End of an Era...

Dallas-based Southwest Airlines today celebrated the final flight of its last remaining 737-200 airplane, N95SW.  The flight, an invitation-only affair made up of 95 Southwest employees (including chairman Herb Kelleher) took off from Love Field this morning and flew a lazy route south over Waco before returning to Love an hour later.  To commemorate the importance of putting the -200 to "bed," all 95 passengers were dressed in special pajamas.

Gotta love Southwest.  You'll never see United do that.

Southwest began operations in 1972 with a handful of then-brand new -200s. Five-Sierra-Whiskey was delivered new to the airline in May 1983, and was one of the last "old-model" 737s delivered to Southwest before the introduction of the much-improved -300 model in 1984 (today, the model is up to the -800 "Next Generation" series, although all new Southwest aircraft to-date are of the -700 variety.)  

Some trivia:

---Southwest -200s were painted in the 80s-vintage "Desert Sand" color scheme--- yellow, orange, and brown--- except for one: N96SW was accidentally painted in the new "Canyon Blue" livery (blue on top) after a memo from the fleet operations supervisor called for the wrong aircraft to be repainted.   By the time the mistake was caught, the repaint was almost complete, and so it stayed. 
That supervisor, incidentally, was not fired. 

--- -200s are easy to spot on the ramp at any airport, with their long, thin, unpainted Pratt & Whitney engine nacelles under the wings (as opposed to the much-wider, oblong body-color CFM56 turbofan engines on the -300 and above.)  These nacelles almost always proclaim "Boeing 737" on their sides.  Those P&W engines also have a far louder, much more mechanical "popping" sound when spooling to full throttle, versus the comparatively smooth (and not quite so loud) turbine scream of the CFMs. 

---In the past few years, -200 were mostly relegated to Southwest's intrastate routes in order to place the larger and more efficient -300s on the longer interstate routes.  Now, -700s will gradually phase out the older aircraft, although this process will take several years.
 
---All Southwest 737s have identical cockpits.  Southwest orders all their new aircraft with the traditional "steam gauge" instrument panel, as opposed to the newer glass-screen instruments common today on new commercial aircraft.  This was done so that a pilot rated to fly a -200 could step into the cockpit of a new -700 and fly the aircraft with a minimum of additional training.

---For all the ceremony, this will likely not be the last time that a -200 flies for Southwest.  With their recent acquisition of many of ATA's assets, Southwest will now "code share" flights on ATA aircraft into several new markets.  These markets will be served by ATA's 737 fleet, in that airline's livery, and many of those aircraft are -200s.  Today did mark the final time a -200 in Southwest colors will fly, though.

Approach Lights

(NOTE: This is where it all began, as it were. "Approach Lights" was one of three blog entries I submitted to Aero-News Network in May of 2005, to be considered for a volunteer "stringer" correspondent position at Oshkosh. After I returned home from the show and was in discussions with ANN to go full time, I was told this entry was the one that had convinced Zoom to give me a shot. And the rest, as they say, is history.)

So here I am at 9:55 p.m. on a Monday night, parked in my traditional spot in the lot of a nondescript office complex at the southeast corner of Sojourn & Midway. On the other side of the fence before me lies the single 7,200-foot runway of the Addison Airport, a strip of grayish concrete neatly defined by crisp white edge lighting and the softer blue hues lining the taxiways. The interior of the Grand Am is illuminated by only the glow of its radio display, and the stroboscopic effect of the approach lighting system "rabbit" leading down to the threshold of runway 15. The effect is surreal.

This patch of asphalt has become my shrine, my sanctuary. I pay homage whenever I can, usually at least a couple of times per week. What makes it special to me is its accessibility and its location: less than two miles from my apartment, and directly in line with the runway under the approach path for aircraft landing on 15. 

During daylight hours seldom a minute passes that doesn't find a Lear screaming overhead, or a Skyhawk puttering down the glideslope with full flaps extended and its engine near idle. A $70 million Gulfstream G550 may be immediately followed by a comparatively ancient V-tail Bonanza, with a Diamond DA40 Diamond Star, Cirrus SR22, or Cavanaugh's North American T-6 right behind them.
  
I imagine many of the tenants in those offices behind me must absolutely hate the location, given the smell, the noise, the drama. Either that or they've simply gotten used to it all, and pay the cacophony surrounding the airport little mind. If I were in their shoes, there would be another issue: I'd be too busy running for the window every time I heard the whine of engines, racing to catch a glimpse of what's flying overhead, how low the approach is being flown, is the airplane tracking the centerline or not. I'd never get any work done. 

By 10 pm, though, there hasn't been a single plane overhead for the last half-hour. This is the quiet time, when all but the freight dogs and airline pilots have largely settled in to wait out daybreak on the ground. Just as the clock strikes 2200, the ALS rabbit blinks off with no ceremony, the approach threshold falls dark, and the runway lights dim to but a faint glow. The control tower is now closed at one of the nation's busiest single runway airports. 

This is my time to reflect; for lack of a better term, I guess you could say that this is my time to pray. As Counting Crows sing "A Murder of One" from the CD deck (the title references birds, not homicide) I settle back into my seat in quiet reflection, my gaze never leaving the soft bluish glow from the scene before me.

***

Too many of my life experiences seem to relate to Counting Crows songs. Although he can't sing worth a damn, Adam Duritz does write some fantastic lyrics. He's very much a modern-day Harry Chapin. "All My Friends" is the perfect anthem for a single guy approaching his 30s, while "Recovering the Satellites" strikes a chord with me about Albuquerque that I can't quite put my finger on, but still identify with. And if a movie is ever made about my life, I want "Daylight Fading" playing in the background as the camera pans wide to capture my car heading down the 99, leaving Fresno behind ("I heard you let somebody get their fingers into you/ It's getting cold in California, I guess I'll be leaving soon...")

Right at this moment, however, it is "A Murder Of One" that defines my mood.

It's been years since we were born/ We were perfect when we started, I've been wonderin' where we've gone...
All your life is such a shame, shame, shame...
All your love is just a dream, dream, dream...

***
I've never read anything by Susan Sontag. It's likely I never will, as I don't usually seek out liberal intellectualism when I'm at the bookstore. Nothing against Sontag or any of the rest of them; it just isn't my cup of tea. But I did happen to read her obituary in TIME this past week. There was a quote of hers that the article referenced a few times, even using it as the bullet item underneath her photograph. I guess it's a well-known quotation, but I'd never heard it before:

"Be serious.  Be passionate.  Wake up."

That's all we should ever hope for, you know?

Too much of our lives seem to be spent drifting idly through our existence. Too many times we steer ourselves down the paths of least resistance and lesser stimulation, focusing only on those things that ensure we have enough novelty in our lives so that we may want to survive to see tomorrow, that give us just enough momentary satisfaction to continue on down the road to Who Cares What. Inspiration for better things often suffers as dreams are constantly deferred, more often than not thanks to the actions of the dreamers themselves. 

Be serious. Be passionate. Wake up.

If there's one thing the last three years of my life have shown me, it is this: your life should be all about finding what excites you, what stimulates you, what breaks you out from the shell of mediocrity and forces you to grow... and grabbing onto that One Thing and holding onto it with all of your might. Be it flying, writing, pottery, poetry, teaching, religion, whatever. And, you should not be at all afraid to unashamedly proclaim it to all who listen. 

Those people who stick around to listen, and still put up with you, are your friends.

***

At 15 minutes past the hour, I notice steady red-and-white lights racing through the sky east of the field, heading north at about 1,500 feet above the city. It's flying roughly parallel to the field, apparently setting up for a downwind approach to 15. The plane soon dips out of sight, hidden by the office buildings behind me, but soon my hopes are confirmed: the ALS strobes light up in brilliant pulses of light -- it hurts to look at them, or anywhere near them -- and behind the markers the runway and field definition lights are similarly vivid against the darkness. Amazing what a pilot can do just by clicking the mike switch seven times.

As I marvel at the instant Christmas tree-like effect, a piston twin races overhead, seemingly lower than planes usually fly the approach, just above rooftop level. It's low enough that the noise from the props makes the Grand Am's sunroof rattle in its frame. Against the illumination of the ALS lights, I can just make out the sleek shape of the retreating aircraft: the conventional tail, the knock-kneed landing gear, the shark fin-like fuel tanks at the tips of each wing. A Cessna twin of some kind, maybe a rakish 310 (below) or an early tip-tank-equipped 402.

A freight dog, likely flying in with check stubs from outlying bank branches in tiny Texas towns. Heavy, yellow, reinforced nylon bags filled with transaction receipts, to be handed off to a waiting ground courier who absolutely must have those bags delivered to the Ops center within 30 minutes. My time pulling such duty at DMC makes it all-too easy to relate.

That pilot -- who by now is pulling onto the taxiway, ramp in sight, cleaning up the flaps and shutting down the landing light while also trying to keep the driver's van in sight to avoid ramp rash, or worse -- no doubt makes this run every night, or one very much like it. It is thankless, tedious, and occasionally terrifying work. He or she is flying freight in a clapped-out twin, its best days far, far behind it, so that they can make just a little money, barely enough to survive. I make more sitting at a computer terminal five days a week, answering calls about drywall.

But that's not what it's all about, fortunately; not by a long shot. Every hour that pilot is at the controls of that Cessna, is one hour closer to having enough time to be considered for hire by an airline. Maybe flying right seat on a regional Beech 1900 commuter plane, a CRJ, or -- with equal measures of luck and skill -- even a major carrier's 737 or A319.

FedEx, DHL and UPS are also desirable options, for while it would still be flying freight at all hours of the day and night, the pilot would get to do it on far newer, more advanced aircraft -- often the same types of jets the airlines fly -- and for much, much better pay.  Some pilots even prefer the cargo route to flying for passenger airlines, as there is no "self-loading freight" in back whining about that last bounced landing, or holding on for dear life after that high performance takeoff you just executed, a smug grin on your face.

That's the life, what that Cessna pilot's doing now, because it's flying for a living, pure and simple. No doubt the romance of the evening leg into Addison has long since worn off... but I wonder if occasionally, on his day off maybe, if that pilot doesn't drive to the parking lot of his hometown airport, and watch the planes taking off and landing for hours on end.  Maybe the novelty has long worn off, and he doesn't care to take his work home with him...

Or just maybe he does go and watch the planes... and as a Baron flies overhead in the pattern, perhaps he smiles and thinks to himself, "I get to do that..."

***

Fifteen minutes after they lit up the night, the runway lights fall dim once more. I take one last glance around the sky; there are several planes distant over downtown Dallas, even now at 10:35 p.m. on a Monday night, but none appear to be low enough to be coming into Addison. I start the car, and I'm startled by the radio suddenly coming to life; the accessory power turned off automatically a half-hour ago, but I hadn't noticed. Adam Duritz continues to warble as I turn out of the parking lot, and onto Midway.

I feel more alive now than I did an hour ago.

In five days, this coming Saturday morning, I have N5187E scheduled for two hours. I'll only be doing some pattern work; maybe I'll head out over Lake Lavon to do some slow flight or stalls. It's not nearly as glamorous as the life of a United pilot flying somewhere over the Pacific Ocean, en route to Tokyo. Hell, it's not even flying the Addison run in an ancient Cessna twin.

But it is flying, and it's another 1.2 hours or so in the logbook. That's not why I fly, though; not really. I doubt I'll ever even be a commercial pilot. I want to fly simply so that I can park and watch the planes taking off and landing at Addison, and smile knowingly at them, all the while thinking...

"I get to do that."

Be serious. Be passionate. Wake up.

Avatar

From Webster's dictionary--- avatar (n): a variant phase or version of a continuing basic entity.

All our lives are composed of "variant phases" of our core selves.  We adapt to our given circumstances, we mold ourselves to conform with new roles we either want, or are suddenly required, to play.  It's the theory of evolution at its rote form, and it is what has kept humanity going for millenia.  For all the spiritual beliefs I hold dear--- that there is deeper meaning to our lives and that nothing happens by complete accident---I firmly believe this somewhat cold, agnostic view of life as well.   In the end, we are all little more than the sum of all our experiences in this life, and how we change to adapt ourselves to them. 
As our roles shift, so go our identities.  We adopt new peer groups, we change opinions, we redefine who we are and what we want from our existence.  Those people and things that root us to our earlier selves--- for better and for worse--- are cast aside, either deliberately rejected or simply ignored, maliciously or not, a consequence of our shifting priorities.  Often, we leave them behind forever, as we step boldly onto the path we have determined to be the correct one.  And, thus, a new variant phase is created.  Sometimes that's for the better, and sometimes it's not...
I've been thinking about this a lot lately, I guess because of the New Year and all.  With so many transitions occuring right now, both within and without my life, I see many changes in myself and others.  Sometimes, it's hard to define who we are anymore.  Lord knows I've seen the changes in others... it's a little disquieting, but I guess that's just life...
I'll be posting more on this, once I get my thoughts together.  In the meantime, Happy New Year to all.

Questions, Answers, Lessons

There are too many questions, here on the ground.

What happened?  How did we get here?  Why?  When?  How do we get back to where we used to be?  Do we even want to?

Are you afraid, too?

When these weigh heavily on my psyche--- as they have been, these past few months--- I know that it's probably time to go flying.  Fortunately, the weather around Dallas as been spectacular lately, and mostly cooperative.  I've been able to fly pretty often, really. 

Preflighting an aircraft, for me, is a ritual.  It's kneeling before the altar of flight, asking for acceptance into the skies.  There are many things that need to be checked, that need to be within tolerances in order for the plane to fly.  It's not difficult, but it does demand a keen eye.


Fortunately, all systems are go.  Today's agenda calls for some touch-and-goes in the pattern, but first I want to check out the northeast practice area--- directly over Lake Lavon.

And now it's back to McKinney.  Setting up for Runway 35:

Here's how it looks when approaching from the other side (Runway 17.)

(That little smudge in the sky, over the highway, is another plane turning final.)

(Sorry for the poor photo quality--- this was literally a 'hold the camera and shoot whatever" pic!)

Landing complete, taxiing back to parking. It's funny... but after I fly, it feels like there are no questions I can't find the answers to...

Go Around!

Yesterday I learned a valuable lesson, and like most of those in my life it's something that I should have learned before now.  Actually, what's worst is that I did know better, but I chose to ignore the little voice that was telling me so.  It's more luck than skill that it turned out as well as it did.

Last week, after many lessons and even more postponements, I finally earned my solo rating at McKinney.  For the first time, my training has progressed past the point I was at before I left New Mexico, as this rating also includes the ability to check out the aircraft by myself for pattern work.  The Friday after Thanksgiving was to be my first opportunity to do so, but the weather conspired to delay that flight, and one for the next day as well.  I wasn't expecting the weather to be any better for Sunday.

At 7 o'clock on Sunday morning, though, the winds were reported calm at McKinney, and the sky was clear.  So, we headed up there (my parents are in town for the holiday) with the hope that the weather would hold.  An hour later, the winds were now coming from the southeast at 8 knots--- a bit brisk, but I had flown in winds identical to these on my solo flight the week before.  Most importantly, they seemed to be steady, without any gusts or radical changes in direction.  The cloud deck looked imposing, but it was well above the necessary 3,000 feet and didn't appear to hold any bad weather, and none was forecast besides.  With the packet in hand, I strode out onto the flight line, and preflighted 87-Echo.

I was ready to go at 8:40.  Another Skyhawk was in the pattern already, and it was handling the winds well enough.  The windsock seemed to be permanently pointed out from the southwest, and if anything the wind seemed to have died down a bit.  I started the engine, called ground control, and taxiied to 17.

After performing the run-up, I was cleared to position and hold on the runway.  The other Skyhawk had just touched down, and was speeding down the runway getting ready to lift off again.  I had a great view as the other Cessna rotated... and also as it immediately crabbed approximately 10 degrees into the wind.  It was clear that the wind was slightly stronger above the runway, than it was on the ground.

"Cessna 5187E,  left closed traffic approved, follow the Cessna ahead, cleared for takeoff."

It was at this point that I should have listened to my instincts.  The wind, though flyable and technically still well within my limits, was making me nervous, and I could feel it.  There was no harm, no foul, in requesting a taxiback to the ramp, where I could shut things down and wait for another day.  But then again, I had waited this long to be able to fly...

"87-Echo, cleared for takeoff, left closed traffic."  I figured if nothing else, it would be good practice for me to fly in conditions like these, and I knew I could use the practice on crosswind landings.  I had computed the crosswind component, and it had come out to just under four knots.  Five was my restriction... and I had soloed in a six knot direct crosswind just one week ago.  Nothing I couldn't handle.

I had the aileron correction already in, and as the plane lifted off it settled quite beautifully into a slight crab.  I glanced back, and saw that I was holding the runway centerline beautifully.  I relaxed my grip ever-so-slightly from the yoke.  See?  You can do it.

Left turn to crosswind, another left onto downwind, and I was paralleling the runway.  The other Skyhawk was a safe distance ahead, just getting ready to turn base, and I throttled back as the altimeter reached 1,600 feet.  The plane overshot slightly, to 1,700, and I nosed down a bit to hold the altitude.   The wind didn't seem to be as much of a factor up here.  I allowed myself to start enjoying the flight.

"Cessna 87-Echo, cleared number two for the option, follow the Cessna on base."  The tower called as I flew past the end of the runway, opposite the numbers.  I had already throttled back, put the carb heat in (carb iciing was a very real possibility on a day like today) and kicked the flaps down to 10 degrees.  The little Skyhawk dutifully responded, and settled into a perfectly stabilized descent.  Looking to my left, I saw the other Cessna turn final, and as soon as our wings aligned I turned base leg, right over where I usually did. 

"Cessna XXX," the tower called to the other Skyhawk.  "Caution, winds variable between 300 and 080, gusting to 11 knots."    Crap!  The winds were shifting, from the southeast to anywhere between northwest and east.  I glanced down on the windsock, and could see that for now, at least, the wind was still calm enough to favor landing to the south.  I could see the other Skyhawk continue on its course, just off the end of the runway. 

It was during this time that I realized that I currently had a tailwind, a brisk one at that, and that I was approaching the base-to-final turn much too rapidly.  I was flying too tight relative to the plane that was now landing, and if I continued the approach I would likely land before the other Cessna had the chance to rotate off the runway on its touch-and-go. 

The tower saw it, too.  "87-Echo, that's going to be too close, do a 360 out there for spacing and that should do it.  Cleared for the option, runway 17 after."

"Roger, 87-Echo."  Drat!  It was a stupid, student mistake, and I knew it.  At least the controller had been nice enough about it; it probably wasn't the first time it had happened.  I settled the plane into a perfect full-circle turn, compensating for the effects of the wind, and held it 500 feet above a lightpole along Highway 380.  I had made a mistake, but at least I had done the proper thing to correct for it, and it gave me the opportunity to practice another manuever.  

Still, I knew that I had had enough.  I had just made one mistake too many for my tastes.  "Tower," I called as I banked out of the 360, catching the extended centerline of the runway.  "This will be a full-stop for 87-Echo."  The call was unnecessary, as the tower had already granted me "the option" to do either a touch-and-go, a stop-and-go, or a full-stop landing.  Still, I wanted to make it official. 

"Roger that, 87-Echo."

There was no fear at all present as I slipped the plane into the wind, banking the left wing into the crosswind as I held the centerline with right rudder, descending to the runway at 70 knots indicated.  I was still nervous, but I also knew that I could do this.

I flared right over the numbers, as I should have, still slightly fast but not too much so, and prepared for what was likely to be not one of my best landings.  The yoke was moving constantly, responding to the wind as I fought to hold the centerline in the flare.  Finally, the mains touched down---
---And I'm not sure what exactly happened next.

The nose wheel immediately contacted the runway, much sooner than it was supposed to.  The plane kicked back into the air, came down again firmly on all three wheels, and then shot back up.  Porpoising!  I had been warned about this, but I'd never actually experienced it.  I knew what would happen if I allowed it to continue--- a likely prop-strike at best, a ground loop at absolute worst.
 
Shit!!

In the one-point-five seconds my mind raced to comprehend all that was happening, my right hand had shoved the throttle and carb heat all the way in.  On the third bounce I pulled back on the yoke as much as I dared, the nose came up and it took the plane with it, lifting off the ground in a surprisingly stabilized climb.  Once the airspeed hit 70 and the climb was established, I retracted the flaps.  I also clicked the radio and announced the go-around, although by that point it wasn't necessary. 

On climbout, my mind raced as to what had happened.  Had I relaxed on the yoke too soon? (Possibly.)  Had the wind whipped around and caught the nose?  (Maybe.)  Had I been too fast in the flare?  (Yes.)  Regardless of the why, I still had to land the plane, and I had just been confronted with proof that that wasn't going to be as easy as I had thought. 

I was slightly comforted by one fact: it's very hard to break a Skyhawk.  The landing gear seemed to still be intact, and the plane was performing quite normally.  I flew a standard pattern, followed the routine perfectly, and settled into the approach for landing once again.  The wind seemed to have settled down since last time--- I remembered the sock whipping around just as I had touched down before--- and it remained almost completely straight down the runway as I flared once again, and set the plane back down on the ground.  This time, I also held the nosegear off the ground, until the plane slowed to the point that it settled on its own. 

There was a slight shimmy in the nosewheel as I taxiied off the runway, but it had happened many times before on 87E and seemed to be normal for that plane.  (It's actually an issue on all 172s.) The shake settled down as the plane slowed further, and it was completely gone as I taxiied off the runway and over to the ramp.

After shutting the engine off, I got out and surveyed the aircraft.  It didn't appear any worse for wear.  I checked carefully underneath the engine at the cowling, where the telltale sheetmetal crinkling of a bent firewall would be clearly evident.  There wasn't any, nor was the plane sitting any differently on its gear than usual.  I had done no damage to the aircraft, or to myself--- at least physically.   My nerves, though, were shot.

As I turned the packet for the plane back in to the front desk, I explained what had happened to the man running the desk.  After listening to me tell the story, he smiled.  "That's why you practice," he said.   

I should never have taken off.  I should have listened to my instincts in the first place, and called it a day before I taxiied onto the runway.  The winds were within the safe threshold as I took off, but I should have known that they were probably not going to stay that way.   As the maxim goes, it's better to be on the ground wishing you were in the air, than the other way around.  I had just lived it.
On the positive side, my training had kicked in just as it should have, and I was able to salvage the situation and turn it into something of a positive.  The go-around was the one best course of action I had chosen all day.  If anything, I should have aborted the landing the moment I saw the windsock whip around on final.

But, again,  this is why you practice.