We were at the edge of Lake Huron, near Blind River, when the Jolt Cola kicked in...
The rising sun greeted Mike and I as we sped down the Trans-Canada highway that morning. We were rushing towards aviation jobs in sunny southern Ontario. My chauffeur for the day had an instructor job lined up in Waterloo, and, though they had never officially accepted my application, Air Canada was about to become my employer.
Mike and I had just finished our student careers at Sault College, and he had a nifty little red Nissan to take us to glory in our aviation vocation. He had completed his Multi-IFR, and I, well, being TOP GUN of the school didn't need such trivialities. I was way behind in my flying because of my strict adherence to the policies of the IMSAFE checklist, but having successfully completed a commercial and a multi, I figured what the hell are those other three letters “IFR” good for anyways. Half of the time I fly with my eyes closed to “feel the force” if you will. That's even better than IFR, and I have logged it as such in my victory tome commonly known as the Greatest Log Book in Canada.
“Mike, I'm pretty wired, dude.”
“Maybe you should lay off the pop, man.”
I knew this was a veiled attempt on his part to chastise me for the time a buddy of mine and I stopped by Mike's house, cleaned his fridge out of pop, and his cupboards of Gummi Worms. What a night that was!
I thought I'd shut up for a while, even though the thought of being a 747 pilot for Air Canada had my mind racing. I started to grind my teeth more than I normally do. Naaw, I couldn't shut up.
“Won't it be cool when we fly together at Air Canada? I'll try to get you in, Mike. But first, I have to get past the probationary period. You know. Learning how to use those thingys that fly the plane.”
“What? The FMS? The ailerons? The rudder? I don't even know why you think you can get a job there. You don't have the minimums. Man, you don't even have your IFR! Thanks for the gas money, but seriously, and I've been meaning to tell you this for three years, you're fucking delusional!”
Jealousy. I had seen it many times in my Sault College career. A demented beast that consumes every pilot that meets someone with the “Right Stuff”. I thought I'd put in a CD to chill things out. Ah yes, my fanny pack of hits revealed the perfect disk. I ejected his zippy new techno-gobbledygook, inserted my 1972 AM Gold, and cued up track eleven- Precious and Few by Climax. Awesome road tune!
Mike, after hearing four bars of the fluid intro, immediately ripped the disk from the player, and hurled it out his open window.
“What the heck did you do that for?!?!” I was shocked.
“ISTP, you're fucking crazy! I'll take you to Toronto, but I'm not saying one more word to you from here on. You're not touching the stereo, and I don't give a shit if you don't like it! Shut the hell up, and enjoy the scenery!”
He mumbled to himself all the way to T dot, as I admired the Canadian Shield as it transformed into fertile, southern farmland, then suburbia.
We made great time, but all the while, I was concerned about his apparent road rage. I remembered something about that from our Human Factors courses. I think it was defend/detach, or developmental, or something that started with the letter “d”. And he wanted to be an instructor? Well, I'm sorry, mister, but that attitude of yours is hardly constructive. I began to think maybe I shouldn't get him into Air Canada.
Pulling up to the Lester B. Pearson International Airport, Mike jammed the brakes and cut off a taxi at the departures/drop off area.
“Get out!” Mike yelled at me, as I left the little Nissan. He threw my bag at me through the passenger window. In a roar of engine, and squeal of rubber, he was gone in two seconds flat.
“Well,” I thought to myself, “Time for the big interview.” I sucked in my ample abdomen, pushed up my glasses, and stood up straight, just like my mom used to tell me to. Walking into the terminal, all of the hubbub got me on edge again. (I had a sugar crash an hour and a half prior, oops!)
I approached the Air Canada ticket agent.
“Hello, ma'am, I'm ISTP. I'm here, fresh out of Sault College to fly a 747. Where do I go?”
The well worn, middle-aged female beauty cooed, “What? You're the friggin' pilot that's holding up this flight? Get your ass on the plane. 747? You friggin' pilots think you're so special. All you do is talk about airplanes and screw around on your wives back home. I don't care what you do, you useless excuse for a human being! Get your ass through security, and let's move some passengers! I have to pick my daughter from ballet in two hours, and I can't do that if you're standing here looking like a lump of shit! NEXT!!!”
Ah. The customer service specialists of Air Canada. I liked my new job already.
Smiling, I strode through security, and the arch didn't beep, so I followed a pilot through a white, unassuming door, and took my place amongst the busy planning professionals.
“Hi fellas! I'm ISTP, and I'll be your 747 captain today!”
They all stopped what they were doing, and looked up at me with the familiar confused looks to which I had grown accustomed during my tenure at Sault College.
We were going to have some fun.
“That's right folks, I'm here to fly. I've been trained by Grant Cameroon himself on the intricacies of the CRJ at Sault College, in fact. So let's go boys. Up into the wild blue yonder in the 747!”
More looks of astonishment.
One guy with a few bars on his epaulettes broke the silence, and took the lead in welcoming me.
“Are you the former 747 cargo dog that Grant was talking about that was going to fly right seat with me? We're late because of you, you know.”
I was so flushed with pride, that all I heard was “747”. So I just said, “yeah, let's go.”
I was forced into a uniform that was a bit too small for me, and we went to the 747. It was a lot smaller than I had imagined, and it said Canadair on the steering wheel, but heck, those french get their mitts on everything. Liberal sponsorship scandal stuff, I guess.
Sitting in the right seat was apparently the norm for the fam flight on the great jet. So I read a checklist that the captain gave me, but I don't think he really listened. He just pushed a bunch of buttons, and the next thing I knew, we were off 24 left, and climbing over Lake Ontario on our way to Washington D.C..
“Great!” I thought, “Maybe I'll get to meet George Bush! He's a pilot. Maybe I'll teach him a thing or two. After all, he has never graduated from Sault College.”
Easing my seat back, in the Canadair 747 and marveling at the setting sun's shadows across the big lake, I asked the Captain, “So, how does a guy get a Sprite around here? No, make that a diet Sprite, I'm flying.”
School's OUT!!
Moderators: sky's the limit, sepia, Sulako, lilfssister, North Shore
If only
Nice ISTP. I think G.C. will be very happy that you know all about the FMS. And what ever happened to your CRM skills? (aren't you meant to set the atmosphere of the flight with a crew briefiing?) Don't be too deferring or is that detached? Always have a laugh with your posts.
