Overweight
On dark, rainy mornings people are supposed to feel blue. They're supposed to gaze out the window, through the many small rivers that flow down the glass and feel lonely and depressed. When I was a kid my Mom would make us a hot cereal breakfast with tea on such mornings before sending us off to school. Last Tuesday was such a morning, but I didn't feel lonely or depressed. Last Tuesday scared the hell out of me. Being a pilot isn't all fun and games. We don't just soar freely through the friendly skies. We don't sit up there like we're on some sort of scenic tour. We don't have time to write much poetry up there, either.
It was 5:45 am when we began loading the airplanes. Sixteen pilots, eight planes, twelve ground crew, and a million baggage trucks scurried about the apron amidst the downpour, like little field mice. It was a cold rain that fell from a low, ragged cloud, darkening the entire south coast. I became soaked, and regretted having chosen runners and jeans. What a miserable morning!
It is frequent with this type of flying that you become soaked. This happens almost every day in the fall. It seemed with this job that I was always wet. This is because you only have to get rained on once for your clothes to become wet. And, if you fly to enough places in a day, you're sure to find rain somewhere. Wherever I went, I'd feel the soft squish of water in my shoes and the cold weight of my damp jeans.
The apron is a very busy place at 5:45. Everybody's in a hurry. Its like the whole airport is continuously behind schedule. That's the nature of the industry. You are either hurrying because you're behind, or waiting because someone else is behind. In my rush, I managed to trip over a fuel hose on the way out to my airplane. You have to watch out for yourself out there or some idiot in a baggage van will run you over and not even notice.
I had done a fine job of loading the aircraft. I loaded the heavy boxes into the front, and put boxes of negligible weight in the tail. This is extremely important. If the aircrafts' centre of gravity isn't right under the wing, your not going to make it past the Dinsmore Bridge on takeoff. So I made sure we were just right. Big boxes, little boxes. Large bags, tiny bags. Sort of like a little Tetris game. My Captain weighed each article and kept a weight total in his head. He was making sure we were not exceeding the aircrafts' weight limit. If you're too heavy, the airplane will require more runway to take off, perhaps more than you have. With our airplane, we cannot carry more than 1,000 pounds of baggage.
So far, so good.
"Damnit!", yelled the chief pilot. "802 won't start! You'll have to take as much of their stuff as you can."
He wasn't particularly angry this morning. He's just one of those people who always sounds angry.
"We're pretty full already." said my Captain.
"Yeah, uh-huh. Let me know if you need help loading."
Now, hold on just a minute here. I've seen people look the other way when it comes to safety, but this company was famous for it. These airplanes were over thirty years old. The engines needed to be replaced. The company cut whatever corners necessary to get the airplanes in the air. They could legally run the engines "on condition", which meant we could fly them if we promised to baby-handle the engines. And whenever an engine failed, it was kept quiet. Maintenance was done in-house, behind their big closed doors. The de-icing systems seldom worked properly, and the company got away with this because there was no way anyone could ever prove that we were flying in ice. Stupid? Yes. You may think we all had some sort of death wish for flying here. No, but we often worried about the possibility of death. The company had lost many pilots in accidents over the previous two decades. Why, you may ask, on earth would any pilot stay there? Because it was our ticket to the airlines. The airlines won't even read a resume unless it has at least "two-thousand hours" printed in bold at the top.
There was no sense in arguing with the Chief Pilot about too much weight. He'd just tell you one of his old war stories. "Hell, we used to fly Islanders up north, 1000 pounds over! You guys have got it easy!" Then he'd let out a loud, hysterical laugh that, from a distance, sounded like the roar of a large grissly bear.
" Big Al*", as we referred to him, was definitely not the sharpest knife in the drawer. Experience had made him a very capable leader, but unfortunately, his leadership was spoiled by pressure from management. He was very highly paid, which made it difficult for him to leave. Management liked him, because he could deal with any problem. Each morning he made sure that eight planes took off, even if it meant bending the odd rule, such as overloading an airplane, or sending up a bad machine.
So we loaded up the airplane. My little Tetris game was over. We began stuffing in more bags and boxes, making sure to leave about eight inches of room below the ceiling so the two of us could wiggle our way to the cockpit. That's right. There was only one way in and out of this plane, and it was located at the very back. I'm not complaining about having to crawl all over the baggage. We dress appropriately for this. But I always made sure I had the crash axe handy while flying, in case I needed to make an emergency exit. Not quite the picture one would expect of two pilots! We don't all stroll through the airport corridor wearing stripes and wings, and carrying cute little flight bags.
The rain was really coming down now. I was worried about picking up ice enroute. I was worried about our arrival. Our destination was below weather limits and we were gambling on a possible improvement. Now I had this overweight issue to think about. After stuffing the airplane, my Captain shook his head. We had just over 1,500 pounds of baggage! You've probably heard somewhere that its ultimately the pilots' responsibility to decide whether it is safe to fly or not. That's true. The company could never get away with firing someone for not doing something they felt was unsafe. The catch is, they don't have to promote you if they don't like you. When seven company planes depart and you don't, you are considered a pain in the ass. And when the competition departs and you don't, you are the ass.
Truly, there was barely enough room to get in. We were heavy. The takeoff would be most interesting. Slowly, I entered first. Crawling up on top of the baggage, I wiggled my way forward like a little snake, grabbing bags to pull myself forward. Had I not been wearing four layers of clothing, I might have actually succeeded. And so, in the complete darkness of our windowless cabin, I became jammed half-way to the cockpit. I had sandwiched myself between the ceiling and the freight. I couldn't move!
Oh, for **** sake, I thought. I wanted to scream. I was so tired! I was cold, wet, and generally feeling pretty miserable. Now I was stuck in this dark, narrow Tube Of Death. And to top it all off, we were going to die on takeoff that morning.
My Captain was next to enter. He had to push my body into the cockpit by my feet, then I had to pull him in by the hands. I remember my grandfather explaining how the mosquitos could get through a screen door like this.
I was flying with my favourite Captain, Gavin*. If there were just one person in the entire outfit that I truly liked and respected, it would be him. An excellent pilot, and a very likeable, personable human being. Not the rude, grumpy type, as so many captains seemed. He had the ability to make just about anyone laugh, even during the most miserable scenarios. Like when you're loading an airplane in a cold downpour.
He'd get us going until their ribs hurt and could no longer breathe. I could tell pages of stories about flying with him. He was always up to something that was hysterical to watch. I remember four of us in Snake River*, our buts freezing, hands void of any feeling, waiting forever for the baggage truck to arrive. Nobody was in the mood for any sort of social exchange. And there was Gavin, soaking wet, doing a ballerina around the airplane
And yet, at those deadly moments when you needed him to be a Captain, he would lead like no other. Our airplanes frequently had problems. When something went wrong, the joking would stop instantly. He would bark orders and swiftly take whatever action was necessary to rectify the problem. He was definitely one of the more trusted Captains on the line.
Now we were in our seats. We were loaded up. The baggage door was secure. They were pulling out the chalks from the tires for us. The instrument panel came alive with lights and numbers, and I began to put on my headset. I could hear the other airplanes firing up in unison. One minute I'm a baggage rat, the next minute I'm a professional pilot at the controls of an airplane.
But wait, now. Wait just a minute. Through the fogged windshield I see something. Barely visible amidst the rain and puddle reflections of airport lights I see a figure standing by the left engine, shouting for our attention. I opened the storm window. It was Big Al*, the Chief Pilot, his arms loaded with bags.
"Got more bags for ya! You gotta take 'em!" Again, the awful laugh. They were time-sensitive bank bags, and since the banks owned the damn airplane, we were going to have to take them. Jesus Christ spare me, I thought. We were quite overweight already.
I could feel Big Al's movement at the back, the opening of the door, the wrestling with bags and boxes. We remained in our seats. Looking back at the Wall of Tetris that I'd created, I felt a wave of panic and discomfort. What was wrong with this company? I hated them terribly. I wondered if it would be too late to just screw the whole thing and go home.
The baggage compartment was now filled to its limit. I'm not talking about my own personal limit, nor am I talking about our legal weight limit. I'm saying that the aircraft was now FUll. So full, that old Stewy had to give the door a couple of shoulder checks to close it. The whole cockpit wobbled as he did. And I sat patiently, nervous, like an astronaut strapped into a tiny capsule.
At 6:15 the runway is still quiet, despite the business of the aprons. The airport is just in its' wake-up stage. You can see the food trucks beginning their deliveries on the far side of the airport. An Airport Operations vehicle is inspecting the taxiways for foreign objects. In an hour the highway that can be seen at the end of the runway will be jammed with rush hour traffic.
When we depart, we all go at once. Everybody starts their engines when the bank dispatcher clears us to go. This can be quite a nightmare for the air traffic controllers. They'll be sitting back with their feet up before a dark, motionless radar screen, wondering whether or not they should have a second cup of coffee. An instant later they'll be swamped with airplanes. As we all fight and push our way out of the apron, it feels like a theatre parking lot on a Saturday night. Then we all parade single-file down the taxiway to the very end, and wait for our turn.
Eventually, we were told to line ourselves up on the runway. Dave and I glanced at each other for approval. We slowly crawled out onto the runway, our tail sagging badly from our incredible weight. And of course, we waited all over again. Hurry up and wait, as the old saying goes. I didn't mind, it gave me a chance to contemplate things a little more. It allowed us to justify our decision, and sell it to each other one last time.
"Dude, you'd be amazed what these things can carry", said Gavin, with a hint of unhidable fear.
"I've been heavier", I lied.
Eventually, we were cleared for takeoff. Gavin* advanced the throttles all the way forward and I monitored the gauges. The screaming engines began to pull the aircraft forward very, very slowly.
"QuickAir 710* get it rolling!", said the tower.
"Yes sir, 710 on the roll." I replied.
Gradually, our speed increased, but at a painfully slow rate. Would we ever reach lift-off speed? The roll seemed to take minutes, hours even. We both regretted not taxiing for the full length of the runway. That was rather dumb of us. We had followed the crowd, and the crowd always departed from the centre-field taxiway, to save taxi time. The company liked it that way. We didn't want to look like sissies by straying from the group.
I made the usual calls, including "eighty-five knots!", which let the captain know that we were now committed to take flight. Should we change our minds then for any reason, there would not be enough runway remaining to hit the brakes and stop. Why had we not taxiid for the full length? My eyes fixated upon the airspeed, which shyly approached lift off speed, and I thought briefly about what it would be like to go off the end of the runway. I could see the rush-hour traffic building on the freeway ahead. I wished I was in one of those cars, on my way to some silly office job, and not hurtling down a runway at a hundred miles an hour, wondering whether or not I'm going to make it.
Determined to get airborne, I looked not at the freeway, but slightly upward. Upward, in the direction I preferred to go. Tilting my head upwards seemed to will the airplane to rise. Gavin* pulled back.
"Lift, you son of a ...!" I froze.
With the engines screaming at full power, all eight thousand pounds of us staggered up from the pavement, over the freeway rush, and into the soupy torrential downpour.
The airlines love us. They hire our pilots, because they recognize the dangerous nature of our flying. "We fly by instruments into mountainous airports at night, everyday," is the popular company brag line. Our engines fail regularly. Our wings pick up a tremendous amount of ice. We fly two-crew, and use checklists. No other outfit around offers pilots that kind of experience.
The airlines' point of view is, "If they can do that, then they can fly our machines." Also, a large number of those airline pilots started here, too. They hold a high degree of respect for our pilots. But I'm sure they don't envy us when they watch us fly out of some airport in the mountains.
They'll be sitting in their cosy, automated cockpits, sipping coffee, waiting to depart. And they'll see our old, beat up twin-engine touch down, exit the runway, and taxi in. They'll see our oil-streaked engines, the faded paint job, and the occasional puff of black from our left engine. They'll watch us shut down. The baggage door will burst open, spilling out three bags, five boxes and one copilot.
And I imagine they have a good laugh. ~William
* Names and locations have been changed to protect the guilty.
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