The Curious Case of the Plain Clothes Captain

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.

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.

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.

The author demonstrates strict adherence to company uniform policy while saluting the United States from a Canadian outstation.