (which, not coincidentally, is about 280°).

The crosswind component of the wind can be found using simple high school trigonometry: Multiply the wind by the sine of the angle between the winds and the runway heading. In practice, most pilots will make a simple mental estimate or consult a crosswind conversion chart that’s available in our kits. In this case, a gust of 37 knots equates to a crosswind of about 24 knots.

Because of these strong winds, we briefed the possibility of windshear, and reviewed the windshear recovery procedures in case we had to go around. Major fluctuations in airspeed are what we’re looking for, because this can result in a sudden loss of lift, which is unacceptable close to the ground. If we see an instantaneous loss of 20 knots of airspeed, for example, this would be a clear indication of windshear, and we would discontinue the approach. At that point, we’d have to decide whether it’s worth another try or a divert to a more suitable airport. And when I say “another try,” it’s not that we just decide we’re going to cinch our seatbelts and get through the windshear on the second attempt. These conditions change rapidly, and a second approach may not have any problem at all.

Coming down final, with the airspeed back to about 145 kts, our instruments showed the winds at 1,000 feet above the ground to be a little over 50 knots. I glanced down and saw a ground speed of 97 kts at one point, and the gusty winds made it necessary to make constant adjustments in the power. We were seeing only minor fluctuations in airspeed, so it didn’t look like windshear was going to be a concern.

On a crosswind landing, we hold the nose into the wind so that the plane flies down the extended runway centerline. We obviously can’t land with our nose turned to the left, though, so as we get close to the runway, we align the nose with the runway using right rudder and roll in more left aileron so that the plane doesn’t drift downwind (we need to land on the runway!). This is what is meant by “cross controls,” a term you might hear from pilots when talking about a crosswind landing.

Of course, I probably wouldn’t tell you all this if I had made a bad landing; I’m happy to say it was a good one. One of the flight attendants told me, on the way to our layover hotel, that she had been braced for a firm “arrival,” and was pleasantly surprised. (Not sure how I should take that.)

Air Force One rolling out on Runway 28

It was windy for the duration of our stay in Dublin, and the next morning the winds were even stronger, gusting to 53 knots! I did the walk-around with one hand on my hat to keep from losing it. After completing my pre-flight of the plane, I turned and saw Air Force One landing. I waved, but I didn’t see anyone wave back.

Air traffic controllers have been in the news several times in the past month. First came the “asleep in the tower” stories at Washington National Airport and Reno, Nevada. Then the First Lady’s airplane had to go around at Andrews AFB because it was too close to other traffic. The 24-hour news monster has already moved on to the next “shiny object” (the Royal wedding), but I thought I’d share my thoughts anyway.

I was as surprised as anyone about the traffic controllers; I always assumed there was more than one guy in the tower at all times. Still, the comments I heard from the pundits on TV and radio had me shaking my head. There seemed to be a worry that pilots had to land without the security blanket of ATC, and I heard the phrase “landing blind” more than once.

The tower controller (aka Local Control) has jurisdiction over the runways at the airport. He or she clears planes to take off, land or cross any active runway. It’s important, especially at busy airports, but there are hundreds of airports in the country that are not served by a control tower, and pilots manage to sequence themselves for takeoff and landing just fine. In the wee hours (the period during which the DC and Reno controllers were asleep), there is very little traffic, and the danger posed by “do it yourself” is minimal.

At uncontrolled fields, pilots approaching the airport announce their position and intentions on a VHF frequency set aside for that purpose. It might be a Unicom frequency serving several small airports in the area, or a specific frequency for that airport called a CTAF (Common Traffic Advisory Frequency). The airlines don’t fly into many uncontrolled fields, but they do exist. When I worked for United Express, two uncontrolled fields I routinely flew into  were State College, Pennsylvania and Shenandoah Valley Regional airport in Virginia.

I’m not trying to minimize the seriousness of falling asleep at the switch, but it just wasn’t as dire or life-threatening as some reports led you to believe.

The second story was even less serious, and shouldn’t even have made the news. Michelle Obama was on a plane coming into Andrews AFB, just outside Washington, and had to execute a go-around because her plane was too close to the plane in front of it.

First of all, “too close” doesn’t mean there was danger of them exchanging paint. It just means that someone was concerned that the first plane wouldn’t be clear of the runway before the second plane touched down. The rule is only one plane on the runway at a time.

I would be surprised if you could find any pilot who hasn’t had to go around at some point. It doesn’t happen to the airlines very often (or to planes carrying the First Lady, I’m sure) because the controllers and the pilots try hard to avoid it. But it does happen every day, at airports all across the country.

No need for the dreaded go-around (can you name the airport?)

There are a few possible scenarios that typically lead to a go-around. The first is when the controller is a little overzealous in trying to squeeze in arrivals. I’ve seen it on a handful of occasions where a controller, trying to keep the arrival rate up, vectors a plane in too close behind another one. Again, not dangerously close, but close enough that it becomes obvious at some point that it’s just not going to work out. Result: go around.

Other times, it’s strictly the pilot’s fault. A controller will often point out preceding traffic to us, and if we call it in sight we are likely to receive the following clearance: “Maintain visual separation from that traffic, cleared for the visual approach to Runway 31L.” If we accept that clearance, the burden is now on us to maintain adequate distance from the preceding plane so that it can land and clear the runway before we touch down. If we get too close, the controller will tell us to go around.

The pilot of the first plane can also mess things up by slowing unexpectedly during the approach. At busy airports, the controller issues exact speeds for the planes to maintain, and anyone who deviates from these speeds can ruin the flow. The approach clearance will often contain a final speed restriction, like “Cleared for the visual approach to three one left, maintain a hundred eighty knots to MEALS.” (MEALS is an intersection 5.4 miles from the end of the runway at JFK airport.) Occasionally we’ll get someone who slows to final approach speed too early, and, you guessed it: another go-around for the following traffic.

The last possibility is that the preceding traffic just doesn’t clear the runway expeditiously. At busy airports, the controllers are very sharp, and they expect the pilots to be on their game too. They know our capabilities and how much runway we need to land, slow and exit the runway. Occasionally a pilot surprises them by rolling out to the end of the runway, throwing a wrench in the beautiful arrival flow the controller has established. Some unlucky innocent on final approach has to go around.

I don’t know what happened with Mrs. Obama’s plane, but I’m pretty sure she was safe the whole time. A go-around is inconvenient, but it’s also  routine.

Washington Dulles International Airport opened in 1962 and serves over a million passengers per month today. But it wasn’t always that way. For the first couple of decades of its existence, Dulles was a virtual ghost town when compared to other major airports in the country.

Washington Dulles International Airport

I clearly remember the time in the mid-1960s when we met my grandfather there after his flight from Texas. The terminal seemed deserted in the middle of the day. Except for the passengers coming in on that plane, and the people meeting them, the only other people there were airport employees.

In the late 1970s, when I was first starting to fly, light airplanes were welcome at the airport. That’s certainly changed. Today a light airplane is somewhat of a nuisance to the controllers, as they have to try to fit them in to the flow of the faster jet traffic. But back then, they were struggling to build their traffic count — the number that justifies their existence. Pilots would come to Dulles to shoot practice ILS approaches or just do touch-and-go’s. Once, in the middle of a nice sunny day, I was flying a closed traffic pattern to Runway 1R, turning base and downwind right over the control tower. Every time I touched down was another tick on their count.

Perhaps the best memory I have of Dulles was the night I had the airport all to myself. It was the summer of 1980 and I was just three years out of college and working a nine-to-five job. One Friday night, I was having trouble falling asleep. Around 3 a.m., after tossing and turning for hours, I decided that this would be a perfect time to go flying.

At the time, I belonged to a flying club that had planes based at Dulles. The planes were parked in an area of the airport called “Southeast Parking,” located about where Terminal A is today. Normally, I’d have to schedule a plane to fly, but I figured that if I found a plane on the ramp at three in the morning, it was a pretty safe bet that no one else had it scheduled.

Grumman Tiger

The plane I picked was a Grumman Tiger, N74026. After completing my preflight walk-around inspection on the dark ramp, I contacted Ground Control for clearance to taxi. Because it was the middle of the night, one controller handled all of the frequencies — Approach, Tower and Ground. I told him that I just wanted to do some pattern work, meaning I wanted to make some landings. He cleared me to taxi to Runway 19L, then gave me a clearance I’ve never heard anytime before or since that night:

“You are cleared to do anything you want, on any runway you want, for as long as you want, until further notice.”

Wow! I felt like I had been handed the keys to the candy store. I flew around that airport for the next hour, doing touch-and-go’s, low approaches and stop-and-go landings to every runway they had. The winds were calm, so I could land on 1R and then climb out, make two left turns and land again on 19R.

For half an hour, there was not another plane to be seen. Then the controller asked me to confine myself to the east runway (1R/19L) because an Air Florida 737 was on a 20-mile final for 1L. (I have no idea what they were doing showing up at that late hour.)

Once Air Florida had landed, I was turned loose again with the same unrestricted clearance. Once I had my fill of yanking and banking the plane, I landed and taxied back to parking. On the taxi in, the controller got chatty and invited me up to the tower to have a cup of coffee and watch the sunrise. I took him up on that, then headed home.

My logbook entry for July 12, 1980, contains this remark: “3 am. Only plane @IAD. Touch and go’s. Visited tower.”

Oh, and my plan worked. After all this, I finally did get sleepy on the drive home.

I’m just back from recurrent training — two days of fun and games in the simulator. It’s kind of like a trip to the dentist: not something you look forward to, but it feels pretty good when it’s over. And it’s definitely worthwhile.

Boeing 767-300ER Simulator

Each day we showed up at 5 a.m. for the briefing, then went into the “box of pain” at 6:30 for a four-hour session. The first day covers a number of real-life scenarios with some approaches and situations we rarely encounter in day-to-day flying. They don’t just throw random emergencies at us; it’s all pretty tightly scripted to get the most out of the very expensive time in the simulator. The two pilots alternate between flying duties and non-flying duties. Good crew coordination is a big part of the training.

We flew some approaches we don’t often see in the real world, including a localizer only approach (an ILS without a glideslope), an RNAV/RNP approach (a GPS-based approach with several special requirements that the crew must consider), and CAT III and CAT II ILS (very low visibility landings using the plane’s auto-land capability).

Lined up for takeoff at Orlando

We had an engine failure on takeoff from Orlando on a hot day with a heavy airplane, which is a worst-case scenario for an engine failure (the four H’s that will decrease aircraft performance are High, Hot, Heavy and Humid). We had another engine failure flying out of Costa Rica later in the session. Both of these scenarios ended with single-engine approaches in low visibilty.

We also had two situations testing our use of proper procedures when flying the trans-oceanic track system. One was a divert from our track due to weather avoidance, and the other was an engine failure while over the ocean, requiring us to initiate a diversion.

The last scenario I recall was a pressurization failure while over critically high terrain. This presents some unique problems, because we can’t just zoom down like we would if terrain weren’t an issue. Again, we have special procedures that we have to execute.

A simulated Terminal 3 at JFK Airport, New York

On the second day we do more of the same, plus we have a Line Oriented Evaluation (LOE), which is a complete flight during which some abnormal situation will arise. Because it’s done in real time, they always pick a short flight. In our case, New York to Philadelphia.

The LOE incorporates all the things we would do for a normal flight, including pre-flight preparation, reviewing the flight plan, pushing back from the gate, starting engines, etc. This exercise checks the crew’s ability to work as a team, using available resources to manage the flight. You never know what kind of problem might crop up.

On this particular LOE we had an engine that began to surge erratically halfway to Philadelphia. We ran all the appropriate checklists and made an uneventful landing with the bad engine back at idle power and using only partial flaps, as dictated by the emergency procedures. There was nothing dramatic, and the instructor had very few items to discuss during the debrief, which is always a sign that things went well.

After the LOE we still had some time available in the sim. I was given an overweight landing in Jacksonville, Florida. [The maximum takeoff weight in the 767-300ER can be as high as 412,000 pounds, but the maximum landing weight is 320,000. In an emergency requiring a landing soon after takeoff, we will exceed that limitation.] The considerations for this landing are to  minimize the descent rate (impact) at touchdown and then to spread out the deceleration over the entire length of the runway to try to avoid overheating the brakes. After any overweight landing, a logbook entry is required and a thorough inspection of the airframe must be done before the next flight.

A 747 passing uncomfortably close

As we rolled out, I looked up to see a 747 on short final coming right at us! I quickly considered my options. Keying the mike and broadcasting on the Tower frequency probably wouldn’t have been a bad idea, something like “Aircraft on short final to Runway Seven, go around! There’s an aircraft on the runway!” The only other thing we could do would be to get off the runway. As I started to push the throttles forward to make a dash for the taxiway, the instructor piped up and said, “Disregard that plane. I hit a wrong button back here.” So we just watched as the 747 passed close overhead. At least if it hit us, the impact would be painless.

Before we left the sim, I asked our instructor to recreate this situation so I could get a picture, but this is the best I could do.

So now, with my “just flossed” feeling, I’m ready to head back to normal, uneventful flying in the real world. Next stop: Madrid.