Keep Your Penny

Sometimes a simple old song becomes an express lane, taking me back to my most distant memories. Sometimes it's just a small sound, a scent or maybe even the cent I recently found among some change in my pocket. They can trigger thoughts of what once was. Such thoughts usually come back to me in pieces; like fractions of a dollar or fragments of a decades old nightmare. That damned penny though. Suddenly everything came back to me again, with absolute clarity.

It was Monday, August 3rd, 1981. I was awake and drinking coffee behind my house at 4:00 AM. The air was comfortably cool and the sky was about as clear as I'd ever seen it for a normally hazy August morning. It was the kind of morning when I'd usually be anxious to meet my carpool buddies and head into Big Time to greet the incoming lines of arriving flights or watch the departures line up at the runways. Not this morning though. I was anxious alright but it was an uneasy kind of anxious rather than eagerness. I watched a large jet descending in the direction of Big Time Airport, probably a freighter, and wondered who was working in the TRACON.

My coffee was cold because I had made it more than an hour earlier. I went back inside to start another pot. Thinking maybe I might have missed the phone ringing, I checked for messages. Nothing. It was nearly 5:00 now and still no word. Finally, at about 6:15, the phone rang. It was the mid-shift Supervisor. The strike was on. He said he thought there were enough controllers coming in to meet the reduced morning demand but said I should be there at 11:00. Heartburn. At first; I thought it was the coffee.

So; PATCO pulled it off and got all those controllers to walk out. I got to thinking about the ones on my team who were probably now on the picket lines. They were good friends and great controllers; most of them with families at home. I wasn't so sure at that time but they were also soon to be unemployed. It was time to shower and get ready for an entirely different world at work. The world I knew all the way up to my most recent shift was gone and would never return.

Ever been offered a penny for your thoughts? I know I have; probably several times during this lifetime of mine. So many people made these and other promises they were truly unable to keep (I've made a few myself). Foolishly, I sometimes bought them anyway and even let 'em keep the change. There was, however, one particular promise made that I could neither buy or sell because the cost was way too high. Lots of folks bought it anyway.

Today I have thoughts like; who would test the limits of their car's airbags by driving into a bridge abutment? Or who would test the limits of their employer by participating in an illegal job action? The answer to that question might be; people who believed they'd been short changed.

The year was 1981; a mere 35 years back. To me though, thirty-five years was a lifetime ago as I was just about 35 years old at the time. The promise was; if we all went out on strike (which obviously was not going to happen), the Federal Government couldn't possibly fire us. The union's demands would grudgingly be met and everyone would return to work in triumph. Sweetened by the illusion of a controller's indispensability, the deal was tempting. Unfortunately, too many controllers, previously known for their sound judgment, took it. That never made any sense to me. These were people who's professional judgment was nearly always keen and correct; guiding tens of thousands of lives safely across the skies. Yet, when it came to another judgment call, affecting a relatively small but intensely personal circle of family and friends, they failed terribly.

Of an aviation system without controllers, the Professional Air Traffic Controllers Organization (PATCO) Union President Bob Poli was quoted in the news media as saying; "The skies will be silent." If he really believed that and the rest of PATCO's propaganda; I'd have to say he was a bigger fool than I thought. Poli was simply a hustler, peddling another "get rich quick" scheme to a group of people who were hungry to swallow the union's horribly flawed rationale. He was a confidence man who managed to win the confidence of too many good and trusting people.

The union had its battle plan . . . but so did the Department of Transportation and the Federal Aviation Administration. Theirs was obviously more shrewd and sensible. To this day, one of my biggest regrets was that FAA Management, at least at my facility, never shared some significant parts of that plan with the pre-strike workforce. It might have made a difference in the outcome. We who were committed to staying on the job were left to recite a weak and hard to believe argument against the strike. "Don't believe PATCO. You really WILL be fired. The FAA can't lose." I wasn't so sure I believed it myself.

Had they known there would be military controllers and furloughed airline pilots sent into the facilities to help us, more controllers might have stayed on. Had they known the airlines were prepared to make temporary scheduling cutbacks and that general aviation activity would be severely restricted, more controllers might have stayed on. Had they not grossly underestimated their adversaries (Ronald Reagan, Drew Lewis, et al.) or wildly overestimated the level of support they'd receive from other labor unions and the public, more controllers might have stayed on.

They should also have figured out that the FAA had little to lose in a strike. This wasn't like the steel industry or auto manufacturing, where a strike could cost the company millions of dollars in lost production and/or sales. The FAA would simply terminate a large number of highly paid controllers and hire fresh ones at a fraction of the cost. Sure, there'd be years of training ahead and lots of overtime paid to those of us who stayed on. Still; I suspect PATCO's job action saved Uncle Sam some money. The real costs, in cash and convenience, would be borne by the aviation industry, those businesses who relied on it and the flying public.

Fear was the currency that bought many controller's decision to support a strike. The more militant union members promised serious consequences for those who stayed on the job. PATCO's faithful would be waiting and watching at our employee parking lot on that August morning. Lists would be made and there would be trouble for those who were seen coming to work. Again though, the FAA was one move ahead of the union.

Even 35 years ago, Big Time Airport was a huge place with thousands of public parking spaces. Our Management made arrangements with the Airport Authority that, in the event of a strike, we could use the vast system of pay-parking garages, free of charge, for a couple of weeks. PATCO's plans to picket at our parking lot on August 3rd would have little effect. Some of us parked there anyway. This resulted in nothing more than the loud exchange of expletives, plus a report to the folks we were relieving about who was picketing and what to expect out there.

 All the things they didn't know, coupled with the fact that our facility Management and a significant number of controllers were fed up with the pre-strike drama, lead to a perfect storm that would tear PATCO apart, along with the lives of so many good people. Sadly, most of us who stayed on had actually hoped the strike would happen. The threats, intimidation, hatred and hubris would finally stop - at least for a while.

I suppose its a good thing this all took place 35 years ago rather than in today's world. These days, warning the Federal Government of plans to shut down the U. S. air transportation system might be seen as a terrorist threat rather than a relatively simple labor/management dispute. Sure; PATCO was ultimately decertified as a union and a lot of people lost their jobs but at least no one was charged with insurrection.

The controllers I grew into my profession with were close knit, professional coequals and I miss many of them. The August 3rd strike and Bob Poli's worthless promises are now a full lifetime behind me. And what of the controller's union we all knew back then? If there was a point of origin for all the high stakes lying, bad decisions, blind faith and ill conceived actions that ruined so many lives; it might look like this . . .

These are my thoughts. Keep your penny. 

© NLA Factor, 2016

Claire Clarified

I wrote about Claire back in March of 2010.  Hmm . . . with my steadily shrinking attention span, it's hard to imagine myself nursing this blog along for all those years. Anyway, I wrote about her in a post titled: "The First Time." Claire was one of my most memorable characters from the Big Time days. Sharp, witty, self confident and knowledgeable; she became one of the most well respected controllers in the facility. She was also quite easy on the eye and happily married to a guy who flew jets for a living. Still; there were issues. 

Some facts, such as Claire's extraordinary skills, may stand out some people's memory. Others may remember Claire for the fact she was the best looking woman in the facility. Okay; so there were only two in a staff of nearly ninety controllers. After all, it was the Seventies; back when "diversity" was just another nine letter word. The whole concept was lost among a workforce made up largely of WWII, Korean and Vietnam War veterans. They were a staunch, stubborn and profane bunch. Those guys put their headsets on like crash helmets, bent rules with their bare hands, pushed limits, pulled off incredible maneuvers with their traffic and did whatever else it took to keep things moving. To many of them, women in the control room were just a misplaced novelty. Some would call them a distraction and some would go a bit further; stirring up a riptide of rumors.

Claire was training in the radar room when I first arrived at Big Time so, as a lowly tower trainee, I didn't see much of her. The guys downstairs, however, got to see a lot more of Claire; especially during our Summer season. Here's why.

The climate in Big Time's 'Truman era' tower and radar room was controlled by a series of ancient air ducts. Their insides were thick with the accumulated scum left by the recirculation of various body odors, cigarette and cigar smoke, aircraft engine exhaust and seasonal humidity. Our Summertime TRACON was a calescent environment, made even warmer by constant complaining and the ceaseless heat emanating from our cathode ray tubes. A tired air conditioning system strained and rattled in some distant utility room; pumping barely enough cool air into the TRACON to keep us all from bursting into flames. We wore anything we could get away with to beat the heat. Tee shirts were frowned on by our Assistant Chief. Funny thing though; he never complained about Claire's low-cut cotton blouses. Neither did the battle-worn boys who ruled the airspace around Big Time. Instead, some of them let their imaginations run away from reality

When it was hot, Clair might sign onto her shift wearing something low-cut and cool. As I said; she was easy on the eye and it seemed the more some guys saw of her, the "easier" she appeared to be. In time, rumors she was sleeping her way to her radar certification began spreading like an oil spill and would be nearly as hard to clean up. Now, to accuse Clair of such a thing would be akin to accusing her of under-inflating the balls at her local bowling alley - a ridiculous assertion but well within the parameters of believability to a few bowling pin-heads. What was being said about Claire was equally absurd and no less believable to some. These were the same fools who believed PATCO when, in 1981, the union told them "They can't fire all of us." In the language of bowling, what happened next is called a strike. You know; when they all fall down.

The malicious rumors eventually made their way to Clair's radar instructor then on to Claire. A bright girl and never one to duck controversy, she quickly figured out which of the tower's gossipmongers had started the rumor. When she did, there was a very loud and quite public confrontation in the break room at shift change. Till then, no one knew Claire could go off like a pipe bomb.

We never had to watch our language around her. Claire knew the four-letter lingo of the control room and could speak it as fluently as the rest of us. She spoke it a lot that day. It was a delicate situation though. Trainees generally knew better than to take on any of the journeyman controllers. Doing so could adversely affect the quality and quantity of training they'd receive and possibly even their reputation in the facility. I worried that Claire's protesting might come off sounding like petty bitching or whining, with a response like; "What's the matter? Can't take a joke?" She had some unexpected help though. A few of the more senior controllers, who didn't particularly like the guy who started this mess, quickly spoke in her defense.

By far, her biggest advocate was Claire's main radar instructor; Teddy. Teddy was the biggest, in more than one way. He bellowed and berated the guy; using the words "horse shit" to withering effect. Teddy, at about 300 pounds, was also physically huge, which, when he stood up and pointed a fat finger at his target, added fierce emphasis to his words.

There was plenty of denial of course but it came off sounding like our air conditioning system; weak and ineffectual. Righteously blamed and shamed; he stood up, left the breakroom and no one spoke of it again. Claire threw her headset into her locker, slammed the door and went home.

Fortunately, the source of this synthetic scandal was not on our team or there would undoubtedly have been many awkward moments in our future. You needed to trust your teammates and it was even better if you also liked them. As it was; we only saw this guy at shift change or if he worked an overtime shift with our team. I did see him fairly regularly on the picket lines during the mass hypnosis that was PATCO's 1981 job action. Rumor had it he became a "dot-com" millionaire a few years after being fired but you know how rumors can be. Like the one he started about Claire, they're often quite the opposite of reality. She clarified that one for several people, a long time ago - back in my Big Time days.

I never again worried about Clair's ability to defend herself. She easily held her ground in the testosterone rich environment she worked in. I was always concerned over Teddy though, and could never understand how, with all the extra weight, he managed to pass his annual flight physical. Big and getting bigger; I worried that he would one day grow too fat to fit into his own future. That would have been a sad passing. Teddy was truly one of the good guys. He transferred out of Big Time a year or so after the strike and I never heard of him again. I don't know what ever became of Claire either but I don't worry.

© NLA Factor, 2016

Going Home ~ The Best Way

Once upon a time, way back before Mount Vesuvius buried Pompeii, Pliny the Elder wrote that "Home is where the heart is."  More recently, Thomas Wolfe qualified old Pliny's wisdom when he wrote "You Can't Go Home Again." True enough ~ especially if you lived in Pompeii. What I get from these two guys is that you can't always follow your heart; even if it's heading home.

"Sunrise" By Steven Kenny - 2005

Many of us have that special dream every now and then. It's a colorful, hopeful dream and it leaves us believing, even just briefly, that we are capable of accomplishing something impossible, or at least highly improbable. Perhaps we dream of a return to something that still shines brightly in some seldom visited corner of our memory. In that dream we soar across time - toward a day long past. Maybe it existed years or even decades ago. Maybe it never really existed at all. Dreams, like recollections, can be inventive, you know ~ and very kind to the past. In time though, most dreams become like badly spliced scraps of faded film footage; void of color or continuity. They gradually decay into monochromatic images that eventually vanish completely. But not always.

I've been having one of those improbable dreams since my retirement.  They're becoming less frequent and more confusing as years pass but the basic theme is always the same. In the dream I'm back at Big Time, standing in the TRACON. It looks much the same as when I left and I also see many familiar faces. They look exactly as they did when I last saw them so many years ago. That's the comforting part. I stand and watch the controllers working. There are so many damned airplanes. I think to myself how much busier it's become since I worked there. Then I realize I'm there to enter training and get re-certified. Knowing there's no way I can do it, I'm overcome with dread. Thankfully, that's when I wake up. It's craziness, I know, but it won't go away. I guess the memories of a long, adventurous career, with its schemes and scares, schisms and scandals, scuffles and scars, are still too vivid to forget. They keep calling me back.

 By the mid-eighties, half burned out by the strike recovery, I had already taken a couple of small steps away from full-time air traffic control. There were the unhurried years working in Big Time's Training Department followed, in time, by fast moving years spent as a First Line Supervisor. In each case, the work was challenging, satisfying and good for the career. But one of the best things about those jobs was being able to go back. I could return to the tower or radar room with my headset in hand. There, I'd still be able to go home to a world that few others could ever imagine. I needed to keep at least one foot in that world. It was the foundation of my career aspirations, the essence of my identity and it was home.

Then along came the infernal Area Manager (AM) years. I was still physically 'home' in the control rooms but it was like eavesdropping on family members from another room.  It was as though a door had closed. Gone was the requirement to stay current on control positions. The luxury of only having to concentrate on the fast moving madness of air traffic was gone too. As an 'AM' my workday was fragmented into dozens of vastly different tasks punctuated by an occasional exigency in the front office. At first, I tried to keep current on a few radar sectors so I could at least relieve the Supervisors for meal breaks, etc. Other demands eventually rendered those altruistic aspirations impossible. In time, my workday evolved into a sausage mix of tasks that, by day's end, I couldn't even identify. I often thought of Pete; the battle hardened Area Manager of my early controller years. He always made it look easy and, in a way, it was. That's because Pete was among the few people remaining in this profession who's roots were connected to another time.

Prior to the '81 strike, the FAA seemed a more close-knit organization. Back in the late Fifties, Pete had actually worked airplanes with the guy who, by the mid Seventies, had become our Facility Chief. Pete knew most of the people he talked to or yelled at on the phones. The Chief knew nearly everyone he had to deal with in the Regional Office. They'd all entered service during the Eisenhower Administration, worked the first jet airliners, drank together and kept each other's secrets. Some had even joined the fledgling PATCO before entering into Management. Their value system was chiseled in stone, their work ethic exhausting and their sense of loyalty to one another was as unquestionable as gravity.

"Talkin' bout my generation."  - The Who

Those of us lucky enough to be recruited in the early Seventies were strongly influenced by those guys. At Big Time, they started retiring three or four years before the strike; most of them exhausted, disillusioned and ready to leave home. They'd already endured earlier job actions. Now they could see another one brewing and didn't want to deal with it. I couldn't blame them. Some stayed on though and were still around in the Summer of '81. A few of them were loyal PATCO janizaries who were actually eligible to retire within months of the strike. In spite of the pleading by some of their former friends in upper Management, they went out; betting their retirement benefits and the future of their families on a successful job action. They lost everything except the camaraderie of their fellow strikers. The few 'old timers' who remained hung on for a couple more years but it was easy to see they were losing their edge.

Many controllers hired after the strike had little patience for their professional predecessors ~ or me for that matter. They were a solipsistic mix of inexperience, impatience and intolerance. They thought they knew it all and had their college degrees to prove it. The older guys couldn't relate to them. With unmistakable annoyance, they trained their younger protégés under a more liberal and less effective succession of mandates. These were set forth in an endless blizzard of Directives the FAA hoped would change their autocratic image. Far from fooled; the old guys kept an eye on their calendars ~hoping they could reach retirement without having a "deal" (controller-speak for an operational error).

Within a couple years after the strike, they were gone. In their place were the so called 'strike baby' controllers hired after 1981. Gone also were the mid-level managers like Pete. They were replaced by guys like me who were caught between eras. What we knew about the business we had harvested from those who were all but forgotten fossils ~ pressed in the strata of aviation history. Far too young to retire, I had to adapt. The home I had once known now resembled a foreclosure. Much of its contents, the familiar things I had grown up with and my professional 'family' had been removed. It was beginning to look like Thomas Wolfe was right.

I needed a plan. This wasn't the time to become one of those guys who held court in the break room, boring everyone with tales of the old days. For that, I'd wait till the next century and maybe start a Blog. But for now; these were new days and new challenges ahead. It was time to adapt and try reinventing myself. This wasn't going to be easy. By the late Eighties, FAA's Management, diluted by inexperience, was beginning to reveal its lack of depth. No wonder. The majority of our collective history had retired; including many highly skilled Managers. Many others had been fired. Who was left to ascend into Management jobs? The answer was guys like me, along with some fast track strike babies.

I made my way through a series of Staff Officer jobs; managing the Plans and Procedures, Quality Assurance and Training Departments. Although challenging, none of it was like working a busy, IFR evening shift in the radar room. The younger specialists working for me did much of the heavy lifting while I attended meetings, which were lined up on my calendar like planes in the departure queue.  The problem was; you couldn't stop the meetings. Other facilities, the union, the Regional Office, airline representatives, airport management officials, General Aviation advocates ~ everybody needed their meetings as urgently as I needed aspirin afterward. My immediate Supervisors, the Asst. Manager, seemed addicted to these things. She insisted on regularly scheduled meetings; regardless of whether there was anything to discuss or not. You'd have thought she had nothing better to do. Meetings might have been a security blanket for her but for me; they stole much of the time needed to get real work done.

Meanwhile, back home in the tower and TRACON, all seemed normal. Controllers continued pushing planes in and out of the airport, griping about Management and gossiping about each other. Shifts were still being swapped, holding patterns were still filling up, people were hollering into handoff lines and everybody was sweating. It was all as it should be. But whenever I went into those control rooms I felt like a visitor in my own home. My heart was still there but I didn't fit anymore. Matters were made worse by the fact that I was growing bored and frustrated with my own job.

The endless meetings were enough to get me there. Even worse was the gnawing notion that I couldn't trust most of the Management people I worked with. Without that on-the-job interdependence controllers rely on to make things work; Management relied on their simple pecking order and subtle intimidation to get things done their way. Tasks were completed because someone higher up asked for it. Any resistance or refusal usually had unsavory consequences. Posturing was preeminent and professional differences were seen as subversive. I couldn't stand it much longer. Home didn't feel like home anymore and the interests of my Management peers didn't coincide with my own. It was time to leave. There was a song that went . . .

"This old airports' got me down
it's no earthly good to me."
 - Gordon Lightfoot

I took a position working for our Regional Office; where I bided my time till retirement. Surprisingly, the work was a lot of fun. I made new friends, met some memorable people and had many interesting experiences. While there, I never missed my old facility. I didn't miss the controllers or the airplanes either - not until I retired. That's when I realized my 'heart' was still somewhere else and it was controlling traffic. In time, I started having those colorful, hopeful, impractical and impossible dreams of going home again. I still have them now and then but always wake up smiling. I smile because, in those dreams, my heart goes home but I stay right where I am. The way I understand Pliny and Wolfe, it's best that way.

Here's a short epilogue. I have no lingering regrets over my career decisions and I won't whine about them. Durrell once wrote that we create our misfortunes and they bear our fingerprints.  Wise words. Besides, there are a lot of positive lessons to be learned from negative experiences. Whether it's taking a job you really weren't cut out for or breaking a second floor window with the lawn mower; you learn something useful. I've also come to realize that absence really does make the heart grow fonder. The further I get from my controller years, the more fun it is to look back ~ even on the worst of times. And those folks in Management that I once might have enjoyed strangling with a length of barbed wire? If I met any of them today, I'm sure we'd speak of nothing but the good times. To do anything else would be pointless. 

© NLA Factor, 2013

On Politics, Passing Acquaintances And Change

George Wallace was running for the Democratic nomination. So was Jimmy Carter. Translation? Whenever I ventured into the break room, chances were that Billy would be sitting in there, expounding loudly and at length on his political views. Billy (no relation to Jimmy) was a professed redneck from somewhere in south Georgia. He railed against Jerry Ford and never missed an opportunity to extol the merits of voting a southern boy into the White House. It seemed we were in need of a change and Jimmy was just the guy to do it.

Billy raised a few valid points and had my interest for a while. In time though, his pontificating turned redundant, then it turned boring. His incessant partisan pounding finally became too annoying for me to take. I'd heard it all before. If I was lucky, Billy's time in the breakroom would end well ahead of mine so I could get a few minutes of peace. If not, I'd usually end up going back to work before my break was over. It's not that I had a problem with Jimmy Carter. He seemed like an honest enough fellow. Billy was my problem. He got so damned excited over this stuff. To me though, politics was about as exciting as . . . this?

Throw in a free side-order of Saltine crackers and I'm in!

Political parties and their politics just didn't garner much attention from me when I was controlling airplanes for a living. Pundits who believed they could make sense of it all or somehow tilt my opinions left or right only added more confusion to the daily bedlam of Big Time. To me, it was just an off-key and endlessly grating soundtrack for the ongoing dramas I faced at work. Most of us learned it was best to simply tune it out. The President himself couldn't generate much buzz unless he was handing out an extra day of holiday pay on the Friday after Thanksgiving ~ or maybe firing thousands of controllers. We were usually preoccupied with more immediate issues like, metaphorically speaking, how to separate the snowflakes in a blizzard.

Nixon was in the White House when I was hired but whatever happened in the Oval Office didn't faze most of us. Can I say it wasn't on our radar? Anyway, we were far more concerned over what was happening in our own front office. I don't recall whether it was oval, rectangular or square shaped but it was clearly in bad shape. That, plus there was always enough facility politics to keep the break room gossip going ad infinitum. So, who needed more of it? When it came to matters concerning our elected representatives, my personal feelings usually ranged somewhere between indifference and ambivalence. Politics was a distraction and, in my line of work, with my fugitive attention span, I couldn't handle any increase in distractions.

My attitude hasn't changed much over the years. I may slip up now and then but still try to avoid political stuff. It ain't easy. News periodicals, television and the Internet are already saturated with more cant, slant and commentary than there are degrees on a compass. It gives me vertigo, so why would I even think about generating more of it? I believe there's a reasonably convincing case that opinions actually are like assholes. Since everyone has their own, why would anyone want to hear mine?

I also realize that penning my own political views would require that I have some kind of partisan predilection. I don't. Maybe I can't. Here's the thing. There are too many problems with me. I was never responsible enough to call myself a conservative and besides; I couldn't possibly meet their moral threshold. Another sad set of truths are that I'm not smart enough to know what's best for everyone. That, plus my momma taught me never to call people names when I disagreed with them. All this and more combined to exclude me from ever practicing punditry. It's probably best for me to stick with writing about things I'm fairly familiar with.

NLA Factor
Class of '02

I don't think anyone's parochial pronouncements effect much change in other people's beliefs, no matter how well they're stated. I learned a long time ago (1981 to be exact) that I couldn't change anyone's mindset; no matter what I said or what I wrote. The fact is that no one could ever change my mind either; no matter what they said or wrote. Experiences are the true instruments of change. I write about my own experiences here; knowing they won't really change anyone else. They changed me though. What I don't know is just how much they changed me. Could I still be that goofy kid in my high school yearbook photo? That is a question I'm not qualified to answer. Ask the last girl I dated before graduation.

So now, like a recurring nightmare, I'm dealing with another Primary Election season and all the attending rhetoric. I guess I have an irreconcilable indifference to it all but my hat is off to anyone who can talk or write about it in a non-divisive way. Generally though, I think that kind of writing serves mainly as a pressure relief valve for the author. Getting a little pent up vitriol off the chest can make a writer feel much better. As for the reader ~maybe not so much. Personally, I'd rather write about Bonnie and Claire.

Bonnie transferred into Big Time a few years after me. I can't remember where she came from but it must have been a busy facility. Already well versed in the tower and TRACON arts, she soon proved to be a very capable controller. Smart, single and saucy, Bonnie could cause more excitement than a radar failure in a rainstorm. Take, for instance, the day she sauntered into work wearing a blue t-shirt, lettered in white with the word "Doable" across the front. Pete, our irascible, disheveled dictator of an Area Manager, took one look and threatened to send her home. Not for some puritanical predilection. Oh no. Pete was a ribald kind of guy who used expletives and four-letter words like a carpenter uses a hammer. They drove his point home loudly and quickly. Pete's objection over Bonnie's attire was more about the medium than the message. You see, current facility dress code prohibited t-shirts.

Bonnie ended up in one of the main terminal's gift shops where she found a twenty-dollar shirt sporting the airport's marketing logo. The "medium" aspect of his objections now mitigated, Pete let her go to work. As to the message on that notorious t-shirt? In time, a couple guys in the facility were rumored to have learned there can be truth in advertising.

I felt bad for Bonnie and the other singles at Big Time. Social life outside our circle of coworkers was difficult. With the rotating shifts, frequently changing days off, weekend and late night work, there wasn't much opportunity to meet people outside the profession. It was challenging enough for the married folks but especially hard for people like Bonnie. The outcome of it all was that we had little choice but to fraternized with our coworkers. It was a kind of social inbreeding; as unhealthy as it was unavoidable. In many ways, we were closer to our team members than we were with our immediate families. We saw each other at our best and our worst. We had to depend on each other to make the right moves at the right times. Where some people might, one day, have to trust a close relative to handle delicate or potentially dire situations, we had to trust the relative strangers in our control rooms. We also had to trust all the anonymous pilots who flew, unseen, through our sectors every day. It was a strange paradox that we trusted them all, but the moment we hung up our headsets for the day, we trusted no one.

I liked working with Bonnie. Before she transferred into Big Time, the only woman on our team was Claire. She was already a well seasoned journeyman when I hired on. Stylistically, Bonnie and Claire were at opposite poles in their approach to working traffic and the contrasts became more obvious as time passed. Claire was invariably conservative, conventional, practical and dispassionate. For example, something might abruptly reduce the airport acceptance rate, causing Final Sectors to need more miles-in-trail from the approach controllers. Suddenly, ten miles between arrivals wasn't sufficient. Now the planes needed to be 20 miles apart, slowed to 180 knots and tucked neatly onto a downwind leg. Doing so might require Claire to go into an immediate hold at her outer fixes while simultaneously issuing a series of extreme vectors to spread out the flights already on their way to the finals. This kind of play often lead to bedlam. While other controllers might have started bitching, Claire simply bent to the task, with no questions asked, for as long as needed. Quietly doing whatever had to be done, she was the embodiment of efficiency.

During my bewildering days as a developmental at Big Time, Claire's signature ended up on a lot of my training reports. Knowledgeable, unflappable and focused, she was the ideal training instructor. As I progressed further and further into the operation, I realized there were plenty of things to bitch about. Claire showed me how pointless that was, compared to just dealing with things and moving forward. Complaining burned energy, was an unnecessary distraction and nobody wanted to work with a whiner.

Then there was Bonnie, who managed her sector like a mad scientist. She invented a crazy, new idea every few minutes; often stabbing at an interphone button to coordinate her latest scheme with other affected sectors. A bit raucous but never reckless, creative energy seemed to seep from her headset and spread through the room like gas fumes. She was nearly as explosive.

While Claire ran a quiet, standard operation where things rarely went wrong, Bonnie's operation was characterized by her derring-do. She pushed relentlessly; pressing adjacent sectors for whatever was needed to make things work. In the throes of inspiration, she'd often fly out of her chair and dash across the TRACON to another sector. Once there, she'd grab the controller by his shoulder and point at some radar targets ~ describing her plan in rapid-fire detail. Then she'd rush back to her own scope to reel off a string of control instructions. Sometimes her plan didn't work but she nearly always had another one that was equally entertaining.

Some controllers were bothered by her boundless ingenuity and unrelenting aggressiveness. These were the guys who thought the word "minimums" was one of their performance standards. Bonnie was a "maximum" kind of gal. I kept up as best I could ~ often wishing I could wash those bursts of ambient energy down with a cold beer. If I could have tightened my headset like a vise, I still wouldn't have been able to squeeze as many ideas out of my skull each day as Bonnie could in an hour. Inspiration just seemed to fly off the top of her head. She was a natural.

As far as I was concerned, Bonnie and Claire combined many of the most highly valued characteristics of an air traffic controller. I was glad to be on their team; especially during those shifts when the trials and tribulations seemed more numerous than our standard methods of dealing with them. When Claire's safe, orderly and expeditious teamed up with Bonnie's creative, assertive and efficient ~ a lot of airplanes were going to be moved ~ no matter what. As you might expect ~ when a tough shift ended, Claire would head straight home, while Bonnie would follow most everyone else to the nearest bar.

Eventually 1981 rolled in and Bonnie came up with one more crazy idea. Unlike the ideas I admired her for, this one was completely reckless. I did my best to talk her out of it and I'm sure Claire did as well. Keep in mind what I said earlier about not being able to change anyone's mindset. Bonnie wasn't listening to conflicting views or unwelcome advice.  Experiences taught her that pushing hard and staying the course would eventually bring success. She was confident that this would be no exception.


Unfortunately, it was a major exception. In the blink of an eye, Bonnie was gone. I saw her a few times just after the strike but she eventually disappeared along with with everyone else on the picket lines. Sometimes mad scientists create monsters and sometimes those monsters destroy their creators.

Redneck Billy landed a job in the Regional Office sometime after the strike and I never heard from him again. When I finally left Big Time myself, I tried to keep up with Claire. You know how it is though. Life has room for just so many relationships and, like it or not, some are eventually supplanted by newer ones. When it comes to keeping friends, life reminds me of a holding pattern that can only keep so many airplanes. The most recent arrivals come in at the top while the oldest ones get pushed out of the bottom and move on.

The entire cast of characters from my Big Time days have moved on; myself included. I still remember every one of them though. Memories are the last remaining vestiges of our long-gone, moved on friendships and acquaintances. The characters may be missing but they've left behind a life long legacy of smiles on demand. I'll never forget Bonnie, Claire and so many others who enriched my life through the years. Redneck Billy even crosses my mind whenever a political message comes on the TV.

The experiences I had with them all, whether good or bad, definitely changed me. But really; how much have I changed? There is no way for me to know for sure. I'd have to rely on the cast from my past to help measure the differences between then and now. After all that has happened, could I still be the frazzled, unraveled controller everyone knew back at Big Time? Again ~ I'm not qualified to answer. It's funny and ironic that when someone tells me "You've changed" I don't really believe them. And when I tell someone "I've changed" they don't really believe me. I guess it's the difference between perceptions and doubts. One thing is certain; I still don't like politics.

© NLA Factor, 2012

ATC ~ Music To My Ears

I had a little fun recently, working at what turned out to be a very illuminating part-time job. It added up to five weekends in a restaurant kitchen, assisting a slightly crazy and more than slightly corpulent Bulgarian Chef who had just landed the catering contract for a local music festival. The restaurant was located near the festival grounds and the owners graciously, perhaps foolishly, allowed us to use their kitchen for our purposes during off hours.

I've known Yuri for years. He used to have a fantastic restaurant nearby. Now he only does freelance work and consulting. Anyway, he needed someone reliable who lived nearby so he asked me to help out. I hesitated because it was Summer and I had several big outdoor projects to get done. I also hesitated because this was new territory for me; a fact that actually brought me around to agreeing.  Although I’d never done commercial kitchen work before, I ended up seeing many similarities between the food service game and my years in air traffic control. There was the boss ~ scurrying around in circles, scowling and sputtering at everyone. The workplace was chaotic, the help temperamental and unreliable, product quality was inconsistent, customers complained, management offered baffling excuses and, of course, knives could be thrown at any moment. Sound familiar? Also like ATC, it was a continual learning experience and one hell of a lot of fun!

Chef Yuri is considered a genius among his peers. He's always been very successful and, having worked for him a while, I think I now understand why. His main emphasis with me and the other three who were helping with the festival project was absolute standardization throughout the preparation process. You'll understand the importance of this when you think about the many times you went to a particular restaurant and ordered the same menu item ~ maybe a cheeseburger. Chances are, if you ordered it five different times, it was served five different ways. Sometimes it was a little over or under done. Sometimes there was hardly any cheese or so much lettuce and tomato that you couldn't get your mouth around the bun. Not so at Chef Yuri's table.

Yuri preached standardization ~ literally at knife point; starting with the most basic steps in preparation like slicing and dicing each ingredient. Every piece had to be cut to the prototypic size or, according to Yuri, you'd end up with some parts either overcooked or undercooked. Weights, measures, cooking temperatures and times always had to be the same for any particular dish. These constraints yielded constancy, which meant his customers were rarely disappointed. Innovation and creativity were things to be tried off-line ~ NOT when the restaurant was full of anxious customers and food orders were flying in and out of his kitchen! The consecutive culinary successes served up to customers at Chef Yuri's table were prepared in strict compliance with his table of weights and measures.

This was one aspect of the job that was starkly different from air traffic control which, unlike Yuri's tightly controlled recipe standards, I always considered more analogous to music. To me, a controller's prescribed standards were really nothing more than sheets of music, from which one could, like a fine musician, spontaneously improvise on the melody line, change the rhythm or pick up the pace. The best controllers I knew were valued for their innovation and creativity under pressure. They didn't rely solely on the sheet music. They knew the score and could play it by ear.

We've all either worked with them or, with luck, will one day. These controllers reveal a prodigious touch when it comes to moving airplanes. They always seem to have a sixth sense about what needs to be done and can innovate on the fly to meet their goals. They were out there, moving airplanes, long before the hackneyed phrase about thinking "outside the box" was coined. To me, they were also a litmus test for shift Supervisors; the best of whom were always willing to endorse a new or different way of doing something. The worst Supervisors would cling to conventional thinking like a security blanket. They'd often end their shift with at least two problems. Operational inefficiencies could lead to reportable delays ~ delays they'd have to justify (never fun). They had also just reinforced at least one controller's stereotypical belief that Management never listens. Remember; just because something is considered a stereotype doesn't mean it's not true.

So this was as it should be in our business. As long as safety is never compromised, air traffic control should be an exercise in freedom of expression. That also means giving other people's ideas some consideration. Sure, we have our necessary constraints and limits. Your old, dog-eared copy of the point sixty-five is full of them. It's a manual of minimums and must-do standards ~ the printed sheets of music I mentioned earlier. We need it for safety's sake. Think, however, about what all the relevant air traffic directives don't tell you. Here is small slice of wisdom from that book we all love:

Among other things, this paragraph advises us of our "not optional" obligation to provide additional services. However, it doesn't give us any specifics.  So what are we talking about here?  An extra wind check for the guy on short final? Clearing an airplane direct to some point a couple hundred miles away at 3:00 AM? Coordinating with an overlying sector so a departure can climb above 10,000 sooner? Could it be something like entering a flight plan into the system for some poor sap caught VFR on top? All of this and more ~ but don't ask the people who wrote this time-honored tome for a definition. Paragraph 2-1-1simply tells us it's okay, in fact, expected that we be "musicians" but does not tell us how to do it. You have to know the score, then be free and willing to use your imagination. That's the moment when ATC, like music, becomes an art form. Be mindful of those "security blanket" Supervisors though. They may not appreciate your creative instincts . . which reminds me of Old Jack.

The first time I saw one of our most accomplished journeymen get hollered at was on a stunningly VFR Winter morning at Big Time. We were having our problems though. The area had gotten about 12 inches of snowfall overnight. This left us dayshifters with just one landing runway and a few main taxiways to use while snow removal crews worked on the rest of the place. Holding patterns stayed full since the tower needed an honest 5 miles in-trail (MIT) to allow time for each airplane to clear the runway. Only one exit taxiway was open at the far end and it took the landing traffic a while to get there. As a result, inbounds were trickling off the outer fixes, 20 MIT, and merging into one long, widely spaced line to the airport.

Old Jack was working at one of the approach sectors when word came down that another landing runway was opening. I was a newly minted journeyman, seated at one of the other approach positions and completely engrossed in managing my own holding pattern. The TRACON Supervisor came around and told me, Jack and the other approach sectors to empty the holding patterns and "run 'em, ten in trail!" That was all Jack needed to hear.

Old Jack had "street cred." He'd worked at two other high density facilities, was smart, level headed and well respected by all. On the other hand, our TRACON Supervisor had come to us from the Regional Office because . . . well, because it was his turn to get supervisory experience at a busy facility. A bureaucrat with relatively little field experience, we grudgingly tolerated his frequent dithering because we knew he'd be gone in a year or two ~ probably back to the Mother Ship as a Branch Chief, then off to some other field facility as Manager. This was the typical career path for those anointed by the Air Traffic Division.

"Run 'em!" was the call, so I obligingly cleared the bottom aircraft out of my pattern, started descending the rest to the next available altitude, updated a few EFC times and thought about letting the Center sector know what my highest holding altitude now was. Chef Yuri would have been proud of me because it was all being done by the numbers. Then I glanced over at Old Jack's traffic. In the minute or two since we got the word to run planes; he already had two off his holding fix and a third about to join the line.

The next thing I knew, Mr. Security Blanket was standing behind Jack and yelling something about "first come, first served." Rather than starting at the bottom of his holding pattern (like me), apparently Jack had pulled a couple of flights from the middle of the stack because he saw an opportunity to "organize and expedite" his traffic (See Par. 2-1-1 above). Both airplanes happened to be inbound toward the holding fix when the "Run 'em " order was heard. Therefore, they could be on vectors toward home quicker than the guys on their outbound leg. To Jack, they were targets of time and money saving opportunity.

Old Jack couldn't have pulled off this cunning feat without some interfacility coordination either. Up at those altitudes, he didn't own the airspace outside the holding pattern. All was quickly and quietly accomplished with the imagination and virtuosity of an accomplished musician.

As the team neophyte, I'd never seen such a move and was impressed. Our annoying Regional superstar was not. He was now ranting about which flights had been holding the longest, who had the earliest EFC times, who would be calling to complain and blah, blah, blah. Jack turned his head briefly and made what I thought was a very appropriate, albeit vulgar suggestion. I heard the word "insubordination" being used repeatedly. That's when Pete, our Area Manager appeared. After assessing the issue, Pete told the Supervisor to stop by the Watch Desk. We couldn't hear all of what was being said but we could feel the heat radiating out from their discussion. Two minutes later, Pete sent him upstairs to relieve the tower Supervisor.

Once Mr. Security Blanket left the TRACON, Pete walked over to check on the arrival sectors. Everything was running according to plan and we'd soon be out of reportable delays. Later in the shift, he and Old Jack had a long discussion which, according to Jack, went well. He and Pete had both come up through busy facilities as controllers. They both understood how useless any extra miles between arrivals were and while "first come, first served" was an equitable way of conducting business, it wasn't always the best way to "organize and expedite the flow of traffic."

Pete eventually moved on to another facility that was closer to where he planned on retiring. We would soon miss his uncanny ability to cut through the most complex crap, identify the underlying issues and take action. The idea of Management taking action would gradually fade as the years passed; trending instead toward a "wait and see" attitude that allowed problems to grow out of hand.

The "security blanket Supervisor" did, as expected, return to the Regional Office. I saw his signature on the bottom of several mindless memos sent out to the facilities. Each one of them served to accelerate the loss of credibility our leadership had with the controllers, Supervisors and other field personnel.

Old jack retired a couple of years later; taking his music out the door with him. As we settled into the post-strike, point and click era, I met fewer and fewer controllers like Jack, who "knew the score and could play it by ear."  

Not to discount the value of standards in our business. In my time, I saw too many aggravating examples of sub-standard performance. There was inattentiveness, horrible phraseology, non-compliance with procedures, too much room between departures or arrivals, holding airplanes too long or not long enough, being oblivious to the traffic situation in adjacent sectors and the list goes on. I saw it all and was occasionally a part of it. Things like these, if viewed singularly, had relatively minor impact on the big picture. But taken cumulatively, they would subtly erode overall system efficiency.

I also saw the rise of a workforce who grew to need everything spelled out for them. If it wasn't in writing somewhere; they didn't do it. A kind of security blanket, I suppose. Spontaneity, creativity, taking the initiative and seizing the moment was fading into my old friend Chef Yuri's vision of success through "doing everything the same way." That's why, in my later years, if I heard a controller who dared to do something different; it was truly music to my ears!

© NLA Factor, 2011

Stepping Into History

It's been 30 years since the strike. For me, that's not nearly enough time to shake off the vivid memories and strong emotions it left me with. Sometimes, especially this time of year, I wonder what ever happened to all those guys and the few women I worked with so long ago. It's funny. I can't remember most of the people I knew during my last two FAA assignments but I can't forget the names of everyone I worked with before August 3rd of '81 ~ good friends and trusted coworkers all. It was a sobering time when much was revealed about the capabilities of people I thought I already knew pretty well.

Time Magazine, August 17, 1981
A lot has been written about the strike in those thirty years. Some writers have been respectful, informative and honest in their reporting. Some took what they learned in an interview or two, extrapolated more from that, then wrote an interesting, if not entirely factual story. Other writers made their partisan agenda far too obvious to be credible. You really had to be there.

Many who were involved before and after the strike know only a fraction of the tale. Those who walked away from their positions on August 3rd of '81 know only the first part of a drama that dragged on for many more years. Controllers hired immediately after August 3rd were privy to another part of the story but can only imagine how it started. Then there were the ones who went out, came to their senses and returned to work within the 48 hour grace period. They know much but still missed a beat or two. Unless a person was working in an FAA air traffic facility before, during and after the strike, I read or listen to what they have to say about it all with a measure of skepticism.

One frequently reported ambiguity has been that pre-strike morale among FAA's air traffic employees was scraping bottom. True, but I think it's important to clarify a couple of things. The term "employees" applied to all kinds of air traffic employees ~ not just the controllers standing in towers or sitting at their sectors. At Big Time, morale was also low among Supervisors who had to deal directly with an increasingly belligerent workforce while having to enforce policies that ranged from the petty to the preposterous. A first line Supervisor was usually the one standing at the flash point whenever a controller blew up over something. Many of the Supes I knew were actually more anxious to see a walkout than even the most radical PATCO members because it would remove several thorns from their side.

Morale was also low among Facility Management personnel. Although they'd deny it, the Staff Officers were growing tired of dealing with a seemingly endless stream of incoming Grievances, Unsafe Condition Reports and accusations of Unfair Labor Practices. Worse was the fact that local Management was rarely given the latitude to settle things at the facility level with their union counterparts. Everything went through the Regional Office, who ultimately dictated the approved response to their field facilities. The risks associated with allowing any one facility to establish what might become an untenable precedent was simply too great. So, emasculated by forces beyond his control, our Chief would shuffle out of his office now and then to posture for the workforce. His usual posture however, was to be slumped at his desk, reading through the growing piles of trouble and waiting for the next Regional Telcon to begin.

Of course, many of the controllers suffered from low morale. No surprise there either. Oppressive, uncompromising Management policies roiled them while PATCO's rhetoric and bellicosity roused them. Most were in a place where there was no refuge from the turbulence. They got angry and the angrier they became, the more conflicts there were with each other and with Management. More conflict meant more discontent, resentment and retaliation. Combined, they were the catalyst for what would soon occur. PATCO had its members right where they wanted them.

Everyone had their issues. . . with the exception of those working in Regional Offices or FAA Headquarters who knew they had the upper hand ~ no matter what the outcome.

It should also be recognized that not all employees of the FAA's Air Traffic Organization suffered from low morale. Discontent maybe but not low morale. The fact that I stayed on the job should not be construed as an endorsement of the way FAA managed its air traffic control enterprise. Far from it. I worked under the same out of touch autocracy that finally exasperated many of the strikers. Fortunately, I was among those who could either ignore or cope with FAA's imperfections by focusing on what, to us, was still the pure elation of working traffic. We just tuned out the cacophony of dissonance, immersed ourselves in the airplanes and waited for shift change.

Our morale was high. As the strike deadline neared, we shared an indescribably high level of energy brought on by the challenge we anticipated. The feeling was probably akin to a boxer about to step into the ring with a world champion. We were spoiling for a fight like everyone else, but for different reasons. Of course this made us targets for union members who recognized us as future scabs in the upcoming strike.

All of us, no matter what our plans for August 3, had at least one thing in common. Together, we were about to be goaded into uncharted territory. The union had a long history of mischief but had never gone this far before. As certain as the strike seemed on the morning of August 2, most of us were still unsure. Would PATCO really pull the trigger on Monday morning or was it all a bluff intended to make the FAA blink in the contract negotiations?

Everyone was anxious. Some who had reluctantly committed to the strike were feeling a sense of dread ~ each one hoping the union would step back from the point of no return ~ hoping they wouldn't have to go through with what they'd committed to and fearing the consequences. Local PATCO leadership tried to strengthen any unsteady confidence with their pre-strike mantra ~ "They can't fire all of us!"

There were many on the management side who hoped the strike would happen. Pete, our Area Manager, was one who left no doubt in anyone's mind about his hope for a strike. Like many of us, he saw an opportunity to rid the facility of its chronic complainers, union militance and malevolence. I was pretty sick of it myself because of the uncooperative atmosphere it had created between control positions. Unlike me though, Pete knew they'd be fired long before the general public ever heard it from Ronald Reagan. He also must have known a lot more than I did about FAA's strike contingency plans and was confident that they would work. So, at shift change, he frequently traded barbs and witticisms with the PATCO dissidents as they left the TRACON ~ hoping he wouldn't have to see or hear from them much longer. Just part of the game.

From the other side, PATCO's most combative members grew increasingly antagonistic toward anyone recognized as a probable non-participant. I was getting used to my status as adversary and came to anticipate being jammed with traffic, handoffs being accepted late, pointouts refused and other subtle techniques employed to raise my anxiety level. Just another part of the game. I was also being shunned by many old friends in the break room. It didn't bother me though. I had nothing to say to anyone foolish enough to walk away from one of the Federal Government's highest paying jobs ~ a job I loved and had waited a long time to get.


There were intense efforts by PATCO to establish or strengthen the bonds of union solidarity with anyone still undecided about whether or not to participate in the strike. Most of the faithful were convinced the aviation system would cease to function during a strike. They were also confident that the Government could never afford to purge themselves of such a large part of the controller workforce. They were ready to go. But there remained those few "fence sitters" who couldn't decide which bed to put their shoes under. Various degrees of persuasion and arm-twisting ensued ~ with chilling success.

Where you were working in 1981 largely determined how you experienced the strike's run-up and aftermath. My first-hand pre and post strike observations at Big Time would not necessarily correspond with what went on elsewhere. For example; at Big Time, the pre-strike focus for most controllers was indeed on the money aspects of the contract. The $2,500.00 raise in salary FAA offered in June might have sounded significant to controllers at Level One through Three facilities. Generally speaking, they worked in areas where the cost of living was much lower. However, those of us who worked at the Level Four and Five facilities lived mostly in areas where the cost of living was quite high. Much of that $2,500.00 would have vanished into increases in our tax rates. Yes, money was important to all of us. After all, debt is a timeless phenomenon and back then, as today, we had plenty of it.


Although some have attempted to explain it differently, the 32 hour work week proposed by PATCO was, to me, also a money issue. The way I saw it ~ anyone receiving the same salary for working 32 hours that they once got for working 40 hours was getting an hourly pay raise.

There were other, tantalizing tidbits contained in FAA's June offer but it wasn't enough to placate the PATCO faithful. So, early on the morning of August 3rd, I received a telephone call from one very excited Supervisor. The strike was on. Day shift staffing appeared adequate for traffic levels but I would be needed at 3:00 p.m. He warned me about probable picketing at the entrance to our parking lot. "Just ignore them" he said. I sat in front of the television all morning, watching various news teams cover the strike from several locations across the country. Even though I wasn't really surprised by what was happening, I was still incredulous.

The picket lines were long, loud and impossible to ignore. All those faces I knew so well looked very different under the intense heat of an August sun and the pressure of a struggle they would never win. Anger, fear and apprehension had quickly overtaken the look of audaciousness and arrogance they wore just a day ago. Some looked like they were facing a firing squad. Well, there actually would be a lot of firing but they didn't know it yet.

There are some persistent truths associated with what happened thirty years ago. For one thing, it changed the future for everyone who walked out. It also changed the future for those who stayed to deal with the consequences. Sadly though, it did not change the future for controllers hired after the strike. With the Federal Aviation Administration stuck riding on a not so merry-go-round of repeat mistakes, it seems unlikely that things will change soon. Beneath all the new programs and platitudes I saw since the strike, there remained the same culture of confrontation that started all the trouble.

What of all those people who loomed so large in my life in 1981? I miss everyone; whether they stayed or struck. Sometimes I wonder though. What might have been if the whole thing hadn't happened? By the mid-nineties, many of those fired thousands might have worked their way into upper management positions. Once there, would they have attempted to make positive changes to a system they had once fought so hard against ~ or would they simply have scrapped their ideals and assimilated? We'll never know. I can tell you this from experience though . . . a controller's ideals, brought into management, can be seen as excess baggage that should have been left behind.

So anyway, here's to a happy thirtieth anniversary. For those who went out, I don't agree with what they did but I do agree with some of their motives. Face it; this wasn't the first time people did the wrong thing for the right reasons. Most of us were such kids back then but, for better or worse, we all made our choices. Whether walking onto or off the job that day; we all stepped into history.


© NLA Factor, 2011

Signs Of Trouble

There's something a little unsettling about a silent TRACON. Without any hollering back and forth between sectors, without the FDEP machines hammering out their endless scroll of flight strips, without urgent squawking from the overhead speakers, or alarms, buzzers and badgering pilots to unravel your nerves; the TRACON assumes an eerie aspect of serenity.

It happens sometime after midnight. That's when Big Time's normally hectic scarespace reverts back into what nature intended; more air than airplanes. By 3:00 AM you can almost hear the radar's circular sweep as, once every four seconds, it lights up the few targets creeping across sectors temporarily deserted by their regularly resident havoc.

The big jets were all down; tucked into their gates to await the morning departure push. These hours were for the box haulers and mail carriers. Mostly piston powered airplanes; they seemed to traverse Big Time's airspace at the speed of night. Like a few ants crossing a football field, they appeared more like permanent echoes on the radar than moving targets.

I was pulling a round of mids with four other guys. Two were upstairs in the tower, me and Jay had TRACON duty and, somewhere in the back, there was a Supervisor doing the daily paperwork. It was a warm night in August of 1982. Tired and bored, I sat tapping mindlessly on the "Enter" key of my ARTS keyboard and staring at the video map. Jay had just switched the only airplane he had to the Center and was off to the breakroom for a fresh cup of coffee.

We'd cleaned up all the backlog from the evening shift, released the ARTS computer to Airway Facilities for some routine checks and were now settling into the long hours of the midshift. These were the hours when air traffic control came down to the simple challenge of staying awake. Maintaining separation meant ~ don't let your eyelids come together for more than a second. Coffee helped but just barely. The only sure-fire way for me to to avoid sleep was through conversation. Fortunately I had a topic in mind.

Jay sat back down at his scope. "Damn." I muttered. "Its been a year already." I paused, unsure of the reaction to my upcoming question. Then; "What made you come back to work?" Jay turned his head about 20 degrees toward my direction but never looked up. The late night TRACON silence hung in the air like cobwebs.

One year ago, intoxicated by a sense of invincibility and the promise of victory, Jay had gone on strike with most of the other Big Time controllers. He shook his head, leaned back in his chair and raised his eyes to the ceiling. I made a handoff that I'd been waiting 25 minutes to initiate. Then, on that quiet August night in 1982, Jay spoke to me of how his job, his family and perhaps his life were saved one day in August of '81. I can paraphrase his story but you'll have to imagine the pensive, palling looks on his face as he spoke.

He and his wife were attending one of many PATCO sponsored rallies happening across the country immediately following the strike. This one took place at a small park just a few miles from Big Time Airport. These rallies, meant to impose unity and extol its surely "inevitable" benefits among the striking controllers, also gave Union officials a way of keeping track of everyone. Since this particular rally was being held within Reagan's 48 hour grace period, there was always a chance someone might lose nerve, turn tail and run back to work. Jay told me he'd been sitting at a picnic table with his wife and two kids; sweating with everyone else under the August sun. Although there were several reasons to sweat; the heat was good enough for the moment.

Nearly everyone was either drunk or about to be. There was a lot of shouting, chanting and Union rhetoric. Some talked of revenge and retaliation against those who stayed on the job. Others talked of how different things would be when they made their triumphant return to work. Jay watched, listened and took it all in.

Big Time's local Vice President was speaking to the crowd. Dick had been staunch proponent of a strike for at least the last year or so. Although a controller with above average abilities; Dick was a chronic complainer and, in the final few months preceding the strike, became perennially petulant and antagonistic. By Spring of '81 I saw Dick as a man who seemed to have opted out of evolution ~ an animal who growled and snarled at those of us who were either undecided or unwilling to strike.

Standing next to Dick was Sal. He'd been one of the PATCO Local's team representatives. Also known for his pre-strike truculence, Sal nodded his head in agreement as Dick preached the gospel according to Poli. Silent skies and abandoned control rooms would soon bring FAA and the aviation industry to their knees. That is; if the scab controllers and blundering supervisors didn't kill hundreds of people first in a spectacular midair collision. Everyone swallowed beer, hollered and cheered. Some even laughed. The air was filled with flourishing fists and fluttering signs. It resembled a kind of chaotic carnival.

The air was also filled with other signs. These were the signs of trouble for PATCO. In an ironic contrast with the rally's pitiful propaganda, big jets could be seen, nose high and climbing over the distant cityscape. Most rolled quietly into a turn toward some distant navaid but a few eventually roared over the little park; briefly drowning out the bombastic blather below. These skies were far from silent. But why? Jay sat sipping his beer, watching the evolving spectacle and worrying.

His wife was worried too. She peered out across the crowd with a look that reflected a darkening mood, disbelief in what she was seeing and growing doubts about the success of this venture. Two of Jay's teammates were throwing a frizbee back and forth. He said he couldn't help but see the irony in what had become of their aviation careers. Two air traffic controllers - working plastic departures and arrivals while someone's dog jumped and barked at the overflights.

Jay's wife turned suddenly in his direction, threw her arms out toward the crowd and said the whole thing was insane. He could see she was on the verge of tears as she continued. "This is not working. Everyone is going to be fired! You need to get your ass back to work!"

There was no argument. Jay told me he looked around, nodded his head in agreement and wandered off through the melee to find a pay phone. He called the TRACON, spoke with the Area Manager and was soon back on the schedule.

"Why did you go out to begin with?" Jay stood up, stretched and grabbed his empty coffee cup. He looked tired and uneasy. "Now I don't even remember. Everything was all messed up back then. Grievances, management bustin' our balls all the time and nobody listening to us. And in case you missed anything, you had PATCO kinda playin' it all back to you every day. If you weren't already pissed off; they'd get you there! You know; when they don't stop talking at you; you start seeing the things they're talking about." He sighed. "I guess I didn't know how bad things were till I really started listening to 'em. Then I got mad. I came to work mad every day. By August I thought there was only one way to get the FAA to listen."

He started off toward the breakroom; empty cup dangling from his index finger. "It was just all fucked up, you know?" I knew. I pressed one of the lines to the center. "Fourteen, Big Time, eighty-three line with another handoff." Silence. I tried again. It was about 4:30 a.m. The whole damned time zone was asleep and my traffic was creeping up on the boundary. The handoff line was dead silent. Jay walked back in. "Hey, somebody forgot to bring in more coffee! Pots empty and there's nothing in the cabinet." I wondered if I was going to have to spin this guy. "Sector fourteen, Big Time, eighty-three with a hot one!" Almost three hours to go, no coffee and now the center won't... "Whaddaya got Big Time?" The midshift headed slowly toward dawn. We resorted to drinking Coke for our caffeine.

Jay had made it back from the brink. Most people in the facility never even knew he'd been on strike. And now a year had passed. Much of the early, post-strike fervor had passed as well. Supervisors still worked traffic occasionally but were mostly back to supervising. PATCO had long since been decertified. The FAA was busy trying out various human relations initiatives in what would ultimately be a failed effort to convince controllers there was no need to reorganize. Everyone was fighting fatigue and some were losing.

It was the new Management by Objective. I thought of it this way... Management was a pistol and controllers were simply the bullets. Our target, or objective, was full recovery from the strike's impact. But the "bullets" had no say over what direction they were being fired in. Consequently there were ricochets, unintended casualties and collateral damage. People began complaining and were skillfully ignored by a management team that had years of practice at it. Furtive palavers were taking place behind the backs of those who were too busy fighting to keep a hold on their waning credibility to notice. It was the worst kind of deja vu.

There were signs of trouble everywhere.

© NLA Factor, 2010

The Third Day Of August

I take an old magazine cover, throw in some news stories from those strange times, then sit back and ask myself the same questions I've asked for the last 29 years.

I imagine an elevator leaving the top floor of a skyscraper when the cable snaps. There are old friends, now trapped inside something that is accelerating out of control toward certain destruction. Floor numbers flashing past the door throughout their descent are the days; temporal moments in the chronology of a tragedy. But inside the elevator; no one yet realizes they are falling.

My thanks to The Eighties Club for helping refresh my memory. Twenty-nine years is, after all, a long way down.

Saturday, 20 June 1981

Government represented by Transportation Secretary Drew Lewis negotiating with the air traffic controllers' union (PATCO) to avert an illegal strike.

Sunday, 21 June 1981

Negotiations between the government and PATCO continues.

Monday, 22 June 1981

Air traffic controllers' strike, scheduled for today, is called off. The government and PATCO officials reach a tentative agreement; eventually rejected by a majority of controllers.

Friday, 31 July 1981

PATCO President Robert Poli warns Transportation Department it must reach settlement with air traffic controllers by August 3.

Friday, 31 July 1981

PATCO President Robert Poli warns the Transportation Department it must reach settlement with air traffic controllers by August 3.

Sunday, 2 August 1981

PATCO president says tomorrow's deadline for threatened air traffic controllers' strike won't be extended; Attorney General William French Smith says striking controllers will be prosecuted.

Monday, 3 August 1981

Air traffic controllers in PATCO union go on strike; President Reagan warns strikers of consequences. Military personnel to replace striking controllers. FAA orders airlines at major airports to reduce the number of flights. Safety of flying during strike in question. Amtrak reports increased passenger loads.

Tuesday, 4 August 1981

Legal actions considered against striking air traffic controllers. A federal judge levees fine against PATCO.

Wednesday, 5 August 1981

Reagan administrations sends termination notices to all air traffic controllers on strike. PATCO union leaders arrested.

Friday,7 August 1981

Court hearing held on legality of air traffic controllers' strike. International controllers' organization claims several midair near-misses due to military replacements for strikers.

Saturday, 8 August 1981

PATCO President Robert Poli said to want negotiations to end air traffic controllers' strike. American Federation of Government Employees supports the PATCO strike, as does AFL-CIO.

Monday, 10 August 1981

Canadian air traffic controllers support striking PATCO members by staging temporary strike. FAA reporte sabotage of air traffic control equipment in Omaha, NE.

Tuesday, 11 August 1981

Boycott by Canadian air traffic controllers in support of PATCO strikers in U.S. hampers international air travel. Airlines express support for President Reagan in his handling of crisis. Government discusses permanent reduced flight schedules with airlines. Training of students intensifies at federal air traffic control school in Oklahoma.

Wednesday, 12 August 1981

Canadian air traffic controllers' boycott ends, international air travel returns to normal. State, City & Municipal Employees union stages pro-PATCO demonstration outside Transportation Dept. PATCO deplores allegedly half-hearted support of strike by organized labor.

Thursday, 13 August 1981

International air traffic controllers' organization decides not to take further steps to support striking PATCO members in U.S. Portuguese air traffic controllers call of scheduled boycott. Reagan says he won't grant amnesty to striking controllers.

Friday, 14 August 1981

Federal judge recommends PATCO be decertified as union for air traffic controllers. Government investigates reports that someone intentionally gave pilots wrong instructions during flights. British controllers vote not to support striking American counterparts.

Saturday, 15 August 1981

Portuguese air traffic controllers' planned boycott of U.S. planes for 48 hours as show of support for striking American controllers starts tomorrow. Strikers hold rally at JFK International Airport.

Sunday, 16 August 1981

Portuguese air traffic controllers begin 48-hour boycott of American planes in show of support for striking American controllers. U.S. government begins processing applicants to replace 12,000 fired controllers.

Monday, 17 August 1981

Portuguese air traffic controllers' 48-hour boycott of U.S. flights not hampering international flights. Portuguese and Spanish controllers' organizations to meet tomorrow to discuss international response to U.S. strike. American strikers supported by Iran and China.

Tuesday, 18 August 1981

National Transportation Safety Board investigates safety of flying during air traffic controllers' strike. Airline Pilots Association criticizes safety measures. PATCO claims numerous near-misses have occurred; Portuguese controllers end 48-hour boycott of American planes.

Saturday, 22 August 1981

Machinists Union rally in Houston, TX to show support for striking air traffic controllers draws little public interest. International Federation of Air Traffic Controllers meets in Amsterdam to discuss PARCO strike and air safety.

Sunday, 23 August 1981

International Air Traffic Controllers organization meeting in Amsterdam ends without agreement on support of PATCO strike in U.S.

Monday, 24 August 1981

FAA orders airlines to cut back operations until next year due to the air traffic controllers' strike.

Thursday, 27 August 1981

Canadian government rejects proposal of its air traffic controllers to suspend all flights to and from U.S. as show of support for striking PATCO controllers.

Monday, 31 August 1981

AFL-CIO President Lane Kirkland asks Reagan to reconsider termination of striking PATCO air traffic controllers.

Wednesday, 16 September 1981

Striking air traffic controllers ask labor relations board to compel Reagan administration to resume negotiations.

Thursday, 22 October 1981

National Labor Relations Board officially decertifies PATCO, the air traffic controllers' union.

Thursday, 31 December 1981

Professional Air Traffic Controllers Organization (PATCO) President Robert Poli resigns.

Happy New Years Bob.