The bane of every reserve pilot’s existence is the telephone. The infernal device rings at the most inconvenient of times—like when you’re in deep REM sleep, hours before sunrise.
Such was the case one rainy September morning. I was deep asleep dreaming airline pilot dreams of big houses, swimming pools, and sports cars when I was rudely brought back to reality by the terse ring of our bedside phone.
I grabbed the receiver as much to quiet the ring as to speak to whoever must be calling at this insane hour. Surely there was some emergency. The house must be on fire, or perhaps an untimely death in the family.
“Hello?” I yawned.
“This is crew scheduling calling for First Officer Weisser.”
Now normally I could be creative enough to think of a dozen places where First Officer Weisser might be and why he couldn’t possibly answer the phone at that moment, but at 4 a.m. I just couldn’t come up with anything plausible.
“Speaking,” I grumbled without enthusiasm, watching my bride pulling the covers from my side of the bed to hers and drifting back to sleep.
“We’ve got a trip for you. There’s a 7 a.m. show.”
“OK, I’ll be there,” I stammered and then paused, “Who is the captain?”
Perhaps it was the way she offered the trip, something in her voice that had raised my eyebrow that early autumn morning, but whatever the reason I knew that something wasn’t quite right. She was speaking too softly, too kindly—not at all the normal cold and calculated tone of a scheduler merely filling a block in the schedule.
“Captain Striker,” was the response, and I thanked her before hanging up.
“Striker, Striker, Striker …” I thought. I knew the name sounded familiar, but from where? And why would his very name change the attitude of the scheduler?
I used the company Intranet to print the trip, a simple two-day affair with only a few legs.
I began to throw a few days worth of clothes into the bag. Reserve pilots know to pack for six days regardless of what Scheduling assigns. The playful scheduling gods relish the opportunity to hear a new-hire FO beg for time off to rush home and acquire clean underwear.
As I turned the key on my truck and started towards the airport I suddenly remembered where I’d heard—or rather seen—his name. It was written on or carved into every bathroom stall, crewroom wall, yoke-clip, logbook, and crew-bag rack in the system.
“Striker Stinks”
Okay, so the word wasn’t “stinks,” and, to be honest, his name wasn’t Striker, but you get the idea. It probably was not going to be a very good trip.
They say that the best part of being a captain is privilege of always flying with your favorite captain. As first officers we don’t always have that luxury. Over the course of our careers we will fly with pilots who we get along with as famously as if we were family, and those who we hope never to share the cockpit with again.
So, what makes one captain more desirable than another? What is happening out on the line that would make an educated, grown, professional aviator stoop to scribing slanderous graffiti on bathroom walls?
Unfortunately, we’ve all flown with captains who might have, at one time or another, been a featured guest on the bathroom wall. You know the type:
- His mailbox has the word “Captain” on the side;
- He signs his checks “Captain”;
- When he talks about the airplane it is always in the possessive;
“Is my wing going to clear?”
“I need to call my dispatcher”
“My left engine oil pressure is a little low”
- He can frequently be found stopping for groceries on the way home from the airport in full uniform—hat and all;
- He probably wears driving gloves in the cockpit.
Don’t be that guy.
Have you ever found after only an introduction and short briefing, that there is no doubt in your mind the trip will be unpleasant?
The captain might arrive 30 minutes prior to departure and before you even have the opportunity to ask, “How are you?” or “Where are you from?” he will begin his briefing with a very thorough discussion of command authority. He will then pull out a note-card on which he has written “talking points,” to which he will refer during his briefing.
Over the course of the next 10 minutes he will surpass the level of detail required to safely launch the space shuttle. Every imaginable facet of aircraft operation will be
discussed time and again. Frequencies for a number of backup plans will be set into the navigation radios. You will likely discuss engine failures, fires, the use of ignition behind heavy aircraft, the use of anti-ice during climb (including various aircraft limitations), tire pressures, types of hydroplaning, the lift equation, and the effects of lunar gravity on NDB approaches. There might even be a quiz. All in all this person is a veritable fountain of operationally insignificant knowledge.
When the briefing is finally complete you have a pretty good idea of the level of perfection that will be required in your work as first officer. You will need to carefully interpolate takeoff thrust numbers (some guys just love it when you interpolate) and takeoff weight limitations. You will measure with a micrometer, mark with a crayon, cut with a Boeing.
He does not take any pleasure in the art of flying, but rather enjoys the opportunity to operate the flight with such precision and attention to detail that the trolls who hide in caves and write standardization manuals weep with joy whenever he departs.
Don’t be that guy.
Have you ever flown with the micromanager?
This is a captain who honestly believes you are no more than a glorified student pilot. He believes you are incapable of doing the job that you have trained to do. He will check and double-check everything that you do, and then suggest that you do it again. Every flight is as stressful as a checkride.
On each leg, time and again without fail, he will attempt to impart his vast aviation knowledge upon you. You will be the unwilling recipient of volumes of amateur flight instruction. Technique is a word that is foreign to him—you are wrong; he is right.
In his mind, your systems knowledge is inadequate to perform the most basic of tasks. He’ll frequently shout, “Don’t touch the radar!” (Obviously, the extra stripe gives him superior knowledge of airborne weather radar), or he will reach over your head to adjust the cabin temperature controller that you had so carefully just adjusted.
You have just completed the finest landing of your career. It was executed so smoothly that you could barely feel the wheels lightly brush against the pavement. Yet before the nosewheel even touches the ground he will take the controls, stand on the brakes, and apply max reverse in an uncomfortable effort to make what he perceives to be the only suitable turnoff. In his mind you obviously have not been properly trained to decelerate. To him, directional control was seriously in doubt before he placed his hand on the tiller.
He honestly believes that the fourth stripe has graced him with divine knowledge and skill that is foreign to the unwashed masses in the right seat.
Don’t be that guy.
If the control freak has a polar opposite it would be the captain who lives by the credo: “Hey man, standard stuff, okay? I’m pretty laid back, so let’s just have a good time!”
This individual is so profoundly laid back that he barely shows up at the airplane in time to close the door and be on your way. In many ways this is a relief in contrast to some of the Napoleon-types, but realistically, he, too, unreasonably increases the workload of his first officer.
The briefing might include, “We’re here to have a good time. If we’re not having fun, we’re not doing it right.” Truthfully, we all prefer this type of leadership since he places his trust—or probably more accurately, his total apathy—in his first officer. You could do virtually anything short of a three-point landing (nosewheel, wingtip, and engine), and he would barely bat an eyelash. And though it may feel liberating as a first officer to have that much leeway, it still turns the airplane into a single-pilot cockpit.
Unfortunately in this case the burden of ensuring a safe operation falls to our intrepid first officer. During those quick, 20-minute turns you might find your laid-back captain chatting on his cellphone as you race to preflight the airplane, get the ATIS and clearance, do the paperwork, fill out the weight and balance, and hopefully have time to visit the restroom before the long flight back.
In the morning he’ll buy a cup of coffee and relax in first-class while you race to set up the airplane for departure only to have him finally join you in the cockpit once all of the work is complete. In many cases this captain disengages himself from the operation of the aircraft and assumes that since his FO is shouldering much of the burden, that’s his cue to relax.
Don’t be that guy.
At one time or another, you’ve probably heard a captain say, “I’d like to stay pretty close to the standardization manual.”
Unfortunately, more often than not, you’ll come to realize that the standardization manual he’s referring to is his own. Nothing he does is particularly unsafe, but there are a number of little details that he sees fit to change. If your company asks under most conditions for single-engine taxi, he’ll taxi with both engines running, or if your company asks that you avoid starting the APU in flight, he’ll start it up in flight on every trip. And just when you think that you have most of his idiosyncrasies down pat, another little detail or change in procedures will pop up.
“I’d prefer that you leave the thrust reverser handles up when we transfer controls,” or “I’d like to use gate release fuel rather than takeoff min fuel for the Fuel Quantity call on the checklist.”
Over the course of a four-day trip this guy will essentially rewrite the standardization manual, leaving you with no idea what to expect. Day to day flying with Captain Consistency is like flying with an entirely new partner on each leg. Heck, it’s like flying with an entirely new airline!
The captain who is inconsistent—or worse yet, who rewrites the book—leaves his FO confused, wary, and wondering just what to expect.
Don’t be that guy.
Like most first officers, I’ve experienced occasional bouts of “Captainitis”—the affliction so common among first officers who suddenly believe they could do the job better than the person sitting directly to their left.
Fortunately, it’s usually a short-lived malady, since for the better part of 30-plus years, we go through our careers rarely flying with the same pilot twice. All of those little idiosyncrasies are ignored as we sit and silently think, “It’s only four days, it’s only four days ... I can get through this and I’ll never see this guy again!” Unfortunately, during these same 30-plus years, nobody tells the individual, “Hey man, you’re driving me crazy!” and as a result, he becomes nearly intolerable.
But that goes both ways. Not all of the odd, malcontent, unfriendly, rude, aggressive, type-A lunatics are in the left seat. There are more than a few right-seat ogres out there as well. Then there comes a time when you too must look in the mirror and say to yourself, “Don’t be that guy.”
Because if you don’t, you’ll surely find your name one day, written on the bathroom wall.
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Over the last 10 years—and after working at six different airlines flying seven different aircraft types—I’ve had the privilege of flying with some amazing captains. These were men and women who mastered the art of CRM. They recognized and valued the experience of their first officers and viewed us as valued members of the team, rather than just as glorified student pilots who were simply warming the seat until finally prepared to upgrade.
The individual who never sees his or her name on the back of the yoke-clip is the captain who builds a first officer’s confidence and gives him or her the latitude to make decisions without fear of reprisal. First officers are an amazing resource. Now, more than at any other time in aviation history the experience in the right-seat is overwhelming. As a result of the massive capacity reductions in the industry there are pilots being hired at your carriers with literally thousands of hours of real-world experience.
These are pilots who find themselves first officers for the better part of a decade and have accumulated volumes of experience during that time. Most certainly though, these are aviators who have the ability to help you manage the flight. They are sitting in the right seat to support you—not to kowtow to faulty leadership. Given the respect and responsibility to do the job they’ve been trained to do, they will not only be an enjoyable person to share the art of flying with; they’ll keep you out of the chief pilot’s office, as well.
Leadership is about far more than simple command. It’s about surrounding yourself with the resources required for making good decisions.
If your leadership is based on trust and delegation of responsibility, rather than buried in the deepest, darkest paragraphs of the standardization manual, you will never, ever find your name written on the bathroom wall.
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Most pilots are definite type-A personalities. They’re typically aggressive go-getters with an excess of ego. In many ways it’s what makes them assets to the companies that employ them. But as a first officer you are required to develop CRM techniques that help you operate in this most-challenging interpersonal environment.
That leaves your captain to set the stage and determine the type of cockpit he or she wants to create. While flying certainly is a serious business and one in which you are constantly scrutinized, it is still more art than science, with room for technique and artistic interpretation to some extent. By fostering an open environment in the cockpit, captains improve CRM and keep the lines of communication open. A captain is only as good as his or her crew.
Leadership is a two-way street, though. As a first officer, if you expect the captain to operate in an environment such as the one above, then you, too, must be a leader.
You have a very limited amount of time to instill trust in a captain. It is your responsibility to convince him that you are, indeed, a valuable member of the crew and someone upon whom he can rely to do your job as if you were in command. You must take ownership of that right seat and force yourself to do the job to the best of your ability—and never to be a liability to your captain.
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Michael Weisser is a CRJ first officer for a national carrier.
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