Quite Rightly

Returning to our regularly scheduled programming . . . . 

We hear a lot about the black boxes whenever an airplane meets with an untimely end. Like the inscrutable Oracle of Delphi, these things speak in utter gibberish but somehow bring clarity to those who are esoterically inclined. Knowledge bestowed by the black box often provides insight about what went wrong and why. It's a useful tool that offers great learning opportunities but it sometimes makes me wonder. What if I'd come with a black box? It could have revealed the "how" and "why" of every idiotic thing I've ever done in life. The big question is; would I have learned anything from it? I sure learned a lesson or two from the absence of a personal black box. For example; if an event is not recorded in some way, it's anyone's guess what really took place. I also learned that guessing never helps. 

I think it was sometime in March in the late Seventies and the day was starting off badly. I knew we'd have to stay 'on our toes' during this shift, never imagining we would end up on our ass instead. Clouds, just a couple of hundred feet above the treetops, rolled across the area; dumping what seemed to be an interminable rainfall on the city. Wind gusts jabbed at my old Ford Fairlane from the left and right as me and my two other carpool fools made our way down the Interstate toward Big Time.

We were still miles from the airport but I could already smell the noxious odor of a rotten day. There were no thunderstorms out there but I knew this would be a day marked by high winds, low ceilings, heavy rain and headaches. It was the kind of day when some guys I knew might climb out of bed, peek outside, pick up the phone and call in sick. One of our teammates did just that. No surprise there. It happened to be our carpool buddy Joe; who was chronically averse to a mixture of bad weather and air traffic control.

On days like this, one less controller was like having a missing molar. We could still take a bite out of the traffic but chewing it up like we usually did was difficult and even a bit painful. To begin with; we had a facility management who guarded their overtime budget like it was the family jewels. This meant there probably wouldn't be anyone called in to replace Joe. Most of our trainees were only tower qualified and nearly useless in the radar room. That left the journeymen controllers to spend the entire shift rotating endlessly through busiest radar sectors. Like a match head; we'd burn brightly at first but, as the shift ground on, we would eventually fade and fizzle. Essential tools like awareness, efficiency, judgment and patience would dissipate like the smoke from Bobby's cigar (you could still smoke 'em at work). In their absence, intolerance and irritability might seep in to fill the void and things could get a little sloppy. Delays would grow, tempers would rise and we'd start bitching about everything. All combined; it left us fighting the foul weather, both outside and inside the facility.

We were pretty sure our carpool buddy Joe wasn't physically ill. He was known for occasionally sparing himself the stress of a bad weather day. We referred to his particular malady as "Ceiling Sickness." Me and my riders did wonder what his official excuse was this time. I mean; if your going to take a mental health day, you should, at least, try to be a little creative when you call in. On becoming a Supervisor, I'd sometimes hear a truly epic excuse that I would buy like half price beer. Other times, the excuses were so prosaic that I'd sooner buy paper napkins made from recycled toilet tissue. Joe was never a very imaginative guy. We all figured he was home, watching daytime TV with his usual "headache" or "upset stomach." I wondered; why stay home and deal with such things by yourself when you can go to work and deal with them along with fifteen other guys?

I punched in the combination to our security door and we went to work. It turned out the airport had been below landing minimums for the last two hours, so 7:00 AM in the TRACON seemed more like 5:00 PM. Arrivals were spinning at the outer fixes, phones were ringing, strip bays overflowed and worried Supervisors paced around nervously behind the radar sectors. Today; everything in the air would be on instrument flight plans; including those planes trying to get into or out of the many uncontrolled airports scattered around the region. Normally, we have little awareness of what goes on at those small airfields situated in hidden valleys, behind hillsides and other areas that our radar's eye would never see. Air traffic usually comes and goes from those places under VFR conditions. We don't even know they're out there unless they call us for traffic advisories. IFR days are different. If the pilots needed to fly and had an instrument rating, they'd call us.

This morning they were phoning relentlessly, looking for IFR clearances. There were a couple of VFR towers in our area and they too had to call us to get clearances for their departures. All these calls came in at our TRACON Data position  On days like this, the two controllers working there would most likely be going through Hell. TRACON Data wasn't actually Hell but, after an hour or so, any noticeable differences seemed unimportant. It was like trying to determine the significant difference between slipping off a roof as opposed to being thrown off. The pain is the same.

Working the Data position on days like this always made me feel like I was being chased by a mob of angry clocks; waving their hands wildly and making me run like I was out of time. Everything was urgent and everyone impatient. I could barely keep up with the demands. The constant chaos could wear you down. Data was the most "physical" of all TRACON positions. It would be a couple hours spent tearing flight strips off the printers and running them to the radar sectors, answering phone calls from everywhere, coordinating IFR releases for satellite departures and, of course, complaining about everything.

Today's Flight Data staff included two trainees who were only certified in the tower and TRACON data. Unfamiliar with how the radar room actually functioned, they got by on a superficial knowledge and a narrowly defined set of duties. These were like the guys holding those revolving "Slow" or "Stop" sign you see guiding traffic at road construction sites. They knew nothing of highway engineering, heavy equipment operation or line painting.  Just "Slow" and "Stop." It's a simple job but the consequences for failure can be serious.

A fellow teammate named Min Yan sat at his radar sector. Min had been raised in the city's "China Town" section and was the only controller I ever knew who had a Masters Degree in music. Always cool and fully focused; Min worked his traffic with the consistency of a metronome. His operating initials were "MY"and he terminated every landline call with them. Not by properly stating "Mike Yankee" but with "Mellow Yellow" - a sobriquet we all referred to him as. Keep in mind; these were the days before the blight of political correctness infected the Federal Government. We could call an Asian guy Mellow Yellow without fear of being sanctioned. Whenever we did, Min would usually smile, nod his head in time with whatever song was currently playing inside it and reply "Quite rightly."

Today's Flight Data staff included Ed and George; two trainees who were excellent tower controllers but at TRACON data they were like fugitives on foreign soil - lost and running for their lives. Nearly under water but struggling in a most mettlesome manner to stay afloat, they rushed across the floor; stepping over headset wires and dodging Supervisors to deliver their strips. One of the strips was for Min. It was a satellite departure waiting for his IFR release from one of our small, uncontrolled satellite airports. George set it down next to Min, who was too busy handling a flurry of Big Time arrivals to even look at the departure's flight plan. Without taking his eye off the radar scope, he apparently muttered "Hold for release." Min couldn't let the guy go because he'd already cleared an arrival for the VOR Approach into that airport, terminated radar service and was now waiting for the pilot to cancel his IFR flight plan. What George heard among the cacophony of a busy TRACON was not recorded and therefore unverifiable.

As Min's arrival descended into that unseen void below our radar coverage; George returned to the Flight Data position, picked up the phone and did what he thought he heard Min instruct. He released the waiting departure. The first fix on that flight's route was a VOR that sat about ten miles from the airport. Unfortunately, this was the same VOR from which another flight was now commencing an approach. Both pilots were probably caught up in the clouds and heavy rain. Although our radar's eye could see neither; they were both well within radio reception. Then Min received a completely unexpected call from the departing flight, reporting; "We're out of two thousand for three."

From where I sat in the radar room, I could only see "Mellow Yellow" suddenly stand up at his sector; arms raised like an orchestra conductor. Now red-faced, he looked as though he was trying to swallow a sponge.  I couldn't hear what he was saying but clearly he was upset; which, until this moment, was something we'd never seen. He tried to call the arriving flight but it was too late.  The pilot had already switched his radio to the airport's Unicom frequency.

Only later did the rest of the team learn what had happened and that somehow, the two planes, on collision courses, had passed each other without suffering so much as a paint scrape.  It truly is, as they say, a very big sky.  We all figured the guy on the approach must have descended to his minimum descent altitude (MDA) as soon as he could (a good move in any case) and the departure must have climbed like a homesick angel to get out of the bad weather.  We'll never know for sure.

We'll also never know for sure exactly what was said between "MY" and George the Flight data guy. Their verbal exchange, critical as it was, had not been recorded. Nearly everything a controller says while working is recorded. Whether it's to another controller via landline or to pilots; it's all retrievable. But one thing that wasn't recorded back then was the open verbal exchanges between control room personnel. Normally, this was considered a good thing because much of what we said was either scurrilous, inflammatory or insensitive and could easily have gotten us fired. In this particular case though, would a recording have been as helpful as the little black box found among the ruins of a fallen airplane? Would it have provided a learning opportunity? I say "Quite rightly."

© NLA Factor, 2014

How To Raise Hair On A Controller

Learning to trust others takes time and can be difficult. I don't understand all the dynamics of how trust happens but I'm sure it's one of life's building blocks. I also know that trust is a requisite resource that controllers must be able to draw from if they're going to succeed. They need to develop a trusting relationship with coworkers pretty quickly because there are too many obstacles in the business that cannot be overcome individually. It's never long before you need help from someone you can count on.  

Apparently, learning to trust one's self is an even lengthier and more complicated process. In some cases, it might take a lifetime. It is, however, an essential tool of the controller's trade. Call it self confidence if you like but I'll tell you this. If you can figure out where it's being dished up and are planning on becoming a controller; you'd better go back for a second helping. Thinking about all this reminded me of a particular evening shift I worked long ago . . . 

I never knew a fat FAA Supervisor. Watching our TRACON Supe that evening, you'd understand why. He was a man in perpetual motion, burning his calories and shoe leather at a steady rate. He'd spent the last 90 minutes or more pacing back and forth behind the Arrival Sectors, leaning over shoulders to point at specific targets on their radar displays then rushing off to consult with the guy working Final Control. Periodically, he'd sprint up to the Area Manager's desk to report on our arrival delay status. It was only about two hours into our shift and several team members were already exhausted. I don't know . . . maybe they were worn out when they signed in for this, our third evening shift. One of the two main arrival runways had been closed for weeks due to a re-paving project. All the landing planes were being funneled onto one runway instead of the usual two or three. They say good things don't come easy. In these conditions, neither do the airplanes.

The day shift crew looked worn out when we got here. Holding patterns began filling up around noon and some mildly IFR weather meant the small, propeller-driven planes that normally landed on a shorter VFR runway had to share the same instrument approach the big guys were using. It gets tricky. Put a DC-10 behind a Cessna Skymaster (we called the "suck and blow Cessna" because of its front and back propellers) on the ILS and you'll need to start off with about ten miles of spacing if you hope to maintain legal separation till it touches down. You have to make it work. Tell the Cessna they're being followed by a DC-10. Ask them to keep their speed up as much as feasible. Ask them to land long so as to reach the first exit taxiway quickly. Then ask the jet to reduce to, ohh, maybe stall speed? Well, something close to it anyway. Rinse and repeat over the course of eight hours and its easy to see why the morning crew was beat. Now it was our turn.

When my carpool buddies and me walked into the TRACON, somebody told me to relieve Departure Control. That was a good way to ease into what would probably be a crazy eight hours or so. There weren't a lot of planes waiting to go because many of our future departures were still hung up in holding patterns. I watched the approach sectors. Because of mounting arrival delays, the tower supervisor had given Final Control carte blanche to run traffic as tight as he could.

The early part of the shift was going as well as any of us could expect for prevailing conditions. I turned another departure over to the Center, sat back in my chair and admired the Final controller's artistry. He was jamming planes into the airport like a madman. Miles away, other flights were slipping out the bottom of their holding patterns and banking toward the downwind leg. Everyone else in the stack was dropped down a thousand feet and the Center would clear another one into the top of the pattern. You could have set the whole thing to music.

I was relieved from Departure Control after a couple of hours and went off to the break room for coffee. On return to the radar room, Pete told me to relieve Tommy on the East Arrival Sector. It looked like I'd finally have to do some work.

It was getting dark outside. I imagined the airfield lighting was being turned on and the tower crew would see all the orange "Caution" lights blinking along the closed runway. Big Time's East Arrival fix was always pretty active. There were several planes on vectors toward the Final Sector and the holding pattern was stacked and spinning. Tommy had it all under his thumb but, as usual, was working without a handoff man. There were handoff positions next to all the radar sectors but rarely enough controllers around to staff them. A good handoff controller could monitor the radar sector, mark strips and handle most of the coordination between sectors and other facilities. This relieved the radar controller from a lot of workload and potentially dangerous distractions. I listened carefully to the position relief briefing; scanning the flight strips to see who was holding at what altitude. Everything matched what Tommy was saying to me, so I settled in and started working the sector.

Everything looked good. Final had taken the first two handoffs and in a moment, I would flash the next flight at him. I had laddered all the planes in my holding pattern down a thousand feet and was just waiting for the floor Supervisor to tell me how many more I could run toward Final. The number would be based on how many flights the other Arrival Sectors had off their holding fixes, how many planes the Final controller was already working and how the spacing on final was looking. The Supe would figure it all out. Working traffic during these extended holding periods wasn't really so tough as long as everyone stayed on top of things. After a while, you kinda fell into the rhythm of it. This evening; it was all good!

Actually, it was more like cruising down the Interstate, car radio howling rock and roll music, and never noticing that huge pothole up ahead until you found yourself standing along the roadside, staring at a broken axle.

I had cleared a foreign air carrier (Lets call it "Air Anywhere.") to the next lower altitude in the holding pattern and was waiting for the pilot to report reaching that altitude. While waiting, I revised a few other flight's 'Expect Further Clearance' times, issued a couple vectors, a speed reduction, then switched a plane over to the Final controller. I watched the other arrival sectors to see how many planes they had off their holding fixes. Air Anywhere reported reaching his assigned altitude so I started another plane down to the altitude he'd just vacated. A short time later, Air Anywhere transmits. "Uhh, Big Time, you have another flight holding at our altitude?" Well uhh . . . not as a rule.

My mind raced. This was one of those "heart in the throat" moments. I tried to wash it down by re-checking my strip marking on the flights still holding. Strips looked good. I turned on the alphanumeric data blocks associated with the holding flights. These were often turned off during extensive holding scenarios because all the overlapping data was impossible to read. I asked the next lower flight to "verify level at" whatever altitude they had been cleared to. All the while, I was considering what to do next. If there were two flights at one altitude, I couldn't very well climb or descend one of them. They were sandwiched in by other planes holding above and below. Perhaps I could assign an exit vector to Air Anywhere to get him the hell out of the pattern? All this happened within five seconds after his last transmission.

I keyed my radio. "No sir." It was all there was to say but I could hardly hear the sound of my own voice for the pounding in my eardrums. His reply - "We see landing lights coming toward us." Yes, the flight holding directly above him was indeed turning inbound, about ten miles away - just as Air Anywhere turned outbound. Dark skies, a few clouds, an optical illusion and, next thing you know, a coronary occlusion! I told the guy he was looking at opposite direction traffic a thousand feet higher. "Okay Big Time" he replied.

I really should have gotten over this as quickly as it happened but I couldn't. It rattled me. Thank goodness there were too many other things to do at the moment, leaving no time to brood over this. But later, in the break room, while pretending to read a magazine, I began thinking about the level of trust I had in myself. I thought it was pretty high. My strip marking was nearly always up to date and I made sure I got a pilot readback of any new altitude assignment. Still, I had to concede this holding pattern thing hit me with some serious, albeit momentary, self-doubt. For an instant, I was actually ready to believe I had two planes holding at the same altitude! I'll tell you - that's a hair raising experience for any controller!

© NLA Factor, 2013

The First Time

Its a place we rarely think about and are even less inclined to forget. Most of us have been there at one time or another in our lives. If you are a controller, its likely you've been there much more frequently.

Maybe it was the first time you leapt off the far end of a high diving board or lifted off a runway without your instructor. I once had a neighbor who was a Cardiac Surgeon. For him it was the first time he held a living human heart in his hand. If you're like me; this one was an experience both dreaded and eagerly anticipated. In retrospect, it was simultaneously one of the toughest and easiest times I ever spent.

I'm talking about those great leaps of faith we take in ourselves. Unsure whether we can do it but dead certain that we must; we seek empirical proof of our ability. There's only one way to get it. Restore the human heart you're holding to health and put it back where it belongs. Take to the sky on your first solo flight and land safely. Or perhaps plug a headset into the sky and use your skills to ensure that everyone under your aegis lands safely.

With the check-ride behind me; today would be another of those first time experiences. I would work the Final Control sector sans the safety net of my instructor. A day would dawn when I'd become blasé about working this or any other Big Time radar sector ~ not necessarily a good thing. But I wasn't there just yet. Today I was appropriately apprehensive.

Walking across the TRACON, I could see it wasn't going to be easy. My head was filled with every mistake I'd made, every word written on my training reports and every insight my instructors had given me ~ once they calmed down. "What's past is prologue." History repeats itself and influences the present. If William Shakespeare was right; I could be in for trouble. I attempted to brush these thoughts aside but it wasn't going well.

Completely absorbed in their traffic, teammates working other radar positions didn't even notice as I passed by. The controller I was asked to relieve was just ahead. She too was so immersed in her work that I went completely unnoticed until I plugged in. With a quick glance over her shoulder; "Hey" was all she said. Turning back to her traffic for a few more vectors and an approach clearance, she gave me time to take it all in.

The localizer was loaded ~ from the runway threshold to the far reaches of the sector, nearly twenty-five miles away. Both the left and right downwind legs were full of airplanes and the approach guys had a lot more coming. I had hoped my first time would be in decent VFR weather conditions. I had hoped the traffic volume wouldn't be too heavy. I had also hoped I wouldn't feel like throwing up. Strike three.

Claire pressed the position relief button and I heard her voice in my headset. "Oh boy!" she exclaimed. Then, in obvious reference to it being my opening performance as a solo act on the position, she added; "My first virgin!" This evoked a nervous chuckle. Claire was the only woman on our team at the time and one of just two working at Big Time Tower. Tough and at the top of her game, she held her own in the Frat House atmosphere that was Big Time in the Seventies. "Okay, here's what's happening..." As she started the briefing I watched her traffic; thinking about what needed to be done next. I already knew the weather was crap and that we were landing on one runway only. What I did not know was that the tower needed five miles between arrivals in order to get a lot of departures out.

So many things hinged on the final controller at Big Time. Running the traffic with too much space between would back the arrival sectors into a holding situation. Running things too tight meant the tower wouldn't be able to get a departure off between each arrival. "One for one." as we'd say. Either way; the Final sector could trigger delays and make a lot of people angrier than an air carrier pilot on his third go-around.

Claire pointed at two data blocks on downwind; small turboprop commuter flights. "You'll need to build a big hole for these guys...they're slower than hell." I followed her index finger around the sector as she described her plan and suggested mine. By now I was high on epinephrine and actually anxious to take the sector. Claire finished up her briefing with; "Have fun!" She meant it too.

With that, I was on my own. Like my first solo flight, taking off was the easy part. Now it was entirely up to me to get all this traffic around the pattern and down onto the runway. I wasn't exactly holding a live human heart but there were a lot of people out there among those tiny radar targets. In the way an air traffic controller does; I was holding each of their lives in my hands. Claire lingered for a few moments; watching and listening. Already bent to the task, I never noticed her leave.

Once I had made enough of my own decisions and issued enough instructions to actually become a part of the picture, I had no time left to be nervous. Minutes passed quickly and in an hour or so I was relieved. It hadn't been pretty. Finesse takes time. Accordingly, my work at this sector wouldn't get "pretty" for several months. It was safe though and nobody was delayed. All in all ~ pretty good for the first time.

© NLA Factor, 2010

Terrains, Dopes And Aeroplanes

The ink was just beginning to dry on my Private Pilot's License when I got the urge to take a long cross-country flight. It was early August, the skies were gentle and I had two week's of annual leave approved. The Cherokee I'd used throughout most of my flight training was available and adventure beckoned us aloft. My wife and I spent hours poring over maps in search of interesting places with nearby airports. We finally agreed we would head eastward, turning down the coast toward Myrtle Beach, Charleston and maybe into Florida. Hence, early one sunny morning, bags packed, we drove out to our local airdrome, loaded the Cherokee up and taxied out. With winds wafting straight down the runway, we rolled off and drifted skyward. This was the halcyon beginning of what would later become a harrowing journey...but this day was perfect. The world at our feet, we set a course for our first fuel stop in Pittsburgh.

Arriving over Myrtle Beach, it was obvious we were going no further. Rain and thick haze ringed the Grand Strand; concealing a line of thunderstorms moving in from the West. Inexperienced as I was, I still knew the safest place to ride out such conditions was on the driver's seat of a rental car. The airplane secured at North Myrtle Beach Airport, we drove off to find a hotel and some dinner.

Did you ever consider the imaginary world depicted in VFR Sectional Charts? All blues, sunshine yellows and magentas; they depict a bucolic realm of Spring green countrysides and beige ridges; belying the darker realities that may await those who lack the capacity to see them. As I blundered blithely along, the VFR Sectional would lull me into a state of aesthetic complacency. But not just yet.

In the coming days, we made two attempts to reach Charleston but were never able to get much further than Georgetown. Sooner or later we'd always encounter the ubiquitous clusters of clouds that seemed to roam the coastal lowlands every day. Too tall to top, too wide to skirt and way too menacing beneath; they'd eventually convince me to just turn around. By day three we gave up trying and decided to enjoy Myrtle Beach for the rest of the week.

By Saturday morning, we were ready to head for home. Our route would take us just west of Wilmington, N.C. and northward toward Gordonsville, Va. From there we'd overfly the Linden VOR and land at Front Royal for fuel. Things went well through most of the flight. Although a bit hazy, it was still decent VFR flying weather at 4,500 feet. My wife got bored with looking out the window and eventually fell asleep.

Then, somewhere near Gordonsville, I took the Cherokee down to 2,500 feet because of some low-hanging cumulus clouds. Visibility was still good as I looked down on the Virginia countryside. The descent was nearly a fatal error but I flew on obliviously. Somewhere south of Linden and tracking inbound, I noticed my flight visibility decreasing somewhat. This didn't concern me though because I still had good visual contact with the ground. If I'd kept better visual contact with my VFR Sectional I might have noticed the rising terrain ahead and the clearly marked minimum safe altitude for this area. But no.

Near as I can tell, I was in the vicinity of Sperryville and Washington (see chart below) when the cloud bases sunk even lower. I descended to stay below but could see ahead that it was getting worse. That's when my situation became copiously clear. I was headed into an area of increasingly high terrain and was having to descend to stay below the clouds. My wife slept on as panic crept in. I glanced left and right; hoping to find a way of turning around. By now I could barely see a mile in any direction so a turn could have simply been a quicker way of running into something. I realized there was only one remaining option. I had to get the Cherokee up to 3,500 feet as quickly as possible.The Linden VOR was still somewhere off the nose of the airplane, along with the mountain range it sat on. Cloud bases were immediately above me. Fragments of my Private Pilot training came back to me as I pushed the throttle forward and pulled back on the yoke. My eye went immediately to the attitude indicator. I was climbing - good. Airspeed was well above a stall - good. Wings remained level - good. Outside the window was nothing but gray - frightening.The altimeter slowly added to my last known altitude. Although I was climbing, I had no idea how close I was to the surrounding terrain. Now above 3,000 feet, I remained in solid IFR conditions. If I made it to Linden and was still in the clouds; what would I do next? I had no clue.

At 3,500 feet I was as yet alive and climbing when I noted station passage over Linden. Front Royal Airport would be somewhere off to the left but I was afraid to descend. Should I continue climbing, in hope of punching through the cloud tops? And how far up would that be? My hands were soaked in sweat. The gray outside the windows grew brighter. Then, in an instant, I was in full sunlight and could see for miles. Just ahead, the airport was clearly visible. I woke my wife up and told her we'd be landing in a few minutes.

There isn't much more to say about this. Every mistake I made was a stupid one and every break I got was a lucky one. I'll never know just how close I came to shredding that airplane as it sliced through the treetops and hit the mountainside. I do know this flight could have ended up as a kind of 'Ground School' for dopes - the kind nobody ever walks away from.

© NLA Factor, 2010