Like It Or Not

Thinking of revisiting the past? I can tell you this; it's nearly as impossible as the idea of returning to a place you've never been. I keep trying to do it though. I keep trying to travel my mind back to those halcyon days of headaches, havoc, heartbreak and even a little hostility. Or was it the days of  kinship, certitude and camaraderie among my fellow controllers? I'm not sure but, either way, it's like going the wrong way on an exit ramp. Going against the flow of time is an exercise in crazy. But if, like me, you insist on attempting the trip; you won't need any baggage. Baggage is what you carry into the future. The past is where you pick it up. 

Damn. Instead of trying to return; maybe I should have just stayed there. Sometimes, when I hear certain music from the past and the wine I'm drinking is working just right; I feel like I'm still there. I can still recall some of the communal minutia of our conversations: the controller's common likes and dislikes - especially the dislikes. To wit . . . 

Airline pilots. We idolized them, envied their salaries and occasionally wished we could shake them by their collars till the little gold wings fell off their uniforms. Perfectly groomed; they perambulated through the terminal building, leading their flock of flight attendants to a gleaming stretch eight, B-707 or maybe a waiting hotel limo. With neatly pressed uniforms, hat bent into the requisite "fifty mission crush" topping a shock of gray hair; their eyes seemed to reflect the cloudless blue flight levels they traveled in. Everyone called them "Captain" or "Sir." Many of those same people typically referred to us as jokers, jerks, assholes or, on a good day, troublemakers. They had no idea. We were all that and more.

We were air traffic controllers; government drones who's workday was spent in rancid radar rooms and smoke filled tower cabs. Immersed in the incessant murmur of control instructions, requests, rumors and occasional rage; we were rebellious, disrespectful, sartorially senseless, often unshaven and damned proud of it all. But ask a tower controller about the airline pilot who, on being instructed to taxi into position and be ready for an immediate departure ("Traffic three miles out."), turns his flying machine onto the runway like it was full of eggs balanced on beer bottles. Yep. Here comes the first go-around of the day. We often wondered if the slow taxi was a not-so-subtle way of screwing with a rival airline's bottom line. That go-around cost them money, worried their passengers and could even lead to missed connections. Usually though, it was the tower controller who'd eventually be called on the carpet for "exercising poor judgement."

There's also the guy driving his swift and sleek 727 who's been issued one or two speed reductions but clearly hasn't slowed up. Now he's gaining on preceding traffic. You tell him to reduce speed or face a few delaying vectors. One left three-sixty puts him back in line behind two flights that were originally following him. Later on, he calls the Watch Desk to complain about the inept and impertinent controller who caused him to miss his scheduled arrival time.

One of my personal favorites is the flight crew that never seem to be paying sufficient attention on arrival into a busy radar sector. After some frazzled controller has to call them at least twice for every instruction (a waste of everyone's time); the pilot is liable to hear a very blunt "Listen up Captain!" or something far worse. Since every other airman on the frequency (sometimes dozens) hears the admonishment, it can be an embarrassing blow to someone's overpaid ego. Odds are good the Watch Supervisor will soon be taking a call from the pilot. The controller involved will likely be "questioned and released."

Such things are infrequent and quickly forgotten - until the next time. That's when we recall all previous peeves and may get a little pissed off - especially if we're the ones being yelled at by a management who's job score is built mainly on points made with the airlines.

In fairness; I should add that controllers can come up with a thousand ways to anger an airman - sometimes deliberately. After all; we could cost them lots of money. Time spent on delaying vectors, in a holding pattern or parked on a taxiway could easily have cost their company more than my monthly salary. The worst they could do was get us a good ass chewing or possibly a letter of discipline in our official personnel file. For some choice examples, read any of my blog entries recounting the years before PATCO called for a strike. One genius I worked with actually responded to a pilot's query about when he would get out of the holding pattern with; "Maybe when you declare minimum fuel Captain." Sure, it had been a long, stressful shift and the guy had actually been given an "expect further clearance" (EFC) time when he entered holding. But . . . really?

On the flip side of all this; we also loved airline pilots. I couldn't possibly say how many times one of them helped me out when I really needed it. Take the plane I mentioned earlier that was instructed to taxi onto the runway and be ready for an immediate departure.

Pilots who were as interested as we were in keeping things moving efficiently could make a tight situation work. They looked out the cockpit window and could see the approaching airplane on final. They knew they had to be airborne before that plane touched down and they knew how to make that happen. Rather than lumber onto the runway as though every one of the tires were flat; they'd swing smartly into position, stand on the brakes and begin sliding the throttles forward - waiting for the green light. When cleared for an immediate takeoff; the pilot did things with the plane that would make any aircraft manufacturer proud.

ATC was always a joint effort between controllers and pilots. The controller can see what needs to happen but oftentimes it's the pilot who either makes the plan fly or fail. For example; the controller can see a usable gap in the long line of landing flights. Holes in the landing sequence are a waste of airspace. A skilled controller sees the chance to fit an airplane in there. To make it work though; immediate action on the flight crew's part is needed on any request for speed adjustments and heading changes. A few seconds of delay makes the chance go away.

The best controllers I worked with were, in a way, lazy controllers. They didn't want to be bothered with vectoring an arrival out to the end of the line if they could squeeze it into the middle somewhere. Pulling it off usually required some help from the higher ups.

Genetically, most controllers I knew were averse to Management. While some air traffic facilities were guided by a highly competent, fair and empathetic leadership; others were run by folks who were far too intoxicated by the power, influence and prestige of their position to listen when they should have. They dealt with the controller workforce in a consistently authoritarian manner, which only set the stage for more conflict. Bound by contract to negotiate with the bargaining unit (us controllers) only meant they had to work a little harder to win the day. Working in such a facility, we knew the hand holding all the Aces also held us jokers by the neck.

Other things we didn't like were bad weather, sudden or scheduled equipment outages, short staffing, disapproved leave requests, incompetent supervisors and many other things that even a sane person would find disagreeable. What we liked was the adrenalin rush we got from working heavy traffic when everything clicked. In fact; the exuberance we felt during and after such a shift was more than enough to keep us coming back for more - no matter how bad it got.

Speaking of that; I'll tell you another thing we liked. After an evening shift, good or bad, we liked going to a rundown roadhouse just outside the airport. Like Big Time itself, it was in the worst part of town, where just parking a car after dark was risky.

The barroom floor was sticky from years of spilled drinks, walls were infused with cigarette smoke and the men's room often smelled like vomit. In retrospect, I guess it was a lot like our TRACON.

On weekends, a couple of sad looking strippers went through the motions on a small stage, then worked the room for tips. Caught up in our carping and camaraderie, we paid little attention to their dancing but we tipped them well anyway. I liked the place because I could learn a lot by listening to  my teammates as they washed down the shift's successes and distresses with a cold beer. As a relatively inexperienced controller; it's where I learned many of the "do and don't do" aspects of the job.

Good or bad, like it or not, it was all part of my past. Everyone has their own way of dealing with a career in air traffic control, Some drank to excess, brought their job related problems home and eventually got divorced, Some became progressively more disgruntled until arriving at that emotional tipping point. They'd go on strike and be fired or maybe just retire. Some moved on to another facility; believing the grass would be greener in another place. There were those who bid on every staff job they saw; hoping to be promoted out of the controller position they now had difficulty dealing with.

Me? At one time or another, I tried it all. I know I can't go back and change a thing. Actually; I wouldn't want to. My path had some tricky curves that, like it or not, brought me to where I am now. I like that.

© NLA Factor, 2015



Gravity

Isaac Newton warned us that "what goes up must come down." That got me thinking about my first Supervisor at Big Time. Jon must not have believed Sir Isaac. Most of us controllers wished Jon would go up and never come down. You know; like Voyager I or II. He went up alright but didn't keep going. He came down; suddenly and swiftly. It wasn't a soft landing either.

Air traffic controllers are a befuddled bunch. Most of us spend roughly half our career attempting to refute Sir Issac's law and the other half enforcing it. Planes go up and we like to see that they stay up there until it's time to come down. That's why we invented holding patterns. Then, when it is time to abide by Isaac's law; we try to ensure they come down gently and, hopefully, onto a runway. I've known airplanes to come down like Thor's hammer. When you see that happen, you keep the images filed under "Things I'll never forget."

Anyway, this piece isn't about the kind of gravity that makes planes come down. It's more about the gravity that brings down careers in air traffic control. We scratch and scrabble our way up through the training program, try to rise above average in our abilities as controllers and some of us even ascend into the murky realm of management. That's where Jon eventually went - but not before asserting his credentials for higher office on a young trainee or two. Then one day, unable to escape the gravity of bad decisions, he came down hard - didn't even bounce.

It was early 1975 and I was due for my first Performance Appraisal. Having been in the training program for a year and exceeding expectations (both my own and the facility's) along the way; I didn't anticipate any problems. Well under the Training Department's average times for position certification; I was already checked out through all tower positions and now training in the TRACON. I actually thought the appraisal would be a pretty good one. Jon called me into the supervisor's office one afternoon and began talking. His voice was downbeat and parental - like a father explaining to a child why he wouldn't be getting a new bicycle this year.

Jon had come to Big Time by way of the nearest enroute facility where he'd been a controller for years. He had never worked in the terminal world and, understandably, it showed. Unaccustomed to our equipment and tighter separation standards, his operating methods were rather restrained in the radar room and a total terror in the tower. Fortunately, as a supervisor, he didn't have to work much traffic. This reduced the volume of complaints from pilots to Rick; our Area Manager. Jon was a glad-hander though and could camouflage his incompetence with robust repartee or by repeating the harrowing tales of his days at the Center. We learned to never get him started at our after-work watering hole. Having consumed three or four beers, you couldn't get him to shut up about one of  the Alphabet Areas, Sector Whatever and all the planes he hustled into a couple of other busy terminals. The journeymen controllers politely pretended to listen but sometimes the smell of exaggeration could be overwhelming. Bored and unimpressed, they'd eventually just get up and leave.

Jon sat across from me, smiling. My rating was rolled up tightly in his fist. He sat tapping one end of it on the desk while explaining his philosophy about how a trainee's performance should be evaluated. Now, I had been at Big Time long enough to understand there were at least two ways a supervisor could approach a rating. One way was to let the appraisal accurately reflect the trainee's performance - good, bad or indifferent. Other supervisors subscribed to the idea that time on the job was more important than talent when it came to describing someone's performance. When Jon began talking about what nice work I was doing for my very first year at Big Time; I knew what side of the debate he came down on. Apparently I was moving in the right direction but neither up or down. Newton would have been puzzled. Jon finally unrolled the rating and placed it in front of me on the desk.

Perplexed, I listened to Jon and stared at each page as he thumbed his way through the document. It seemed to portray my performance as a middle ground somewhere between puss and porterhouse steak - not too bad but not so good either. He eventually summarized his monologue by saying that he expected I would do much better next year. Unfamiliar with the FAA's wily and weaseling ways, I was actually surprised and disappointed. No matter. I initialed where needed, put my signature next to Jon's then went home to think about it. After all, I was nothing but a damned trainee - an inferior subspecies of the Controller race. I couldn't possibly complain because it would sound too much like whining. Unwritten rule: Whine once and you're labeled a whiner forever. Even as a trainee I knew that much.

I came to work the next day; pretty much over the whole thing. My career would be a long one and there'd be lots more performance appraisals. When I came down from the tower for my lunch break; Rick called me over to his desk. I noticed he had my rating in front of him. Had Jon forgotten to document some glaring deficiency in my performance? I took a few deep breaths and sat down. Rick had read the rating and signed it. That's what a second line Supervisor does. He signed but not before discussing it with Jon. Apparently there was some disagreement between them over my actual performance but that Jon had refused to change the rating. He held that it needed to indicate some room for improvement or I'd never work any harder than I had been.

Rick didn't agree with the appraisal but told me that Jon would not make any changes. I remember being surprised that Rick, Jon's immediate Supervisor, couldn't compel him to make even the slightest alteration to make it fit me better. There was, however, an alternative. At the bottom of every performance appraisal form was a space where an Area Manager could make his or her own observations about the controller being rated. Rick took Jon's original copy and wrote a very nice paragraph or two about my performance; from his own perspective. He said it would actually carry more weight in the Regional Office than the views of a rookie Supervisor.

Old Idlewild Airport, now known as JFK.

Rick had grown up as a controller at Idlewild Tower, eventually transferring to an enroute facility during the "shrimp boat" days. He did time at the Regional Office, where he learned all the things not to do as a Manager. He also made a lot of powerful friends along the way. Everyone respected Rick. We all knew he was one of the original building blocks of our profession and that his management philosophy was grounded in fairness.

Of course, Rick's endorsement would end up deepening the chill that had already settled in between me and Jon. Assuming I had complained about the rating, he grew into an even more annoying pain in my ass. Several were the times I thought of hiring some worldwide head removal service to rid me of Jon; even hoping there'd be a discount if the head was empty. The rating matter also created a rift between Jon and Rick - but it would all be short-lived.

Jon's aim was always a bit high. Upward mobility could eventually make him a Facility Manager somewhere. It could also get him out of the 'deep end' at Big Time, where he was in over his head and floundering. A few months later, he was selected for a job in the Regional Office. I'm sure he got Rick's highest recommendations for the job. Another unwritten rule of the day: Anyone with career ambition had to do a year or so at the "R. O."  We all figured it took at least that long to lobotomize, brain-wash and reprogram any management candidate. In a few weeks; Jon was gone without fanfare. His memory gradually dissipated from the control rooms like a noxious odor.

Time passed. I earned my Facility Rating without Jon's bromidic guidance. One day we heard he had been selected to manage a fairly busy VFR tower in another part of the Region. Everyone shook their heads and silently wished the citizens of that tower all the best. Two years later, we got an update. Apparently Newton's Law had finally kicked in on Jon. He had been summarily removed from his Facility Manager position - something to do with falsified travel vouchers. I had to laugh.

One thing nearly everyone learned very early in their FAA career was to treat a travel voucher like it was your tax return. Several sets of eyes would review it, check receipts, do the math and maybe even approve it - as long as everything added up. Only an idiot would attempt to inflate expenses to obtain a bigger reimbursement. So, no one was surprised to learn that Jon had apparently done just that. He was quickly reassigned back to the R. O. where he'd remain, for years, under the watchful eye of the Division Manager. Too busy with my own career to care what happened next; I couldn't help but wonder how his performance appraisal looked that year. Like a mirror; it probably reflected his true performance rather than his years of service.

Mirrors and performance appraisals both have the ability to show us just how far we've come. Unfortunately, they can also reflect just how far we've gone. Jon had gone a little too far that year and it was entirely downward. Gravity had finally caught up with him.

Why would he do such a stupid thing? Who knows. Newton once said: “I can calculate the motion of heavenly bodies but not the madness of people.”  Having lived long with my own madness; I believe him.


© NLA Factor, 2014

The Persistence Of Memory

Those who've been following this Blog understand it's mostly about memories. In the beginning, I was afraid I'd forget the many things that happened before I could capture them in print. You know, before too much time passed. I now understand those memories are persistent, palpable and perpetual. They're always here with me. I can even feel them. Salvador Dali illustrated it pretty well in his masterpiece "The Persistence of Memory." With apologies to Salvador, I flew an airplane into his painting because, to me, the memories of air traffic have a persistence all their own.

Time, on the other hand, is of no real significance. It comes and goes; preceding each passing second and concurrently vanishing; leaving us with a "now" that is just too short to measure. Thankfully, it does leave those persistent memories of ours behind; scattered across the panorama of our lives.   

As to my life, it seems I spent most of it diligently winding clocks and watches, setting alarms or trying to correct the time if it was running fast or slow. According to the clock; I usually ended up being too early or too late anyway. It took a while but I finally figured out that I shouldn't even bother trying to set, sway, speed or slow the hands of time. The Universe calibrated my clock, then synchronized it to my life - and life isn't measured by hours and minutes. It's measured by events and those events always happen precisely when they're supposed to; which could be described as "right on time." I may never have believed my entire life happened on schedule - but it did. Take the early Seventies for example . . .

Life was moving at the speed of continental drift since my departure from military service. My application for an ATC position, eagerly and optimistically submitted, had apparently vanished into some minor FAA functionary's file drawer. I found an odd assortment of menial jobs to keep me busy. If you're interested, they're described somewhere in the back end of this blog. The work kept me afloat financially but my spirit was being swamped by waves of anxiety. I knew it was crazy but whenever my travels took me past the local airport, I'd glare at the control tower,  mutter a few expletives and shake my head. Frustration brought me to a point where I was seriously considering the idea of going back into the Air Force - just so I could work airplanes again. Looking back on life, I have to love that and every other mistake I almost made.

Living high on the extravagances that a minimum wage income allows, I moved into an affordable efficiency apartment on the north side of town. Although the classified ad called it an "efficiency," I referred to it as the "deficiency." There were so many deficiencies that I lost count half way through the list of health violations. Small, slightly smelly and unnecessarily outdated; it was the kind of apartment where police might one day discover 200 cats and a desiccated corpse. It was affordable though - as long as I stuck to my diet of deviled ham and bananas. I worked onward but could never quite reach my future.

Years passed. In the long run, the FAA did make me a job offer. Ironically, I had to think twice about accepting. By then, I'd worked myself into a pretty well paying and enjoyable job. I even had a better apartment! Going with the Feds would mean an initial (and substantial) decrease in pay. There was also a requisite relocation in the deal. The move would put me in an expensive metropolitan area that I couldn't possibly afford on a GS-7's salary. The offer was a "take it or leave it" deal though. I had one week to respond. That wasn't much time but it didn't really matter. My decision was preordained, so naturally I had to accept. There was simply no choice because, by the end of my Air Force career, air traffic control had become a vital organ that I couldn't live for long without.

I remember the subsequent months being a blur. The only time that mattered was my training time. Then, in nothing but an eight month instant, I found myself checked out through all tower positions and working on my radar certifications. Two years from that first foot in the door, I was fully certified at Big Time. Now that wasn't so hard, was it? Looking back, I'd say no. But back then? Looking ahead was intimidating.

It wasn't long before my first round of mids as a journeyman was scheduled. Trainees were always sent to the tower on mid shifts. But now, as a full performance controller, I could pull TRACON duty. Driving in to work, I knew what I would find when I got there. After all, I'd been home all evening, watching the lightning and listening to the din of heavy rain on the roof. I knew the crew on duty was dealing with a mess and that there'd be plenty left for me and my teammates to clean up when we arrived.

Mids, for me, usually began with a touch of circadian sleep disorder. Failing in my attempt to nap that afternoon, I would arrive at work a little out of sorts, off-balance and unshaven. By 10:45, traffic would normally be light and most of the radar sectors combined at two or three positions. Not tonight though. Walking into the TRACON I saw a Supervisor tearing strips off the printer and running them to the sectors. There were five still open and all were busy. Three of the evening shift guys would be held over for a couple hours to help us put a lid on the madness.

My mid shift teammate relieved both departure sectors and combined them into one. I was told to relieve the Final controller and let her go home. Airplanes that had been delayed at their departure points, some of them thousands of miles from Big Time, were only now beginning to show up at our arrival fixes. It was exciting. The approach controllers talked non-stop and their lines of planes stretched more than 40 miles from the airport. Radar vectors were flying in every direction. At least the bad weather had moved out and the field was VFR for the first time since that morning. After a brief consultation with the tower, I tried cutting some downwind traffic in tight on visual approaches. The first two worked nicely so I told the approach guys to start tightening up the arrival sequence. Everything was going well. The departure backlog was gone by 1:00 AM. Our holdovers from the evening shift left at 2:00 but the persistence of air traffic continued till after 3:00. The mid-shift Supervisor sat silently at his desk; counting strips, calculating the delays and catching up on log entries. In the ensuing years, there would be many more such mid shifts.

In sharp contrast with the FAA; I remember mid shifts in the Air Force being abnormally quiet. Still in the early stages of learning how impossible it was for me to sleep during the day; I'd lumber up the tower steps with my mid shift teammate, moving like a reanimated cadaver. Where I was stationed; most of the military air traffic was down for the night before 11:00 PM, so we'd be greeted by a bored looking NCOIC (Non-Commissioned Officer In Charge) who'd dutifully mutter his way through a review of the tower's daily log. I would dutifully nod with feigned interest in what he was saying. He and his evening shift crew would then rush down the steps as though the fire alarm had just sounded. In a moment, my partner Vince and I would be left in the complete silence of an empty tower cab, overlooking an empty runway. It was on such a night that a most incredible thing happened. My memory of it hangs on like the melted clock on Dali's tree limb.

By 3:00 AM, each of us had pretty well covered what we knew of the latest Squadron gossip and were settling into our chairs, feet up on the console, for a little quiet time (sleep). A light appeared across the airfield, just above the the horizon. It was moving slowly in a northerly direction; almost parallel to the runway and definitely inside our Control Zone. Certain it was a plane without a working transmitter; we simultaneously hailed it on both UHF and VHF emergency frequencies while signaling "Cleared to land" with the tower's light gun. As the craft continued north, we could see there were actually several lights glimmering; like the windows of an airliner's fuselage. But unlike the lights of an aircraft, these were indistinct; almost ethereal. They glowed like pale blue neon.

Curious about any sound this thing might be making, Vince dashed down the first flight of steps and out onto the catwalk. I called the radar unit. Did they see a target just Northeast of the field and moving North? I expected a wise-ass comment about flying saucers in the traffic pattern and I wasn't disappointed. Of course, the radar guys saw nothing on their scopes. After listening to the requisite dose of sarcasm and good-natured ridicule; I was told to leave them the hell alone and go back to sleep. Vince returned to report the night outside was as quiet as a crypt. None of the jet or propeller noise we were used to hearing. Nothing. The strange lights soon vanished over the northern horizon.

Me and Vince had an odd feeling about what had just happened. I picked up a phone and dialed the Watch Desk at our local Center. I was afraid that telling this story to anyone else was a mistake but decided it was worth the risk for a chance to have it corroborated.  The Supervisor, clearly much older and vastly more experienced than me, listened to my story. I could tell he was writing things down and figured he was making notes for a future discussion with our Squadron Commander. I'd be in trouble for sure. But no. He said my description of the object, its low altitude, slow speed and direction of flight matched reports some of his controllers had received from pilots flying across the region. Several people claimed to have spotted it but no one ever saw a radar image.

I remember watching the sunrise that morning, making a fresh pot of coffee for the day shift crew and talking to Vince about what we should do. The Air Force had a reporting program in place at the time. Named "Project Blue Book," it was a way of officially documenting what may have been a UFO sighting. Vince and I concluded there would be no report and no further mention of the incident to anyone; especially the incoming day shift guys. Along with the wry ribbing, we'd likely be labeled as lunatics by the Squadron brass; thus hobbling our chances of ever seeing another promotion. It was decided that what we saw that night must surely have been a weather balloon or another of those spontaneous outbreaks of swamp gas. We just left the tower, lingered over breakfast then moved on to the first open bar we could find. By the third round of beers, we were ready to admit what we'd really seen - but only to each other.

Another mid shift sticks in my memory - one clear and very cold night in the 1970s. A Center controller's urgent sounding voice came across the handoff line. "Hey Big Time, you talking to that guy twenty east of MALYN squawking 4543 at eleven thousand?" It was nearly 5:00 AM and for the last hour or so I'd only been talking to myself.  I saw the target he referred to though, so I pushed the handoff line button and responded. The center controller said he'd been working the plane, a Piper Navajo, for the last 45 minutes but had recently lost radio contact. It was also way off it's planned route, now about 70 miles off course and headed toward some very unfriendly terrain. After checking with the other sectors, it was clear the pilot wasn't talking to anyone at the Center. The controller was now calling all towers and approach controls along the aircraft's flight path. It seemed no one was talking to the Navajo, which was still holding its last assigned altitude of eleven thousand feet. The situation would change but as we know; change isn't always a good thing.

I called the tower and, between us, we transmitted on every frequency we had. No joy. The plane flew on and soon left my radar coverage. It wasn't till nearly 7:00 AM that the Center sector called and told me the plane eventually began losing altitude then vanished from his radar screen. Wreckage was never found and we were left with our theories about what happened. The most plausible one was that the pilot had dozed off - his plane eventually running out of fuel. With luck, he died in his sleep. This incident lodged itself in my memory like a fishhook and became a shot of adrenalin whenever I felt myself getting sleepy on mid-shifts or long drives.

I have so many many memories; some good and others, well, not so good. They don't go away though. They accumulate over a long career and, like my old record collection, become disorganized and eventually take up a lot of space. I've put some of them away in storage but still retrieve them now and then for my own enjoyment. In a way, memories are a lot like my old records. They can both be played over and over again. Someone or something just needs to push the right buttons. Case in point; I recently discovered one of my old teammates from the Big Time days, on a social media site. That pushed some long unused buttons and the memories started playing immediately. Like me; this guy was brutally insane in those days. We shared secrets and experienced many control room tantrums, terrors and temptations together. The memories of them persist, even after all this time.

Time passes. I don't even care where it goes. It takes nothing of mine when it leaves but it leaves me with plenty. Those persistent memories; they stay like my skin color. I don't know exactly where each one is at the moment but, like my old Big Time buddy, I'll eventually find them again. 

© NLA Factor, 2013

To Square One And Back

High school left me with very little education and a whole lot of bad memories. When the time came, I hurried through my graduation ceremony then ran off to find the most menial and low paying job a substandard grade average might qualify me for. I got lucky! The job I landed not only met my servility standards and apparent desire for a pitiable pay scale; it was also pretty disgusting work. So this was it; square one of my working life. 

Something happened though. After a few months I began to realize that "disgusting" wasn't as satisfying as it's reputed to be. Quite the opposite. Thus, the arrival of my Pre-induction Notice from the Draft Board actually came as a welcome relief. With my usual low expectations in tow, I traipsed off in search of the nearest Air Force Recruiter.

Volunteer day at Barber's College? Nope.

A few months later, on a sweltering Spring afternoon, I stepped off a bus at Lackland Air Force Base in San Antonio, Texas. I couldn't know at the time but Basic Training would be the prelude to my rebirth from callow youth to air traffic controller.

Within the first 24 hours, we were required to memorize our eight-digit service number. If you don't know; this is the military's "personal identification number." It gets stamped into every GI's dog tags, so that anyone could figure out who we were - just in case we were unable to say. But memorizing numbers was no easy task for a guy who'd eventually have to quickly memorize a traffic pattern sized dose of tactical callsigns and aircraft  registration numbers.

Everybody got the haircut. Then, after the issuing of uniforms, we all began sweating our way through the ensuing weeks of verbal abuse, physical training, close order drill, shooting at things and other stuff contrived to make us appear almost military. But we were still just kids; only now with guns and no hair.

Somewhere along the way, we were all asked to pick from a list of jobs we'd like to spend the next four years doing. I wondered which one required the least amount of skill - like, for example, shaving the heads of basic trainees. I studied the list methodically, as though I actually understood what I was looking at, while never really correlating my eventual choice with a post-military career or its earning  potential. As I saw it, being asked to choose a job was like asking me to choose which color of bus I'd like to drive over a cliff. It simply didn't matter. I just knew the end result would be the same - a long fall onto the rocks. Bewildered, I finally settled on ATC, although I had no inkling as to what the job entailed. It didn't sound too disgusting though. In fact, it sounded interesting.

After selecting the career we hoped to get and after working through a series of aptitude tests and interviews; someone would make a decision on our fate. There were no guarantees. Assignments were based mainly on the needs of the Air Force.

Basic training plodded along. Then, in the final few days before leaving Lackland, our big moment came. All graduating Airmen were marched into an auditorium, where a sergeant stood holding a clipboard full of papers. As names were called, someone in the crowd would yell "Here!" and the sergeant barked out their next duty assignment. His papers were arranged alphabetically, so I had time to appreciate the queasiness in my stomach. I watched him flip through them, one by one, never looking up. Finally, in his very military, staccato voice; "Factor! Air Traffic Control - Keesler Air Force Base, Biloxi, Mississippi!"

The sense of elation I felt at that moment was misguided and premature. There'd be trouble ahead, and plenty of it. Nonetheless, here I was; about to begin my Air Traffic Control technical training. Here I was; about to land on square one again.

Biloxi in those days was a sad looking town; worn away by years of Gulf hurricanes and off duty GIs. Not originally from the deep South, I didn't know what to make of it. I was now in a place where black folks stepped off the sidewalk to let me pass - neither of us ever making eye contact. It was a place where nearly every bar in town was on the Base's list of off-limits establishments. Everyone carried that list because off-limits establishments were the only bright spots in a Biloxi night. The beaches were the only bright spots during daylight hours; when you could appreciate how dreary the town looked. Littered with broken glass and the aluminum pull tabs from countless beer cans, you either wore flip-flops on your feet or you wore bandages. The only other places to be were in the barracks or attending class. But that was no fun.

When I arrived in Biloxi, our involvement in the Vietnam War was on the upswing. The Air Force needed lots of air traffic controllers. In response, Keesler ran the ATC school in three shifts. Mine was the 6:00 PM till midnight shift. At the appointed time, my class would meet up in front of our barracks and march across the airfield to a converted hanger that housed the classrooms. There were several courses; each one lasting about a week and acquainting us with certain aspects of the job. As I recall, the first block was titled "Weather." From there, we went through instructional blocks on aircraft recognition and flight characteristics, Federal Air Regulations, Airport Traffic Control, Mobile radar units (known as GCA Units) and Approach Control. I may have forgotten some but it's been a lot of years since then.

GCA Units at ATC School, Keesler AFB

One day, sometime around my fourth week of class, the trouble caught up with me. I was called into the lead instructor's office. My grades were a perfect reflection of my off duty activities, which never included studying. That's because one of my barracks buddies had a car and that car was our means of touring the off-limits bars after class. We had to be careful though. Bed check occurred around 1:30 AM. So, after some guy with a flashlight came around and peeked into our rooms, we all tiptoed out of the barracks, met up at the car and headed for town. I should have noticed my ATC career disappearing in the rear view mirror of that big Chevy Impala but was always too caught up in the excitement of what might happen next.

The lead instructor was a chubby, red faced Tech Sergeant who didn't look much older than I was. He could turn a phrase though; describing a sad mental picture of my future. It was a bleak picture that included failure and peremptory reassignment to one of the Air Force's more servile and, very likely, disgusting jobs. There, I'd serve out the remainder of my enlistment with no hope of promotion. In other words; back to square one again.

I had indeed driven the bus over a cliff. Or maybe I was the second steer in line at a slaughterhouse and suddenly realized I was about to become dead meat. I gulped, groveled and grew penitent. I pleaded and promised. For an 18 year old kid with low self-esteem, very little sense of responsibility and no vision for the future, the threat of a long fall from a short career was just what I needed. Staring, once again, into the face of failure was a strong motivator. I went back to my barracks and began studying for the next test; knowing I wouldn't be seeing much more of my drinking buddies and even less of those buxom Biloxi barflies. I wouldn't be seeing much more of those nauseating, daily hangovers either.

Graduation from ATC school brought more anxiety.Where to next? Vietnam? I wondered; would they send a controller with no actual ATC experience to Vietnam? Then I realized that most of the people over there, the ones pulling triggers and dropping bombs, had no prior experience either.

Marched into another auditorium with another hard-assed sergeant holding a clipboard, I was about to get an answer. Wherever I ended up; I would arrive there as a new kid, with only a superficial understanding of what air traffic control was all about. I knew I'd be working in a real control tower though, with a crew of real controllers. Everyone would watch me carefully, train me candidly and eventually evaluate my fitness for the work. On the day I picked ATC off the Air Force jobs list, I had no idea what I was getting into - but things were a little different now. Now, at least I was smart enough to know how little I knew. I had also passed the ATC course; a fact that boosted my self-confidence level from zero-sum up to some. This would be another beginning for me; another step back to square one and another step in my long adventure.

I've since made a lot of trips to square one and back. By now, I know the way without some guy with a clipboard shouting orders. Just don't ask me for directions. Eventually, we all find our own way.

© NLA Factor, 2013

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

A Matter Of Time

There is an old Arab proverb: "Man fears time, but time fears the pyramids." Personally, I don't think either of us has anything to be afraid of. Time always wins. The pyramids are shrinking and will one day be gone without a trace. It just takes time. As for man? I guess I'd be more fearful of time coming to a stop than I would of it marching on past that "moment." What moment? Well, it might have happened when someone placed the last stone on a pyramid or the last stitch in the fabric of a biplane. It was the moment we actually believed we had reached the apex of an endeavor. 

Fortunately, time does pass, evolution creeps onward and new ideas make the old ones obsolete. Without that forward movement,we might still be building pyramids and plying the skies in biplanes. But just imagine how the guy in this biplane must have felt as he cruised past the great pyramids of Giza. He'd reached the apex. He was on top of the world ~ or so he thought. Everything goes obsolete and comes to an end ~ whether it's the the plains of Giza, the planes of modern aviation or just plain old people. They'll all vanish. It's just a matter of time.

There were days in life when I wished it could go on forever. Everything. But somehow the passage of time brings an awakening; an insight heretofore unavailable. Just as we may have to pick our way through miles of rock to reach the gold; we might have to pick our way through many years to reach the understanding that nothing lasts forever, nor should it.

But there is one thing that, for me, remains timeless. That would be my love of all things aviation. It seems to have been with me forever, but when did it begin? I don't think I could turn my clock back far enough to find out. It was long before I would call myself a pilot or an air traffic controller. It was many years before I'd reached the first of several dead-ends in my life. Perhaps you can recall that day when your sky got a lot bigger and the world got a little smaller. Although I can't remember when it began for me, I do remember when it really took off. . .

I finally landed that FAA controller job I'd been waiting for. Everything was coming together! I could feel it ~ especially after the long years when everything seemed to be coming apart. These were the high times of forward momentum, fueled by surging self-confidence and optimism. I was gaining speed, checking off my career goals and only looking back to marvel at the distance I'd covered. How naive I was. As time passed, I should have been savvy enough to be looking out for those who were running up behind me with swords, scimitars or who knows; maybe even shish kabob skewers. But all that turmoil and treachery wouldn't catch up with me till much later. In the beginning though, it was all about air traffic control and the people I knew who made it happen. We had common goals, common adversaries and were so close that you couldn't have held a dollar bill between us.

I was lucky to have worked with the best there were ~ in every sense of the word. One of the key parts of the job was the teamwork it required. As anyone who's worked at it knows, air traffic control (ATC) can't be done alone. It's not a solo venture. The most successful shifts were the ones where you went home shaking your head and thinking about the controllers who helped get you through it. If, on the other hand, you headed home feeling like you personally just knocked one into the bleachers, you may have actually struck out. I don't know but I hope today's ATC game is still played that way.

A superior shift was made of many individual successes that, when added up, amounted to an illusion of effortlessness. It took an artist who also knew the magic and could do the trick. For example; tweaking airspeeds and issuing a few artful vectors to fit an extra aircraft into the approach sequence, where there didn't really seem to be enough room, could take pressure off the holding patterns. A center controller who accepted early handoffs so the departures didn't have to stop climbing was ultimately helping the tower keep the departure queue moving. The Local Controller who didn't complain about a tight arrival interval and, in fact, got the departures out in spite of it made for happy approach controllers. If you could just watch such things, without ever hearing the radio transmissions or interphone calls necessary to make it work, you might think it was easy. But this wasn't the "pulling rabbits out of hats" kind of trick.

Watching the controllers who could do the magic was always a treat. The only thing better was learning how to do it myself.

Of course there were also times of defeat and discouragement but we all have them, don't we? Anyway, I was cocksure those times wouldn't last and, somehow, they never did. Besides, there were usually more things to learn from a single setback than there was from a single success. I guess I always tended to analyze my failures more closely than I did my victories. As an air traffic controller, it kept me fairly busy. Still, life on the boards challenged, sustained and satisfied me for many years. Then, one day, I must have experienced that "moment" referred to earlier. I felt an urgency, like I was late for an important appointment. I needed to move on ~ but where to? Was I really embarking on a career path or was this more like pinball, where I'd simply bounce and bump around until someone yelled "Tilt!" and the sign said "Game Over?" Only time would tell.

I have to say though; moving on in this material world took me, far too quickly, through many situations where I should have lingered longer and enjoyed more. At the time, I guess I didn't want to be stuck there forever. One place I should have stayed at least a little longer was among the controller workforce. I still remember what Pete, our Area Manager, said when I told him I was thinking of bidding on a staff job. "Why the shit do you want to do that? You've already got the best job in the Agency!" He was right, of course. Later that day, he banished me to our most intricate radar sector to train our most argumentative developmental. Pete had a peculiar style. It was okay though. I needed a fresh headache and it actually helped me make up my mind about that staff job.

Whenever I reflect on my days of working traffic, even with those inherent headaches, it still gives me a good feeling. I'd run out of adjectives before I could adequately describe it. But I moved on because it was time and there was an opportunity. You know what they say; "Time waits for no man?" Well I can tell you now that opportunity is far less patient.

Moving on, I found that staff and Management work wasn't nearly as gratifying as any of those "superior" shifts I completed as a controller. So, what else is new? Like I said earlier, the passage of time brings an awakening. The facts were that a controller could get something pivotal, propitious or profitable done in moments. Instant gratification. Meanwhile, over in the gladiator arena euphemistically referred to as Management, self-actualization remained illusive. Whenever I finally got something significant accomplished, it could have taken weeks, months or even years. Oh, and this was when I became aware of those guys at my back with the swords and such. Again, I began thinking there were more important things to do elsewhere. I hoped there'd at least be a less duplicitous bunch of people. I was ready to move beyond another of those moments in time.

So anyway ~ life is good and yours should last as long as you want it to. But one of many things I learned is that life, spacious and special as it is, should not go on without end. Immortality is a fool's dream. The ceaseless cycle of good times and bad taught me that immortality would simply mean being stuck here forever. Talk about a fate worse than death. Fortunately, we'll all move on one day. At the moment, I'm far from ready. But it's just a matter of time.

© NLA Factor, 2012

In a word:

Life as an Air Force controller was pretty simple once I learned the rules. I got to work on time, kept my hair senselessly short, my uniform pressed and my shoes polished. I did what I was told to do, when I was told to do it (a new and rather impractical concept for me) and I never questioned my superiors. The rules didn't bother me and the rules didn't change ~ ever. Once I got used to it all, life was easy. I was now an air traffic controller! I worked in a control tower where I did my eight hour shift watching incredible airplanes doing awesome things on and above the airfield. I even had an entirely new vocabulary that included such terms as "afterburners, hung ordnance" and "formation takeoff." In my opinion, it was the coolest job ever and I felt lucky to be there. After all, it was only a few months prior that I could have been a poster boy for dead end jobs.

Initially, the Air Force wanted to make me into an aircraft mechanic. A mistake like that would have put my life on an entirely different trajectory and, given my mechanical aptitude, would also have left the Air Force with a lot of broken airplanes rusting away on the ramp. Besides that; anyone who ever looked out a control tower window to see those aircraft mechanics working down on the flight line during snow storms, sleet or sweltering heat knew where the better place to work was.

Controllers lead a relatively privileged life around the base. Since we worked shifts we were exempted from most of the crap that other enlisted airmen had to put up with. Work details, guard duty, parades and inspections were for the other chumps in the squadron. We controllers just did our shifts and were left on our own the rest of the time. That time was usually spent off base; going to one of the many nearby bars with my teammates, getting drunk and amusing the local women. Throw in some occasional sleep and you'd have a pretty good snapshot of my life. I was so young in those days, easily influenced, eager for acceptance and wholly high on everything.

A couple floors below the tower cab was our head office. This was where the Flight Facilities Officer sat, along with a couple of senior NCOs who were directly responsible for tower and Radar operations. Those two guys were the real forces to be reckoned with if ever there were problems. The officer, a baby-faced First Lieutenant named John, seemed either perpetually bored or stricken with hemorrhoids. He'd graduated college with an engineering degree, joined the Air Force and was immediately put in charge of an air traffic control facility. It made no sense ~ to him or us. Most times we'd find him at his desk, talking on the telephone, reading magazines or just staring out the window. It wasn’t much of a job ~ unless Bob the FAA Air Traffic Representative happened to be around. We never knew for sure but it seemed that Bob outranked everyone. Even Lieutenant John tried to look busy when he was around.

Bob, or the "Atrep" as he was referred to, was an FAA employee; the only FAA employee on the entire base. At one time there were lots of Atreps; each was assigned to a military air traffic facility, where they oversaw operations and acted as a liaison between their military hosts and the FAA. It was a much coveted and difficult job to get. Difficult because no one in his right mind ever gave up an Atrep job until they retired. It was that good.

Bob was rarely in his office and practically never came to the tower cab unless there was a Wing exercise, major overseas deployment, in-flight emergency or if he found out his boss in the Regional Office was stopping in. He'd also have to be on hand to administer CTO (Control Tower Operator) tests and sign off on newly certified controllers. Most times though, Bob was out playing golf with the Base Commander or hanging out at the Officer's Club. During those rare appearances in the tower, he'd tell tales about his ATC career, the people he knew and the airplanes he'd worked. Most of the guys on my crew, Vietnam vets and career Air Force controllers, were skeptical or indifferent to Bob’s rambling recollections. Not me. I was twenty years old and completely riveted by his commentaries on big airliners, bustling terminal buildings and busy tarmacs. For the first time, a vision of my future began to take shape. I finally had a goal in life but needed to finish my military hitch first. Getting into the FAA probably wouldn't be easy but it would surely be worth it. I loved being an Air Force controller but was sure the job would be even better in the FAA.

We'd all heard the stories of Air Force controllers who got discharged one day and went to work in an FAA facility the next. We heard they could make upward to $12,000 a year as FAA controllers! But you know...as an Airman Second Class standing watch in a small control tower ~ looking out at the nearly three years remaining on my enlistment? Getting a controller job with the FAA was nothing more than a pipe dream.

After being discharged, I rushed off immediately to take the Civil Service test for Air Traffic Control ~ only to find the FAA wasn't hiring. That started me off on a long odyssey through several jobs about which I knew very little and cared even less. Time passed. I become depressed and disengaged. Persistent memories of those years spent as a controller only made things worse. Although not exactly in Dire Straits, I did have to "move those refrigerators" and color TVs to get by. Never say fate doesn't have a great sense of humor though. No sooner did I finally land an interesting job that paid me something other than a pittance and a promise when the FAA called. Grabbing the ring, I soon found myself checking into Big Time Tower as a trainee; where I would come to realize that life as an FAA controller wasn’t as easy to understand as my Air Force life had been.

Unlike the Air Force, life as an FAA controller was not so simple. Rules changed, it seemed, every time I opened the "Read and Initial" binder. Gone was the constancy of military life. My world was now a large gray area; where issues and edicts could be debated ad infinitum. I could wear whatever I wanted to work, as long as I maintained "a neat, businesslike appearance." Nobody cared how long my hair was and, for the first time in my controller career, individual goals and ideologies were permissible. The coalescence and lockstep compliance required of a military unit was not applicable here. Open conflict with superiors, although officially discouraged, was tolerated and widely practiced by many of the journeymen. Even the Supervisors got into it but usually fought their battles behind closed doors.

There was a union, who’s job it seemed, was to highlight management’s incompetence, provide cover for clumsy controllers, ensure everyone understood just how oppressed and underpaid we were and have monthly meetings at a nearby bar ~ where we'd usually end up getting drunk and amusing the local women. Okay ~ so there was at least one similarity between the Air Force and the FAA. There were union Contracts, new and old, containing sundry Articles, the meanings or intent of which were often debated ad infinitum. This often resulted in grievances; usually denied, which could lead to arbitration and possibly another interpretation of the Article in question. It was stuff that ole' Bob the Atrep never talked about and couldn't even have imagined.

At first, I didn’t have the time to really appreciate the sharp contrasts between the Air Force and FAA's working environment. On my first day at Big Time, I was handed a copy of the point sixty-five, along with several Change Notices that needed to be posted. Then came the letters of agreement, Facility Standard Operating Procedures Manual, Emergency Operations Manual, copies of all applicable SIDs and approach plates, the Airport Operations Manual and, of course, a list of nearby restaurants that delivered to the tower. The Training Officer pointed to a couple of large loose-leaf binders filled with Facility Orders, Notices and Memos. Required reading.

I took it all home and dropped it on the coffee table. Familiarization, memorization and successful completion of the periodic written exams would be my ticket out of the Training Department and into OJT ~ a place where I'd actually talk to airplanes again. I opened a beer and started to read. Wading through the reams of reference material was a pure pleasure to me. My "pipe dream" of becoming an FAA controller was coming true. I was making good money, or so I thought at the time. If I made it through the training program, there would be even more money in my pocket. Coming in from a lengthy run of minimum wage jobs with no benefits; I felt like a lottery winner. Once again, I thought I had the coolest job ever and I felt lucky to be there.

The Training Department, however, was apparently some kind of "cocoon" that kept me insulated from the constant sawing and hammering of labor/management relations. Every now and then the local PATCO President would stop in to brief me and the other trainees on what was happening. I was astonished to learn just how bad things were out there "on the boards." Outside my little cocoon, a tempest of grievances, Unfair Labor Practices and Unsatisfactory Condition Reports raged on endlessly. We were encouraged to stay alert, support PATCO and push its initiatives. I was confused. I couldn't reconcile what I was hearing with my fond memories of Air Force ATC. Could the career I'd been craving all these years really be so bad? It would take PATCO to eventually help me understand the dynamics of what was going on here. Meanwhile, I just nodded my head stupidly. Well; I was so young back then, easily influenced and eager for acceptance.

It took a while but I finally got out of the Training Department and into OJT. These were happy and humbling times. I quickly learned that hotshot Air Force controller of the late '60s was now an idiot who knew nothing about air traffic control. I was a Gong Show reject among the true artistes. As promised, I put my shoulder to the wheel whenever I could and, along with the other PATCO members, pushed the union's campaigns against management. What I eventually learned was; no matter how hard one pushes against an obstacle, it may never move. That's not so bad though. The real problems begin when the obstacle starts pushing back at you. So it was with our PATCO Local and facility management.

It didn't take long for the union to convince me of just how bad things were. Looking back, I see it mostly as a self-fulfilling prophesy. For every problem I was told about, I would see at least two examples per day. Every time PATCO hassled and nit-picked at management, the reaction became more severe. The more defensive and unreasonable they appeared, the more we hassled and nit-picked at them. Within a few months I felt myself becoming disgruntled, frustrated and irate but I wasn't really sure why. I was progressing normally through the training program and should have been satisfied, if not exuberant. But the constant droning of dissent was inescapable and seemed to suck all the joy out of my success at the job.

My descent into full discontent took place at a glacial pace. It was a slow leak in my morale that eventually left me deflated and disconsolate. Having once believed I had the coolest job ever; only to learn it was mere drudgery took a while for me to accept. Did I feel lucky to be here? Well yes ~ but only when I was controlling airplanes. Once unplugged from my console I couldn't avoid hearing that sawing and hammering again. Oh there were still those loud monthly union meeting/beer parties. Lots of fun but the next day always brought back a hangover of cynicism and resentment toward management. It was a situation that would take me years of listening, questioning and self-scrutiny to climb out of.

Then one day I thought of those mentally disabled guys I used to work with back in my department store janitor days. It wasn't so long ago and yet I'd completely forgotten how humble and happy they were with their work. Back then I was just marching in place till a real opportunity like the FAA came along. But to those guys, cleaning floors and bathrooms was their career and they were proud of it. It was probably still their career and, if so, they'd still be coming to work with that "lottery winner" attitude. What would they say of my current situation, salary and attitude? Once again, just like back then, I began feeling ashamed of myself. Was I the underlying cause of my own discontent? Was I simply making my personal situation worse? Was it possible to tune out the caterwauling negativity and just enjoy the job I loved? In a word: yes!


© NLA Factor, 2011

The Touch

The Weather these last several weeks was spectacular so I spent most of my days outside. With their spotless blue skies, balanced breezes and cool temperatures; these were the kinds of days when I never really minded being sent to the tower. Images and impressions remain, even though time eventually dilutes the adrenalin.

There was the sprawling airport to scan, rife with its hundreds of small and sizable dramas taking place all around. Dozens of airplanes could regularly be seen rushing along the runways and taxiways, slowing or speeding up in an effort to keep their promise with company timetables. Jam-packed traffic patterns raged and roiled around the airfield till you felt like you were in the eye of a hurricane. The immense energy of it all rocked and rattled the tower cab so relentlessly that, if you didn't hang onto the console with both hands, you could be thrown to the floor. Or so it seemed. All the while, a wide cityscape leaned against the distant sky like an angular mountain range; our backdrop to the continuing spectacle of Big Time Airport.Nah, I never minded a tower assignment on days like these. It wasn't just another day of rubber on and rubber off the runways. It was a sensation ~ and whether your option was terminal or enroute, the airport was where every controller's shift really began and ended. You just had to see it to believe it.

When weather was this good, Big Time would usually be on a favored runway configuration. There'd be no restrictions in or out so Approach would be cramming their traffic into the airport on visuals. Departures flowed freely in all directions ~ if your timing was good enough to squeeze them off between arrivals. The tower Supervisor could usually be found pacing around behind the local controller; glancing at the BRITE display, glaring at the stagnating departure queue and growling at his TRACON counterpart over spacing on the finals. The TRACON Supe would mutter something like "Let me know when the approach end goes IFR from rubber smoke and we'll back off a little." Us controllers would just hang on, hustle our traffic and hurl those great, good natured barbs at each other.

There was a comforting climate of normalcy to it all. We were busy all right but we were busy working airplanes rather than working out SWAP routes, calling for releases or emptying out holding patterns. It was an indefatigable exhilaration instead of the trying tedium that often awaited an incoming crew at shift change. It was pure, unadulterated air traffic control and the application of separation standards never felt so good. These were the days when there was no better job than ours; when the idea of leaving the boards for a staff position rarely occurred to anyone. This job was simply too much fun.

But some people were thinking about it. Who knows? It might have been the guy working Final who, when asked, would build me a gap between his arrivals so I could get a heavy jet off. Maybe it was the gal working Ground Control who'd ask if she could take a few departures to one of the designated arrival runways. It might even have been the Departure Controller who'd call me at Local when I had a long line of planes to go and say "Just flush 'em! I'll spread 'em out in the air! What ever became of those people?

A lot of them, like me, eventually ended up in Management. It took some of us longer to get there than others but, if that's where you wanted to be, you'd eventually get your chance. Far more important than how long it took was how the change affected those who made the transition. A few fled back to the boards after a year or so; disillusioned and disappointed by the realities of staff work and the "other world" atmosphere of the office. Some who stepped away from their headsets ultimately revealed an uncanny knack for transforming nearly everything they touched. Sadly, it wasn't the "Midas touch" kind of transformation that might have added value to the facility's operation or its staff or even the air traffic profession as a whole. It was more of a "minus touch," where the things they became involved in were somehow diminished ~ infected by arrogance, apathy and eventual conflict.

What outrageous alchemy is it that can turn a principled person perfidious or a masterful controller into a maladroit manager? The answer can be found somewhere in this seemingly innocuous little thing known as career progression. I think its an unregistered intoxicant. Some people I've known could handle a lot of it and remain upright, walking tall and leaving a trail of respect in their wake. Others fell quickly onto their bellies and began a career-long slither down the serpentine path that overlaps the line between right and wrong.

I wrote a variation on the issue several months back in a Post titled "Stepping Up Or Stepping Out." I want to know how someone you've trusted and relied on for years can change so profoundly when they're given a little authority. How does someone, who would once do almost anything to reduce your supply of stress, suddenly become its willing purveyor? There's something about this that always intrigued me. Take my old carpool buddy and teammate Richie for example.

Richie was a phenomenal controller who came to Big Time in the early seventies from another busy airdrome. He brought with him a depth of experience, a solid grasp of the rules and an ease of application that inspired many; especially the trainees such as myself. He ended up on my team where we became fast friends. As an OJT instructor, he would share gem after gem from what seemed to be a bottomless bag of tricks. To him I owed much for my relatively early Facility Rating. Beers after work eventually lead to a long social relationship between us and the wives. We even served together as officers in the PATCO Local; simultaneously shaking our fists at facility management.

There was, however, an unseen engine driving Richie ~ a latent force that no one saw at first. It was insecurity. If you listened carefully and watched closely you might have recognized the signs. Richie was skillfully glib and, even as a controller, would exercise his gift for gab on anyone who would listen. A consummate glad hander; he could charm the wits away from the unwary. Richie wanted...no...he probably needed everyone to like him. I wasn't perceptive enough to see it until it was far too late. I didn't have the time anyway. Nobody did; especially as the seventies were coming to an end. We were all too busy holding onto those quaking control consoles and fighting to keep a picture that was shaking apart before our very eyes. At that time; nobody really cared about Richie and, in spite of the perpetual PATCO rhetoric extolling unity, nobody honestly cared about anyone but themselves.

Richie started up the career ladder ahead of me; rung by rung. First came a staff specialist position in the front office. Although most were disappointed by what he did and did not accomplish during that time, I crossed it off as a situation beyond his control. We were, after all, dealing with a well entrenched and genetically stubborn autocracy in the management ranks that fancied itself qualified to create, consecrate and carry out everything from dress codes to traffic flows.

When Richie came to the tower or TRACON for a little currency time: I noticed some subtle differences in his behavior. There were still the smiling slaps on the back and the well aimed barbs thrown at other controllers when traffic permitted. But there was also an obvious tension in his voice when things got busy. Irritation greeted the ear when you needed to coordinate with a busy Richie. Gone was the steady, self-assured voice of confidence. Gone was the unsolicited offer of assistance when you needed it most. In their place came the terse irritability, manic impatience and refusal to get involved in another sector's control problems. He'd just spend his hour or two on positions then retreat to his office. This I crossed off as the consequences of a staff job. When you don't work airplanes every day, you lose your timing, situational awareness, an instinctive recall of the commonplace, like frequency and landline numbers, sector boundaries, critical provisions in a letter of agreement. In short; you lose your edge.

Richie's staff assignment was followed by his long anticipated return to the floor as a supervisor; where the "unseen engine" I mentioned became more evident. He was an excitable supervisor with an invasive attitude toward the operation. Rather than let the collective common sense and wisdom of the workforce guide his shift, he had to put his "touch" on everything. It was an early sign of the evolving loss of trust he held in us. Through it all we remained friends but, because of schedule conflicts, saw less and less of each other. He eventually left Big Time for an opportunity in the Regional Office. That's where his "minus touch" gradually manifested itself for all to see.

Richie achieved great success in the FAA, rising to heights that should have made me proud to say I knew him way back when. But I was not proud of my old friend. After I left Big Time and moved on with my own career, Richie would occasionally visit my facility in his capacity as Regional Royalty. He was nearly unrecognizable. If he ever deigned to acknowledge my presence it would be with a simple nod in my general direction.

My old friend was looking more and more like the enemy we once fought against together. In time, our relationship evolved from ammicable to adversarial. Was it because he knew that I well remembered the Richie of fifteen years prior? Can there be a danger in knowing too much about someone's past? Can this be perceived as a threat? If that person is rather high up in the organization; you bet!

The last time I saw Richie he seemed distracted and unhappy. In my eyes, he'd become a Judas to the profession and those who lived it. He came to our facility that day to put his "touch" on a particular initiative we had undertaken ~ a minus touch.

I learned long ago that unhappy controllers never really get any happier when they become management officials and that unhappy management officials can quickly scatter their discontent across those working below them. Unease is infectious; regardless of who the carrier is. I always hoped to see a positive change take place before I retired although I never held my breath. I would have liked to hold someone else's though ~ maybe Richie's.


© NLA Factor, 2010