A Chick in the Cockpit (6 page)

7
Taxi Into Position and Hold

1.
Runway – clear

2.
Instruments – green

3.
Remember that runway behind you is useless

4.
Hurry up and wait

5.
Be ready to go immediately

At airports with an operating control tower, the instructions “Taxi into position and hold” or “line up and wait” are common. The translation is to get your aircraft lined up on the runway and be ready to go, but stay there until the tower says you are cleared for takeoff. It is often assigned because a heavy or jet aircraft just departed off the same runway you are departing from and you don't want to hit their wake turbulence. The other common possibility is that there is traffic crossing your runway or flight path ahead.

“Cleared into position and hold” was always a sublime moment for me. I relished having a few extra moments lined up at the end of the runway where I could see all the rubber skid marks from thousands of tires transitioning from flight to earth. I could see bad landing marks and wondered how many other pilots have looked down this same runway. It also put into perspective the awe of taking the metal below me and putting it gloriously into the sky.

Most people think the landing portion of the flight is the most dangerous segment of the flight, but it's actually the takeoff and departure sequence. It's when the aircraft is at its heaviest and least maneuverable that if an engine failed, the pilot would have to perform perfectly to keep the aircraft where it needs to be—in the air.

There is a moment during the roll down the runway that is the deadliest. It's the transition between being committed to the takeoff or choosing to keep the aircraft on the ground. When the non-flying pilot calls out “V1,” the flying pilot takes their hand off the throttle and puts both hands on the yoke. At this point, the pilot has committed to taking off, even if an engine blows up. There isn't room on the runway to stop at this point, because you're going so fast and the momentum of all that weight would careen the aircraft off the end of the runway. However, even though you can't stop, you can't take off, either. The aircraft is still not going fast enough to get it in the air safely—especially if you lost power. The pilot has to wait until the airspeed hits a previously calculated speed, at which point the non-flying pilot calls out “rotate!” It is Pilot Purgatory in those moments, and the implications of the wrong decision between V1 and rotate are disastrous.

You'll have these moments in your life without realizing it—moments of choice where it could go either way. If you've done a good job of being prepared for an emergency, you'll reflexively make the right choice. It you're not ready, the moment between “V1” and “rotate” could be a catastrophe. You'll spend a lot of your time in purgatory, waiting for what comes next, whichever way it goes. Could be Heaven or it could be Hell. It's stressful waiting for the right moment, but remember that you've already calculated the safe takeoff speed. Wait for it. If you pull back too early on the yoke, when you're not ready to fly, you could end up a pile of mistakes at the end of the runway. Sometimes it's best to just keep it on the ground.

This happened to me when I was seven months pregnant, I was flying one of the last trips before going out on maternity leave. It was supposed to be an easy turn from Denver to Mazatlán, Mexico. I was trying to hide my pregnancy with a big blue aviator's sweater that had the epaulet holders on the shoulders, but I wasn't fooling anyone.

The flight down was uneventful. We unloaded our passengers and took on a new load of fuel and passengers. We would be departing hot and heavy for our flight back to Denver, and since I'd flown down, my copilot would be flying us back.

We waited at the end of the runway for two aircraft to land before being given the order to taxi into position and hold. Once the runway was clear, we were cleared for takeoff. My copilot smoothly brought the power up and released the brakes. As the nonflying pilot and captain, my job is to call out the airspeeds, set the power, and keep my hands on the throttles, especially after V1 is called out. Once I call out V1, the flying pilot then takes both hands and puts them on the yoke. At that point, we are committed to the takeoff, no matter what happens.

I called out “80 knots, cross checked” which verified we both had matching instruments that were functioning. In the time it took to take a breath, there was a low level vibration that I could feel in my butt. Engine indications on our instrument panel were normal, but in the instant before I was going to say V1, we all felt and heard an enormous “CABOOM!” I immediately yelled “Abort!” and put my hands over his on the throttles. My copilot didn't need me to say anything, as he'd already come back on the throttles while trying to brake and slow down an incredibly heavy and fast moving aircraft. Since a Boeing is capable of most anything, we got it stopped in plenty of time and immediately shutdown the #2 engine after verifying it was the source of the abnormality. We then told tower we had a mechanical issue and needed to taxi back to the terminal.

Turns out, we had shed a fan blade on one of the high compression turbine fans in the #2 (center) engine. The piece that broke off was only the size of a finger, but for the passengers sitting in the back of the airplane, they're lucky that engineers had invented a shroud to contain shrapnel should this unlikely scenario ever happen. It was like containing a bomb.

Since our company didn't have a bunch of airplanes just lying around, they estimated an eight-hour delay before they could get another aircraft down to rescue our passengers in Mexico. Crew scheduling decided to just get us to a hotel and start crew rest, so we could fly the rescue airplane and our passengers back to Denver.

I sweltered in my sweater, but I refused to take off the sweater until we got to the hotel because I was adamant about downplaying how pregnant I was. My crew was thrilled that we'd been put in an all-inclusive luxury resort, since it was the only vacancy nearby. We relaxed and waited for the rescue airplane, while most of our passenger were in “position and hold” at the airport.

The rescue aircraft finally arrived—later than expected—and as my crew and I came on board, the station manager pulled me aside. He mentioned that we “had a slight problem” with this aircraft. I raised an eyebrow as he told me there had been a bomb threat associated with this airplane.

Since my Spanish was limited and his English was broken, I asked again what he'd said. He verified there was a bomb threat. “A bomb threat?! Are you sure? Are you sure it was a bomb threat?” He looked me gravely in the eye and said, “Yes, a bomb threat.”

I went into overdrive. “Okay,
Jesus!
Get all the aircraft groomers and my crew off this airplane now. Tell the baggage handler to stop loading bags and get the damn fuel truck far away from here. Have security pull all the passengers away from this side of the terminal and then tell me what the heck is going on! And why the hell are you letting everyone on this airplane if you've had a bomb threat?!” The station manager shrugged and said he'd never had one before and wasn't sure what to do.

I quietly walked past the passengers in the terminal and pulled a security officer aside and explained our situation. Within minutes, the Mexican security forces had shown up in their Jeeps, fully armed with automatic weapons and attitude. Of course, since Murphy's Law rules, it was Sunday night and I couldn't get hold of anyone at my company. Everyone at our company knew to not answer their phones on their time off. There were only a couple of crew schedulers at the office, and they couldn't get hold of any of our operations people, either. We didn't have an international cell phone, so I had to borrow the one and only phone that everyone in the office used. And at that, I'd had to call collect.

Once everyone was away from the aircraft except the armed security team that was going through every inch of the airplane, I went down to the station manager's office, carrying my seven months of pregnancy and the weight of being pissed off at the entire scene. I got as many people who could translate for us into the office and started trying to sort this out. I asked for a detailed sequence of how this information came to the station manager. With the help of several of us trying to translate, he explained that a passenger on another aircraft had mentioned that the rescue airplane would never make it to Mexico. Okay, well, that's different than a bomb threat! He said the passenger who'd said it just got through customs and was waiting for a hotel bus. I ran (well, waddled really fast) out to where passengers were getting on hotel buses and started trying to locate this woman who'd been identified as making the “threat.” I literally stepped in front of a bus that was about to depart and got on and asked if this women was onboard. I must've been quite a sight, pissed off, pregnant, and sweating profusely in my sweater.

The woman was, indeed, onboard. I pulled her off and asked what the heck was going on. She said all she did was tell one of our passengers, who had been waiting for about fourteen hours in the airport, that she doubted they'd get out of there today. Our passenger had been sitting at the bar during this exchange and it appeared that she had been extending her vacation alcohol as long as possible. Now I was even angrier because the station manager had completely blown this thing out of proportion and the wheels were already in motion to treat this like a bomb threat.

To add insult to injury, I had to wait in the security line, again, and realized that the security line wasn't moving because our “bomb threat” had shut it down. I walked to the front of the line and explained that I was the captain on the airplane that was having an “issue” and that I had to get back in to talk to the station manager. They wondered why I was outside the front of the airport and they could simply not believe that this crazy pregnant woman was the captain (even though I had all my security and identity tags on and my four bar epaulets on my shoulders) so I had to wait for the station manager to come and get me and escort me through security.

I explained to the station manager that telling anyone that there was a “bomb threat,” when there wasn't, was illegal. He just said he didn't understand. It took another three hours to get the aircraft cleared from the Mexican authorities and to finally get our “safety officer” back in Minnesota to release the aircraft back into service. All the while, our passengers had been waiting in position and hold for hours. No one had told them what was going on, and even though they'd been there for fifteen hours, they didn't want to leave for fear of missing their flight.

When I got back to Minnesota, I wrote up a report explaining, in detail, what happened and how the communication with my company completely failed us. In the days after 9/11, our company had touted our new head of security as being the best in the industry, but when we had a chance to show how our system would work, the reality was laughable. So while I'd been hoping for a “Rotate,” we ended up staying on the ground.

Meanwhile, my cleared for takeoff report went sailing into the chief pilot's circular file.

8
Final Items

1.
This is the last checklist you'll perform on the ground

2.
You are committed to what lies ahead

3.
Check the windsock

4.
Look all the way down the runway and visualize your flight path

5.
You are going to get very busy

Upon clearance to take the active runway, the Final Item checklist is performed. It is a reminder and verification of those important items that have to wait until you are cleared for takeoff. For the Boeing 727, one of the items on this checklist is to turn on the remaining position lights. In busy traffic areas, being visible to other aircraft is of vital importance, and the Boeing could announce itself to others with a dazzling display of lights. The secondary and more subtle purpose of the Final Items Checklist is just a polite way of the manufacturer verifying with the crew that their heads are out of their asses and to be absolutely certain that you and your crew are ready to take control of this enormous piece of metal and put it into the air.

When final items are read, it's important to use this moment as an opportunity to gather all your attention and focus on the enormous amount of input that is about to be sent to your eyes and ears. You must open your mind and be ready to receive and react to all of the input. You must listen and understand the verbal callouts, runway cues, signage, and engine/system instrumentation, to name a few. When a seasoned pilot calls for Final Items, they not only take in all this outside information, they also tune into their pilot instinct. It's a feeling, as well as a knowing, that the aircraft is performing as they have asked, and there is confidence that every item on the checklist is complete.

There is just one final item on my “chick pilot” checklist that I am consistently asked about, so I will confirm this systems check for you before we line up for takeoff. This particular malfunction has no standard emergency checklist, but it's something you have to be prepared for before, during, and after takeoff. The malfunction can go one of many ways, but no two are alike so, unfortunately, you'll have to figure it out for yourself. The indicator light says “discrimination,” or sometimes, it's labeled “harassment.” But unlike other indicators, it's often accompanied by silence instead of a loud alarm bell.

Since there are still very few women in aviation, I am periodically asked about discrimination and sexual harassment. The answer is yes, of course, it is on every female pilot's checklist. It happens so often that it just becomes part of life. You simply cannot come into aviation and expect instant change, so you grow some thick skin, pull out your humor, and use it as an opportunity to show everyone that a woman can handle it. It's the only way to overcome it. You take it so that the women who follow don't have to fight so hard.

My very first trip as a flight engineer with passengers (yes, all you people on Champion Air flight 601 from Minneapolis to Las Vegas, you were my guinea pigs. I got to experiment on you, and you all lived, thank you very much) was under the observation of my Initial Operating Experience training pilot. It's called your IOE flight, and there are actually three of them (if all goes well). It's a check ride, and the FAA can be there if they want to. Of course, they wanted to be there for mine. I was currently the only woman in this division so, like a sideshow freak, people wanted to peek under the curtain.

Every pilot's first few flights are observed check rides. My task was to perform my duties under the supervision of my IOE training pilot and an FAA Flight Standards District Office representative (if they choose to participate) while actually flying passengers. Yes, it's completely unnerving, but don't worry—as a passenger, it's one of the safest flights because everyone is operating by the book.

What I didn't know is that the first officer on this flight just so happened to be the biggest male chauvinist pig that I would ever cross paths with at this airline. He didn't know what misogyny meant, but he practiced it with religious fervor. Of all the flights and all the pilots, why did he have to be on my first flight? Little did he know, Karma would be coming his way.

Generally, the flight engineer is responsible for inspecting and monitoring all the systems on the aircraft. One of the first duties of a flight engineer is to perform the walk around exterior preflight inspection on the aircraft before and between each flight. This entails checking every compartment, flight control, fluid levels, and surface on the aircraft. In the winter, the APU (the auxiliary power unit is an extra engine that runs during ground operations to provide heating or cooling, and electricity) got a really long inspection because it's warm in the compartment where it is mounted.

The disadvantage is that the decibel level is literally off the charts and while you might be warm, your ears are damaged forever. I have permanent hearing loss in my left ear from inserting a molded in-ear headphone that the company required us to wear and standing a few too many minutes next to the APU when it was twenty below zero in Minnesota.

The flight engineer is supposed to arrive at the aircraft ahead of the remaining flight crew. The engineer checks the maintenance log, gets the flight deck ready, starts the APU, checks the fuel load, pre-flights the engineer panel, and then goes outside for the external check. All the logbooks for the aircraft are kept in the engineer's desk, and this is where the preflight begins.

When I opened the desk top at the engineer station, taped to the inside cover was a hardcore pornographic picture. Since I was the first woman working here, I just figured these were probably on all the desks, but not wanting the FAA man to see it, I inconspicuously removed it.

The first officer had been watching me out of the corner of his eye, and I could see his shoulders jiggling with laughter as he listened to me slowly peel the tape off the picture. I'm also one of those people who doesn't tear gift wrapping, either, so I actually did the courtesy of not destroying the picture. The copilot was now covering his mouth to hide the laughter. Hmmm, so he thinks this is funny? Whatever. Have your little laugh. I thought that one picture was the end of it.

Mr. FAA man told my IOE examiner that he would watch me perform my pre-flight inspection, so he walked down to the tarmac with us. For every inspection compartment I opened, there had been taped a picture of women and men in the act of detailed penetration. If it wasn't a couple going at it, then it was pictures of women making a fashion statement by wearing no clothes at all. I blushed a deep crimson red that stayed with me for the whole inspection as I quietly removed each picture and stuck it behind my preflight checklist. I found page after page from probably ten different magazines. Mr. FAA man had been intently watching and was close enough to realize, after the fourth peeling of paper, what I was removing. I smiled, he blushed, shrugged his shoulders, and I went about my duties. My job was literally on the line. I had to pass this check ride to start getting paid engineer's salary (a whopping $28k the first year!).

I was absolutely unnerved by the end of the pre-flight inspection. I dreaded each compartment I checked. I was trying to deal with my embarrassment and using all my energy to put on a blank face to the FAA inspector, which took away from the concentration required for the true task at hand. The stress was overwhelming enough to be flying the aircraft for the first time, and to remember the millions of details of the job, so this added humiliation was reprehensible. Beyond a practical joke, having paper floating around hot exhaust was dangerous, too, and I was afraid the FAA was going to fine our company for this prank. It would look really bad if I earned a violation for my company on my first flight.

As I plopped into the engineer's seat, I was disheartened to have spent an enormous amount of my life trying to blur the line that I was a pilot who happened to be a woman, and this one prank was ruining everything I'd vanquished. I didn't want anyone to think there was any difference between men and women pilots, but these pictures reminded me of how different we could be. I was infuriated on many levels, and the culprit was sitting inches in front of me.

The Boeing 727 has a huge cockpit (sorry, nothing pornographic meant there), and the ability to carry two extra jump seat passengers, which meant that Mr. FAA man
and
my IOE instructor would be riding in the cockpit with us.

I held my breath during my first takeoff. I was afraid to blink for fear I would miss an indication of anything going awry on my instrument panel. Since every flight in the simulator turned into an emergency, I was astonished that the first takeoff was textbook perfect.

The thrill of this virgin flight muddled my emotions, but also reminded me that I had worked my ass off to get here, and I had the right to be peeved at the pornography that ruined my confidence and first pre-flight inspection. I hadn't said a word about the prank yet, but I had been working the resolution out in my head. I just had to wait for the perfect moment. I waited until we were at cruising altitude.

The captain had the aircraft on autopilot and we were all settling in for a smooth flight. With Mr. FAA man in the cockpit with us, no one was allowed to relax to the level of standard flight crew atmosphere, but there was a shift in mood after transitioning into cruise flight. I reckoned this was a consummate moment to exact my revenge.

I quietly took a deep breath and tapped the first officer on the shoulder and as he twisted his body around to face me, I put on my heaviest Minnesotan accent and feigned innocence as I turned the prank on him.

“Oh, excuse me, Zack? Gosh, I know that you're not married, and I can't even imagine that you would have a girlfriend, so I'm quite certain you'll be wanting – no, needing! - these pictures back. Thank you so much for letting me look at them, that was so thoughtful of you. Oh, and before I forget, that last page there is wet. I'm sure you're not used to anything getting wet around you so I wanted to make sure you're careful with that last page there...” With that, I handed him back the crumpled magazine pages. I had made sure that the raunchiest picture was on the top of the pile for everyone to see. I wanted to turn this into
his
embarrassment, not mine. I tilted my head, sat up straight and gave him a huge smile as I began to turn back to my work station while holding my breath.

I listened. No one moved. Then, there was the sharp intake of breath just before Mr. FAA man exploded with laughter. With his release, the tension broke and everyone laughed so hard that they had to cover their mouths for fear of the passengers hearing this enormous roar of laughter coming from the cockpit. The copilot didn't laugh quite as hard as everyone else, but he acknowledged the touché.

I turned around and laughed with them. I was so relieved that with a simple gesture, I had called him on it and showed the rest that I could handle the “initiation” with finesse. I hoped that no one could see that my hands were shaking so badly I could hardly flip a switch and my stomach was churning so violently I thought I would puke. But it worked. The gauntlet had been thrown and I picked it up and accepted the challenge. I didn't want to whine or tattle to the FAA, captain, or IOE instructor about what was going on. They knew what was going on and they were watching me. Intently.

In the midst of formulating my revenge, it dawned on me that I
was
being treated as an equal—as a man would interpret it. This was an initiation ceremony, and I needed to handle this with my balls rather than my boobs. If I had said nothing or filed a complaint, then it would be calling attention to the fact that I can't handle this myself (Help! I'm weak, save me). Instead, I pushed everything I had into the indignant, righteous side of the brain that every woman has and told myself,
show these sons of bitches some grace under fire.

The instant Karma that came with this situation was that Mr. FAA man decided to give the copilot a “random” line check on the last leg of our trip. You know what I'm going to say, right? Right. He failed his check ride. You might think that was a good thing, but I thought for sure the copilot would blame me for the failure. It was obvious that Mr. FAA man was trying to do me a favor, but I feared I had made an enemy on my first flight. As it turned out, I had earned enough mutual respect by accepting his challenge that we reached a point where we didn't cringe when we were paired together. Don't get me wrong, we didn't like each other, and he still remained a woman pilot hater (I didn't do much to blunt the sentiment), but we got a kick out of sparring and matching wits, and sometimes that's all you can hope for in this life; mutual respect blended in with distaste.

I realized I'd been discriminated against. I am not naïve. I realized as it was happening, and I purposely gave the appearance that I was not offended. I just kept going like nothing happened because the only way I had a chance was to ignore it and do a damn good job. I lived with the snide remarks, dirty jokes, and pompous attitudes because, in the end, I wasn't the best pilot there was—but I was just as good, and I deserved mutual respect. I didn't always get it, but knowing in my heart that I'd earned it was enough. I was doing what I loved, and my paycheck
was
the same as theirs. One good thing about a unionized industry is that the paychecks are equal—that is if management assigns you to the same amount of flying.

Most importantly, in my twenty-five years in aviation, the percentage of friendly and professional male pilots verses the asshole sexist ones is over ninety percent. Those ten percent of jerks exist no matter what industry or gender. It's easy to remember the misogynist, but the majority of male pilots I flew with were respectful, non-judgmental, and they acknowledged that I was just earning a living like they were. They got used to me being there, and I thank them for that. I set aside femininity to function in the cockpit and, in return, the gents I flew with straightened up their act for me. I know they preferred to tell dirty jokes, describe their latest sexual encounter, and fart at will, but they changed for me, so I did the same for them. Don't forget, this is the first generation of women through the wake of Gloria Steinem. Don't waste your time trying to change a misogynist; give your attention to the good guys, and they'll help you with the rest.