A Chick in the Cockpit (5 page)

But icing isn't generic and it is not something you practice: it's something you avoid. Yes, the airplane could handle it, but maybe not by a timid pilot who had been out of the industry because he'd been cooling his heels in the slammer. Throw in the classic cliché of the copilot relying on the expertise of the captain (without realizing the captain didn't have any expertise), and you've got a lovely formula for disaster. If that wasn't enough, and to add to the equation, the captain had already flown a flight from 3:00 a.m. to 9:30 a.m. the day before and then worked a nursing shift (he was a nurse, too) from 6:00 p.m. to 10:00 p.m. He was up by 7:15 a.m. the morning of the crash. I'll let you draw your own further conclusions from here.

The moment I heard about the crash, I remembered the last day I saw Senator Wellstone. At the time, I was a captain on one of the corporate jets and Senator Wellstone was going out on a different flight. I was standing at the front counter waiting for my passengers to arrive and Senator Wellstone was waiting for the rest of his party as well. While we were both waiting, we were laughing at his fear of flying.

Senator Wellstone had walked into the lobby before his flight and realized that since he was the first to arrive, he had time to stop in the restroom and get ready for the flight. He had apparently tried to splash water on his face to calm his nerves, but managed to get the front of his shirt wet. He had crazy, curly, thinning hair and I couldn't help but smile as he walked out of the bathroom with his shirt un-tucked, his zipper down, and water dripping down his face and the front of his shirt. He was laughing at himself as he tried to straighten up his wet and disheveled clothes while I was trying to lighten the atmosphere. Every time I saw him I would give him a statistic about flying, and I always had a new one in mind, just in case I saw him.

“So, what do you know today?” he laughed when he saw me.

“Well, Senator Wellstone, at any given moment there are about six hundred thousand people in the air and they'll all arrive safely.”

“Ha, they haven't all arrived yet, so how can you say that?” he asked as he forced his zipper to rip through the caught material.

“Well, I'm so sure of it, I'll bet you if you want.” He stopped his personal repairs and replayed the statistic in his head. “Wait. Really? Are there really are that many people flying right now?”

“Yep. More or less.” I could see him running that number through his head, and it seemed to put his flight into perspective. The final passenger joining his flight walked in the door and as he turned towards the ramp, he tilted his head and closed his eyes for a moment. “Six hundred thousand. That's a lot of people off the earth right now. Yah know what? I love my job and I love doing what I do. Even though this constant campaigning is exhausting, it's all this air travel that's killin' me! I can't stand it. I just don't like someone else controlling my fate. Six hundred thousand? Wow.” He started talking to his fellow travelers and clicked into campaign mode and that's the last moment I shared with him.

Yes, indeed. Six hundred thousand, more or less.

After seven months of working the office in the Evil Empire without a flight, I was kicking myself for believing I'd get to waltz across the airfield into a pilot's seat. During those long grounding months, I'd seriously considered getting out of aviation. I had interviewed for a few other jobs, but I couldn't bear the thought of working in a cubicle without being able to at least see the airplanes I was jonesing to fly. My fervent desire to fly blinded my situational awareness. All I could see was that I wanted to fly so badly and I wanted it
now
. I couldn't stand the reality of being duped into an office job, so I thought maybe it would be better to just get out.

In the meantime, I'd been talking with Joe, the new assistant chief pilot, and he treated me as a pilot, not just a woman pilot. We traded flying stories and challenged each other on aviation rules and regulations. He saw that I was qualified, patient, and ready to go.

After I'd hinted a thousand times that I was ready to get my name on the pilot list, Joe explained that because they'd just hired a few pilots, they currently had enough pilots to cover the schedule.

“Really, is that what's holding me back?”

Joe nodded. Well hell, I could fix that by creating a need for more pilots. Meanwhile, Joe quietly worked at convincing the owner that I was just as good as any other pilot, despite my gender.

I started to hustle my former customers at Ethan Aviation, and after two weeks I was able to bring in and schedule a sudden and significant influx of business from my former employer (sorry about that)—so much so that they started running short on pilots again. Everyone in the office could see it begin to happen by looking at the scheduling board. We suddenly didn't have enough crew. Since the head honcho pilots had already put in a good word for me, strictly out of desperation, Sharon finally said I could fly. All it took was that one moment of desperation for Sharon to clean out her clogged filter and discover that I could actually fly an airplane—just like a handsome man—and just like my resume said I could. It just took a tipping point and after that first flight, my name remained on the pilot list.

After a year of being assigned the worst schedule and all night air ambulance flights, Joe, the assistant chief pilot, became the chief pilot. This kind, quiet, and dignified man became my biggest advocate. He didn't care if I was man or woman, yellow or green, he just knew I could fly and he knew how long I'd been waiting to just be given the chance.

Joe watched as I cut my hair shorter and shorter each time I flew a bigger airplane. I felt I needed to look manlier each time I took a step up the aviation ladder. After I got my type rating in the Citation (jet), Joe and I were crewed together and I relished in the lessons learned from the chief pilot. We were having lunch at a dive café in the middle of Mississippi in the middle of a five day trip and I was sporting my latest butch haircut. He kindly and without malice looked at me, tilted his head and said, “Ya know, Erika, we all know that you're a girl, so you don't have to keep cutting your hair. It's okay to be a girl
and
fly an airplane...” Those simple words punched holes in the barrier I had built. I had been working so hard on blending in with men that I forgot how fabulous it was that I was a women doing this dirty, gritty job. Why wasn't I representing the feminine as long as I was already here? I've never had manicures or spent more than a few minutes putting on makeup, but from that day on, I grew my hair long to honor being female, and I still wear it past my shoulders.

I now had fuel in my tank, guidance to get me to my destination, and I had started my engines.

6
Before Taxi Checklist

1.
Brief the passengers – explain engine out procedure (If you have only one engine, never mind)

2.
Position lights – on

3.
Taxi clearance - request

4.
Look both ways when crossing an active runway

5.
Hold short at the end of the runway

Before you make another move, take a deep breath and begin the Before Taxi Checklist. You are now locked in your cockpit with the engine(s) running, and the noise around you can be deafening. If you are in a single engine propeller plane and if you don't have headsets on, you'll just have to yell if you want to talk to your passengers. Your lips might be moving, but no one can hear what you're saying. If you're with your copilot in an airliner, the engine noise is tolerable—it's when the engines don't make noise that you're in trouble.

At this threshold on our journey, we've got the engine(s) started, the navigation equipment tuned and identified, radios and frequencies are checked and set, en route charts are out, and airport information is verified. You're ready to move. Depending on which airport you are departing from, or what type of flight plan you are on, you'll probably have to call someone to get a clearance to move, so make sure you have completed the Before Taxi Checklist
before
keying the microphone and asking for your clearance to taxi to the runway.

If at an uncontrolled airport flying visually (in good weather), pilots announce “in the blind” to other aircraft in the vicinity where they are and which way they are landing or taking off. It is every pilot's responsibility to continuously announce to others their position on, in, and around the airport's airspace. Pilots must also remember to listen very carefully to the other aircraft giving their position reports, on the ground as well as their approach, into your airport's airspace.

If you are on an instrument flight plan, especially at an airport with a control tower, your every move is commanded by someone else. It's often easier to let someone else decide when and where you should move. Even though you are the final authority on keeping your aircraft safe, to delegate some responsibility to someone else shifts your attention to complying with commands rather than taking on the full responsibility of deciding what you are doing and where you are going.

Before calling for the Taxi Checklist, the captain or first officer is supposed to brief the passengers about the upcoming flight—en route information and destination weather. I had just completed my upgrade training from flight engineer to first officer and was so excited to be in the first officer seat that I had forgotten part of my new job was performing the passenger announcement. I'd heard it hundreds of times, but I hadn't given it much thought, or realized I had to do it until my training captain took a sip of coffee and said, “Okay, Erika, give the passengers their briefing and let's get this day underway.”

Gulp. I hate public speaking.

I grabbed the flight plan and rapidly put a speech together in my head. I rehearsed it in my mind, and just as I was bringing the handheld microphone up to my mouth, my training captain reached over and put his hand on my shoulder. He had such a serious look on his face, I completely dropped what I was doing for fear I was about to do something wrong. He leaned towards me, looked me deeply in the eyes, and with a conspirator's voice loudly whispered, “Oh, I forgot to tell you...just make sure you don't say ‘fuck' during your announcement over the PA system.”

“Oh, my gosh, okay. I don't think I would have ever said that anyway, but thanks for reminding me.” I innocently replied. And with that, this farm boy captain from Minnesota threw his head back and gave such a hearty and sinister laugh that I started laughing, too, and couldn't stop. All of a sudden, I couldn't stop thinking about not saying “fuck.” As soon as I put the microphone to my mouth, I started laughing. It took all my focus and concentration to not say “fuck.” From that day on, anytime I needed to do a passenger announcement, or any type of public speaking for that matter, that darn training captain's face comes into my vision and I laugh inside as I remind myself to not say “fuck.”

Secretly, each time I began my Before Taxi Checklist, I would have a moment of giddiness mixed with amazement that my hands were going to command a multi-million dollar aircraft across the country. I knew how to do this. I was going to insert my aircraft into this gigantic cog of an aviation system and get us there safely. I was far from perfect and far from knowing everything, but I knew I could handle whatever variety of challenges that were going to be thrown my way. My excitement paralleled my exhaustion. I was quietly putting in eighty hour work weeks at the charter company. Yep, absolutely illegal according to crew duty times, but this was the deal I'd worked with the devil. I kept the office and invoices churning out nicely and in return I flew every air ambulance and charter flight I could get my hands on.

As a consequence of building those flight hours, I was continuously fatigued and I looked like shit. I'd put on makeup, but then I looked like shit covered in makeup. Nothing can mask exhaustion. I didn't have time to pay attention to my health, my hair, or my social life. I justified it with the basic excuses, but I look back and know exactly how I earned these wrinkles. Just like handing over my every move of my aircraft over to the control tower, I had handed control of my life over to aviation, and I obeyed every request that was asked of me.

Each flight physical to renew my medical certificate announced a new, elevated level of blood pressure bordering on the upper limit of normal. I just laughed it off, told the doctor he made me nervous, and off I went with medical certificate in hand. I was only twenty-six, but I had turned into a one-dimensional person. The one dimension was incredible and yes, a Weeble-Wobble will always stand back up if you push it over, but no one wants to play with one for very long.

Now that I had been flying with the Evil Empire long enough to break away from the office chains, I was a “real” pilot living the dream, and now my obsession was earning pilot in command time (PIC). The confident, skilled pilots would let me fly and log captain time on the empty flight legs, of which there were many because the rich and famous don't fret about being efficient.

The marginal pilots, or the pilots who had egos so big they had to stand next to them, would rarely let me do much more than run the radios and perform the flight attendant duties. I had the most fun proving to those pilots that I was just as good as they were and sometimes, even better. I had to prove to them that I had value beyond reading the Before Taxi Checklist to them.

A perfect case in point happened when I flew with Geoffrey. The Evil Empire had a client who required a two pilot crew for their flight operations (even though it was a single pilot aircraft, their insurance required two pilots), so their pilot would call the Evil Empire and pay for a pilot to serve as their copilot. The client was a local large real estate company who had one full time pilot by the name of Geoffrey. He was one of those pilots who had to include their ego in the weight and balance calculations.

I was the only pilot he would request, and I was so honored that I accepted all the flights, but I absolutely dreaded flying with him. He was such a conceited, dogmatic bore that the hours went by reluctantly on our flights together. He spent most of our flight time complaining about the other pilots and how badly everything was being managed, yet never offering up a solution. He would drone on about how everyone else around him was always wrong. Of course, the other pilots thought I was sleeping with him, but I think his ego made flying with other men extremely agonistic.

Part of my job description as woman pilot was the task of being accused of sleeping with every pilot I ever flew with. It was a perpetual joke, and the only way to deal with it was to just join in. If another pilot thought I was getting more flights than the next guy, they just wrote it off to the fact that I must be sleeping with someone. Line guys said it. Front office girls said it. The owner even alluded to it. I got so used to the taunt and underlying tone, that one day as I was preparing my plane for departure, a group of pilots and line guys were talking smack about which pilot I'd be “flying” with today. I smirked and quietly whispered to the group as I walked by: “Yep, that's right, boys. It's my turn to ‘fly' (yes, with air quotes) with
him
this week...” It was particularly funny because the pilot in reference was outlandishly gay. I didn't sleep with him, either. They knew it, but it was their way of dealing with a woman taking their flight hours. However, having Geoffrey constantly request my pilot services definitely stirred the rumor mill.

After a few months, and much to my thrill, they traded in their King Air for a Citation (went from a twin turbo prop to a corporate jet). At this point, I had already earned my type rating in a Citation II (typed for all CE-500 series), so my value was intensified because there were only a few of us typed in this jet.

I flew with Geoffrey off and on for over a year and hundreds of hours, and during all that time, he would
never
let me land the airplane. I'd logged hundreds of landings in corporate aircraft, but all he'd let me do was run the radio and read the checklists. He let me land during repositioning flights, but he wouldn't let me land with passengers on board. It was weird and to the point where it was unsafe because he would just take control of the airplane away from me without any notice. I'd be flying on approach, and then all of a sudden he'd say, “Okay, I'll take it from here.” The best part is that I would fly a perfect approach, perfectly configured, perfect airspeed, and at five hundred feet he would take over and land.

Finally, one afternoon we were flying into the airport at Napa Valley with Geoffrey's boss onboard. “Erika,” he said, “I told the boss I was going to let you land the plane today, so don't screw it up.” Geez, no pressure.

I had one chance to get it not just right, but perfect. To date, it is the best landing I've
ever
made in any aircraft. There was literally no transition from air to earth. Those wheels kissed the pavement like the gentlest lover. I acted all cool and nonchalant, like I always land it like that. When we were parked at the terminal, the boss came up, slapped Geoffrey on the back and said, “See, I told you she could land better than you! I win the bet!” Geoffrey was a lovely shade of crimson.

Of course, on the next landing with the aircraft empty, I smacked it unceremoniously into the runway, but at least the boss wasn't on board, and it gave Geoffrey a chance to reset his ego. After that day, he let me do something other than just perform the Before Taxi Checklist. He let me fly every other leg.

Building jet time and with even more resolve,
pilot in command
jet time, had been my new preoccupation, and as any pilot knows, it is the key to the next level. I was valuable now because I had a lot of money tied up in my brain, and I was getting inquiries about a possible switch of employers. Sharon at the Evil Empire knew the value, too, so she made me sign a training contract every time I went to flight training schools. She would get a loan from the bank and make me sign the loan papers. She'd make payments for me as long as I worked there. If I quit, I had to pay back the loan myself. Training at Flight Safety was expensive, so the loans were worth several thousand dollars, which meant I'd have to pay thousands of dollars to quit. I'll let that sink in for a moment.

After six years at the Evil Empire, I did finally get an offer that was worth paying to quit. There was a company at the St. Paul Downtown Airport, Jetways, Inc., that was entering into the new idea of quarter share ownership of corporate jets. They had a hulky old Falcon 20 that needed a crew. They also had a Citation, which I was captain qualified for, so that was my foot in the door, and the Falcon 20 was my bonus. The best part: this time, I didn't have to spend time in the office.

The Falcon 20 is a French business jet built by Dassault, and a beast. The French have a different perspective on engineering designs, so this aircraft was a definite challenge to learn. It's loud, comfortable, and as maneuverable as a camel. But oh, it was gorgeous, and I was going to fly it. I bounced between logging time in the Falcon and the Citation, from seat to seat, and my logbook grew with valuable hours.

However, after a year had passed, I heeded that the time between scheduled flights was getting longer. I also began to notice that maintenance items weren't getting fixed, new business was slowing down, and the business travelers we had were checking out new flight departments. A general desperation of the owners was seeping into the office staff, and it trickled down to the flight line. They were asking the pilots to come in when they weren't flying and clean the aircraft, and do some office duties. That was fine with me, but those requests spoke volumes about the condition of the company. Competition was tough, and we were up against other flight departments with newer, more efficient aircraft that passengers preferred. The death knell of the company had been rung.

At the same time I felt my job slipping away, I had been following the local news that Northwest Airlines had launched a side arm to their company called Main Line Travel (MLT). It was a separate entity from its own aircraft and travel services, but it was quietly owned by Northwest Airlines, and the rumor was they were hiring. They had a non-union division of pilots who flew sports teams, Department of Defense contracts, vacation package flights, and any other executive charter you can think of. It was contract flying, which would be a roller coaster ride on the schedule, but they had a growing fleet of Boeing 727-200s, and every big flight department that has government contracts needs a token female. I could complete that company's Before Taxi Checklist by being their “Token Female.” Since they bid for government contracts, they had to have a minimum of diversity to win them. By hiring me, they could check off the minority box to fulfill a quota. If they would let me fly a three-engine jet, I didn't care what they called me. Being the token female worked for me.