People tend to recognize the airline pilot uniform (also known as
the Clown Suit among some industry circles) as a symbol of authority and
professionalism. They anticipate hearing the gnarled voice of a senior
captain speaking calmly over the intercom and picture the Marlboro Man
positioned up front behind an array of little colored lights and switches,
complete with Sully-like mustache and a pressed white shirt sporting elegant,
naval inspired epaulettes. For some reason, they often assume a Boeing
747 will be operating their 40 minute flight from Newark to Albany, NY and are
stupefied when the jet bridge in which they are queued spits them out on the
tarmac whereupon they stare down a 37 seat Dash 8 turboprop.
Jaws dropped and eyes wide, they often shamelessly unholster iPhones and stumble their way toward the air stairs, tapping rapidly at their
devices to document the horror before them and ensure friends and loved ones
know what seemingly archaic machine will soon to lead to their peril. These
flabbergasted flyers often disregard the flight crew seated fully in view in
the nose of the airplane, writing them off as stoic, overpaid, and underworked
bionic elements of the airplane itself, fingertips intertwined with the arteries
and engines of the ship. In most cases, that flight crew is in fact
grossly underpaid, severely overworked and, more often than not, actively and
enthusiastically photobombing the impending deluge of social media hyperbole
regarding the questionable outcome of the flight.
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| What the flying public often expects out of their regional airline pilot vs what they often get. |
As this scenario pertained to a 23 year old First Officer Tom (and
often 25ish year old captain), it sometimes would include boorish comments made
about our youthfulness and an uncamouflaged lack of confidence in the flight
crew's ability to perform. We did, after all, instantly dismantle the
stereotype held by most passengers, which was already weakened significantly at
the sight of the Dash 8 in lieu of a "heavy metal" widebody airliner
(for a 40 minute flight to Albany...). Melodramatics aside, those
passengers must have known they had only a one in 11 million chance of
being in an airliner crash because I never saw anyone unnerved enough perform
an about-face. (On second thought, that may have been a function of the
city from which they were departing...Newark is not exactly known for its
hospitality or charming views). They must have had their fear tamped just
enough by the pleasing sight of our Clown Suits. At least we still wore
that fabled, crisp uniform. Most of the time.
There was an instance in the Spring of 2013 when I had a stretch
of reserve as a Newark based Dash 8 First Officer where I got called to perform
that 40 minute flight to Albany. The original crew had gotten reassigned
and the airplane was left on the gate without a chaperone. As would
sometimes occur, I was first to the ship after receiving the call from Crew
Scheduling. Not knowing who had been called to operate the flight as
captain, I simply went about my routine of prepping the aircraft and briefing
the reserve flight attendant, confident that our Pilot in Command would stroll
through door any minute.
The gate agent, meanwhile, was poking her head in the airplane
every two or three minutes, pressuring us to board because the flight was
delayed as a result of the crew change. Not wanting to board until the
captain was settled in (and sparing the passengers the agony of sitting idly on
a cramped, shutdown airplane -- a sentence not often considered when
"trapped" in the much more spacious and well-ventilated gate area), I
denied each request to board.
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| A gate agent scours her Facebook page for information about your connecting flight (photo taken by the author at Newark Liberty International Airport). |
Our dispatch release paperwork indicated the identity of our
missing captain. It was good ol' Captain B, a man of about 45 with whom I
had flown several times. Enough time had passed (indicated by the thickly
accented English of the gate agent's punctual demands to board) that I was
indeed curious where our missing man was and elected to give Captain B a call,
delicately navigating the error a more junior First Officer would have made by
calling Crew Scheduling directly, tattling on my fellow crew member's
tardiness. No answer. I waited a few minutes, denied another
boarding request, and called again. No answer. Several iterations
of my attempt to spare my coworker the scorn of Scheduling passed before I
elected to dial that all-seeing eye in Cleveland and confess that we were not
fully crewed.
Just as I was preparing make the call, Captain B, who lived near
Albany, hurriedly walked on board. "Sorry! I was sleeping in
the basement and didn't have cell service. Let's board 'em up." Whew!
Crisis averted. Except for the fact that Captain B was wearing
cargo shorts and baggy Life is Good t-shirt.
"B... what happened to your uniform?"
"I was here doing admin work and went to the crew rest room
to take a nap. I was not supposed to fly today but I'm the only guy
available so they called me. I couldn't receive calls down in the dungeon
and missed them all until I happened to walk upstairs. I didn't have time
to put on my uniform!"
"The gate agent let you out? Did she question you at
all?"
"Oh yeah. She wasn't having any of it. I just
showed her my badge and told her I spilled orange juice all over myself and was
going to change on the plane."
"Nice move. So are you going to change?"
"No way, dude! Scheduling agreed to cut me loose a half
day early for operating the flight so I'm just flying myself home. Besides,
I don't even have a clean uniform with me! If anyone from management
calls you just tell them I spilled OJ all over my whites."
"You got it. Here come the folks."
*cue the aforementioned dance of astonished, wide-eyed passengers,
smart phone snaps, frenzied text messages, and exaggerated Facebook posts*
Much to disbelief of those 37 delayed passengers, they arrived
safely in Albany, chauffeured by First Officer Kid and Captain Jam Band. I
opted to stand in the cockpit doorway for the obligatory "thank
you's" and implicit reminder that pilots do not have to be over the age of
50, hoping to add a minute datapoint to those 37 life experiences that might
slowly chip away at the unrealistic preconceptions carried by so many. I
also stood there to shield Captain B from sight lest he be mistaken for a
lackadaisical dad-on-the-loose who wanted to check out the video game up front.
When the all clear was given, Captain B deplaned, walking purposefully toward the terminal as I conducted a post-flight inspection of the aircraft and
prepared to operate the return segment to Newark with another reserve captain. As
I rounded the right wing, near the door to the gate area, I noticed Captain B
calmly talking with a man in brown slacks who sported a familiar lanyard. The
lanyard bore the lettering of the Federal Aviation Administration and I recognized the man
as one of my company's Principle Operations Inspectors (POI), tasked with
overseeing the airline's adherence to both federal regulation and company
policy. As one might imagine, the company had a strict, published policy
on uniform guidelines and looking like you're hitching a ride to Bonnaroo did
not fall very near the mark. A violation from the FAA would be a
permanent black mark on a pilot's record and could potentially inhibit him
from getting hired at a major carrier.
Not good.
The POI chatted audibly with the casually clad pilot before the
two parted ways without incident, much to my surprise and certainly to the
relief of Captain B. It was clear that the
POI had been at the gate, awaiting the delayed flight so that he could jumpseat
with the crew down to Newark to perform inspections. He knew, then, that
Captain B was not merely traveling in his spare time but had in fact flown that
very airplane with those very passengers. Perhaps the two knew each other
and their acquaintanceship was friendly enough that the POI chose to turn a
blind eye. Perhaps the POI's inspection duties did not technically begin
until he interacted with the flight crew operating his upcoming segment, of
which Captain B was not a member. Or perhaps the plush softness of a Life is Good tee was simply good
enough for government work. Whatever the situation, The Curious Case of the
Plain Clothes Captain was opened and shut without so much as a ripple.
No orange juice was spilled over the course of this event. Management
never caught wind of the violation and no phone call ever came my way.
Over the remainder of my time at CommutAir, passengers continued
to perform the predictable circus of boarding the Dash 8 and being startled at
both the large, spinny-things attached to the wings and the youthfulness of the flight crews
providing contracted, regional lift for United Airlines. They continued
to pose for line-stopping selfies in front of the aircraft they were sure would
carry them to their death, all the while assuming their pilots were grizzled
military veterans with 20,000 hours in logical disagreement with their
statistically unfounded fear and discounting the highly trained, professional
young men and women actually taking them from A to B. I would like to
think that those few passengers who saw Captain B that comical day in 2013
weakened that stereotype by disseminating a humanizing message to their peers
about the pilots who, seemingly against all imagined odds, flew them safely to
Albany. First Officer Kid and Captain Jam Band.
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| The author demonstrates strict adherence to company uniform policy while saluting the United States from a Canadian outstation. |
