Highest Duty (14 page)

My way of handling these issues is to fight to improve the system but still help those I can.

There was another incident late one night at the airport in Charlotte. We were delayed because of weather and air traffic issues, and as my crew stood on the curb waiting for the hotel van, a woman saw me in my pilot’s uniform and approached me. She was around fifty years old with short brown hair. She had no purse, no luggage, only a cigarette in her hands.

She said she and her family had flown in on US Airways, and she was changing planes in Charlotte, on her way to another city.
Her family was back at the gate, where their plane was delayed because of the weather.

“I asked an airport employee where I could smoke a cigarette, and he sent me out here to the curb,” she told me. But without thinking, she had left her purse and boarding pass with her family at the gate, on the other side of security. And worse, a few minutes earlier, at 10:30
P.M.
, the security checkpoints had closed. The Transportation Security Administration is a bureaucracy. When it closes, it closes. At 10:30
P.M
., you can go through. At 10:31
P.M
., you can’t. So she was stuck.

I could have told her that I was unable to help her, then gotten into the hotel van and driven off. But that wouldn’t feel right. I took out my cell phone and called a couple of people in operations. I gave them her name, her cell-phone number, and tried to see if they could somehow help her get back to the gate—or at least get her a voucher for a hotel room.

I don’t know what became of that woman that night. But I felt I had to try to help her. As a human being, I couldn’t just go to the hotel and leave her behind.

Again, it hardly took any effort on my part. Besides, I don’t want to go through life as a bystander.

W
HEN THERE
are maintenance issues or other delays, I believe in telling passengers exactly what is going on. Sometimes a plane has to be taken out of service after passengers are already loaded and ready to go. I don’t like to leave it to flight attendants to give the bad news. I get on the public address system, and offer up the
details. I have stood in the front of the cabin, where the passengers can all see me, and I’ve said: “Ladies and gentlemen, this is the captain. This airplane has to be taken out of service, so we’re going to have to change airplanes. We’ll need to get off this plane and the gate agent will send you to the new gate. I appreciate your patience, and I apologize for the inconvenience.”

When I do this I also want to protect the flight attendants from any kind of whining or abuse as people deal with the delay. “I’m the one responsible for this change,” I’ll say. I’ll stand at the door as each passenger deplanes, looking them all in the eye and nodding. I want them to know that if they have an issue, they should talk to me, not take it out on the crew.

I’ve learned that word choice is so important. When there’s a delay, I like to address passengers by saying: “I promise to tell you everything I know as soon as I know it.” I’ve found such language makes a world of difference. It’s inclusive. It tells passengers our intention is to give them the whole truth, and it lets them know we trust and respect them enough to share this truth. Not being honest up front might avoid hard questions early on, but then there can be consequences for the flight attendants later, when they have to deal with passengers who feel they were lied to. It also hurts the reputation of the airline.

If passengers decide they haven’t been dealt with honestly, they get on their connecting flight feeling angry. Then a vicious cycle sets in. Passengers have already formed a negative impression of the airline, and through the filter of that negativity, they start finding things that support their preconceived notions. They discount things that are positive as being due to chance, and they
view negative things as supporting their belief that “this is a lousy airline.”

I can avoid all that just by being straightforward with passengers from the cockpit.

For the most part, I find passengers to be considerate and understanding. Flying is not the genteel activity it once was, but given that passengers are all cooped up in a relatively small space, and that can be aggravating and uncomfortable, they tend to rise to most occasions.

A lot of times I feel for passengers, and for the situations they find themselves in given all the issues that define air travel today: enhanced security checks, more-crowded cabins, long flights without food service. I’ll try to do what I can.

Passengers often don’t know when efforts are made on their behalf by the crews on airplanes. Sometimes, we’re pulling for them—quietly or under the radar.

For instance, the airlines want flights taking off on time. It makes your airline look better when your on-time rate is higher than other airlines’. Gate agents are judged on their ability to deliver on-time departures. This can make for tension among airline employees, and it’s certainly not always best for passengers.

And so sometimes, I’ve felt obliged to stand my ground.

There was one Sunday afternoon when I was flying from West Palm Beach to Pittsburgh. There was a fairly substantial standby list of people hoping to get on the plane. Everyone with an assigned seat was loaded on, and then the gate agent came on the plane to say that he would close the door. He wanted us pushing back on time. I told him there were still two empty seats.

“Whoever is next on the standby list, why don’t you send them down?” I said.

The agent was having none of it. He wanted us closing the door and pushing back. He knew that his station manager’s job-performance evaluation is based partially on statistics for on-time departures. He didn’t want to get any grief from his superior, and so he didn’t want to take a few more minutes to get two more passengers on the plane.

I understand the ramifications for everyone in the airline system. The station managers dump on the agents. The agents push the crews to load faster. The statistics-driven system is not forgiving if, say, six people in wheelchairs have to be loaded, and that slows down boarding.

Anyway, this gate agent and I were at odds over these two empty seats that I wanted to fill. I had to speak up.

“Let’s remember why we’re here,” I told him. “We’re here to get paying customers to their destinations. You have two paying customers out there who want to be on this plane, and there are seats available for them. So I say, let’s quickly get them on board.”

I prevailed. After all, the policy manual says the captain is in charge. And so the two passengers at the top of the standby list were invited onto the plane, and we ended up pushing back two minutes late. We may have been a minute or two late to Pittsburgh.

The following Tuesday was my day off, and my phone rang at home. It was the assistant chief pilot. He told me that he had a letter from a passenger service supervisor in West Palm.

“They say you interfered with the boarding process, delaying
the flight,” he told me. And then he started reading me the riot act. He talked to me like a disciplinarian, as if I were some renegade cowboy in the cockpit, keeping the gate agents from doing their jobs.

I was a bit peeved by this phone call.

“I care deeply about doing a good job,” I told him, “and I think there are two possibilities regarding this incident. The first possibility is that the agents were following company procedures, and the company procedures are flawed. The second possibility is they weren’t following procedures, in which case they should. We had one hundred and fifty seats, two of which were empty. I wanted to see them filled. I think that’s good for the company and good for the passengers.”

The assistant chief pilot didn’t seem pleased that I was pushing back. But we let the matter be.

Six months later, on another Sunday, I found myself in the same situation. Empty seats. People in the boarding area eager to take them. The agents wanted us to close the cabin door, I insisted that we load the passengers, and our flight left the gate six minutes late.

The agents wrote me up again. And the assistant chief pilot called me again. He was in a pissier mood this time. “The chief pilot wants to give you two weeks off without pay,” he told me.

My union rep ended up talking to management and they never went through with their suspension threat. After all, I wasn’t alone. Many captains were having to fight this battle repeatedly. And then one day, a few months later, management came out with a new memo. It stated that passengers are not to be
left behind if seats are available to them. I smiled when I read that.

All of us have little battles we can choose to take on or to skip. Some captains feel as I do about these sorts of things, and they fight. Others acquiesce and give up. None of us likes leaving passengers at the gate, but some have decided: “I can’t fight so many battles every day.”

I guess I haven’t had what I call “a sense of caring” beaten out of me yet. I empathized with those standby passengers. But as important, leaving them behind just would have felt wrong. And so I acted.

These are minor things, I know. But I feel better about myself when I make these kinds of efforts. And it’s nice to feel I’m doing a little good in the process.

I
’
VE READ
a great deal as I’ve commuted from San Francisco to my base in Charlotte. The trip across the country seems to go faster when I’m engrossed in a book. My tastes haven’t changed much since I was a boy: I continue to be drawn to history.

I have read a few terrific books about the nation’s Medal of Honor recipients. Each of their stories is inspiring. But I remain particularly haunted by the story of twenty-three-year-old Henry Erwin, a U.S. Army Air Forces radio operator from Alabama whose heroism during World War II was astounding. On April 12, 1945, Staff Sergeant Erwin was on a B-29 mission to attack a gasoline plant in Koriyama, Japan. One of his tasks was to help the bombers see their aim points by dropping a phosphorus flare
through a tube in the floor of the B-29. The device exploded in the tube, and the phosphorus was ignited, blinding Erwin and engulfing him in flames. Smoke filled the airplane. Erwin knew the flare would soon burn through the floor, igniting the bombs in the bomb bay below, destroying the B-29 and probably killing the crew.

Though Erwin was in excruciating pain, he crawled along the floor, found the burning flare, and held it against his chest with his bare hands. He brought it up to the cockpit, screamed to the copilot to open his window, and heaved it out, saving the other eleven men on board.

Erwin was expected to die within days from his injuries, and the decision was made by General Curtis LeMay to award him the Medal of Honor before he succumbed. The problem was, there was no Medal of Honor to be found in the Western Pacific. The closest one was hours away in a glass display case in Honolulu. And so an airman was dispatched in the middle of the night to go pick it up. When he couldn’t find the key to open the display case, he broke the glass. He collected the medal, and put it on a plane bound for Guam, where it was pinned on the still-alive-and-conscious Staff Sergeant Erwin, wrapped head to toe in bandages.

Erwin surprised everyone, living through forty-three operations. He remained hospitalized until 1947, and after he was released, his burns left him scarred and disfigured for life. Yet he continued to serve his country as a counselor at a Veterans Hospital in Alabama. He died in 2002.

Who among us could have brought ourselves to lift that white-
hot flare to our chest with our bare hands? Presented with that situation, I assume I would have let it burn through the floor of the B-29.

Knowing that there have been people like Erwin, capable of doing such extraordinary things—acts that are truly beyond comprehension—I feel that the least I can do is be of service in whatever very small ways are available to me.

Sometimes that means recalling how I felt as a thirteen-year-old, when I first heard the story of Kitty Genovese, and made a vow about the kind of person I hoped to be. And sometimes it means attempting the smallest of acts—helping a couple find a lost stroller, or enabling a standby passenger to get the last seat on a departing plane.

L
ORRIE AND I
have a favorite hill, and we’re very lucky, because it is within minutes of our house, on a large piece of open land right at the edge of our neighborhood in Danville. We hike up there together to think, to breathe, and to appreciate. It’s a pretty magical place.

Most of the year, everywhere you look on that hill, there are acres of tall native grasses, in every variation of brown and gold. Later in the spring, for a short while, the grass turns green and more lush. Brown or green doesn’t matter to me. I appreciate the beauty there in every season.

On the afternoon of January 11, 2009, Lorrie suggested that we take a walk up that hill. It was a Sunday, and I was scheduled to leave early the following morning for the trip that would end, four days later, with Flight 1549.

We had a lot on our minds that day. Like so many Americans,
we were worried about the economy, and how our serious financial issues might be resolved. I continued to be very concerned about the Jiffy Lube franchise that hadn’t renewed its lease on our property, and about our ability to keep up the mortgage payments on it. It was a problem with no easy solution. My focus can narrow when thinking about our personal problems or the economic woes of the airline industry, and Lorrie has a wonderful ability to help me change my perspective.

We were sitting in the kitchen, and Lorrie knew what might help. “Come on,” she said to me, “let’s go for a walk.”

And so we hiked up the fire road that narrows into a trail on that steep, beautiful unnamed hill. We stopped at the top to look into the valley below. It’s a gorgeous panorama of neighborhoods in one direction, and pristine open spaces in the other. The sights from that hill can literally widen your view of the world. Somehow, your troubles get put into perspective. The view restores and renews you.

On that day, Lorrie and I were quiet for a little while, just taking it all in, and then I said to her: “Looking out there makes you feel like anything is possible.”

She smiled at me. She already knew it, without me having to say the words. That’s Lorrie. If you want to discover the benefits of believing that
anything
is possible, hike up a hill with her. You’ll be inspired and reassured.

L
ORRIE IS
an exceptionally strong woman, and as I have watched her grapple with various issues in her life, and the challenges in our
own family, I’ve learned a great deal about the power of optimism and acceptance, and about the responsibilities all of us have to carve a path to our own happiness.

She and I are a bit different. I’m a believer in “realistic optimism,” which I consider a leader’s most effective tool. That’s short-term realism combined with long-term optimism. Lorrie understands the value in that, to be sure, but she also sees how embracing full-on optimism about life’s possibilities is good for your health, your relationships, and your sanity.

Lorrie speaks frankly and from the heart, and she’s able to take her life and pull from it moments and experiences that resonate deeply with other women, literally changing their lives. That’s what she does in her career as an outdoors fitness instructor, heading a one-woman operation she calls “Fit and Fabulous…Outdoors!” She takes groups of women on long hikes. They’ll go up one side of a mountain, and by the time Lorrie brings them back down the other side, they aren’t the same women anymore. They’ve seen the world and themselves in a new way. Sometimes I’ll drive the women to the trailhead or back home from it. I’ve waited for Lorrie at the bottom of a mountain when she and the women in her groups have returned. It’s remarkable to watch.

Granted, I’m Lorrie’s husband and I love her, so this may sound overstated. But those who’ve walked up a mountain with her know just what I’m talking about.

One of Lorrie’s friends, Helen Ott, who has joined her on numerous fitness hikes, puts it this way: “Lorrie is like a bright light.” Helen talks about all the fun she has on these walks, because Lorrie is such a good storyteller and is so supportive of
other women. “She makes people feel confident in their abilities,” Helen says, “and she makes them feel good about themselves.”

Lorrie’s embrace of exercise—and the idea that it is best done with others, and in the great outdoors—was actually a journey that began very uneasily for her. She speaks openly with women about how she was “the quintessential chubby girl” for most of her childhood. She has worked to understand the impact her dad’s alcoholism had on her eating habits and on her sense of herself growing up. Hers was not a painless childhood, but she isn’t one to make excuses.

Lorrie was overweight as an adult, too, and that was exacerbated by the fertility drugs she took trying to get pregnant. The drugs left her thirty-five pounds heavier, and feeling deeply wounded. Unable to conceive a child, she felt that her body had betrayed her. Even after we adopted Kate and Kelly, and even though we felt our family was complete and perfect, her feelings remained raw.

“I fell madly in love with the girls the moment we brought them home in our arms,” Lorrie has explained to her clients. “Sully and I felt as if we had won the baby lottery. But those feelings of betrayal, they didn’t magically go away. When the infertility ordeal was over, I had two incredibly beautiful daughters that I loved with every fiber of my being, but I was angry at my body.”

A decade ago, just before Lorrie turned forty, she decided that she would try to let go of the anger and make peace with her body. First, she joined a gym. But walking on a treadmill and
going nowhere seemed unsatisfying. She was still having what she called “negative conversations” with her body parts. She told me she felt “awkward” at the gym. “The more I focused on my butt, the bigger it seemed to get,” she’d say. Like a lot of people, she was trying to lose weight by beating her body into submission.

The mind-body connection is powerful, of course, and the fact that she didn’t like the body carrying her through life was a big issue. Then she took a class at a local gym with a woman named Denise Hatch, who put things in perspective: “Be grateful for what your body can do, rather than focusing on what it can’t do. You can’t have children. That’s hard on you, I know. But your arms and legs work. You’re healthy. You have two daughters who need to see you modeling healthy behavior. So all of this negative body image talk and thoughts have to stop right now.”

Lorrie learned that it was vital to find a way of exercising that she liked. “If you’re not a runner, then be a walker, a hiker, a dancer,” she tells women now. “Just be brave. Find your thing and do it. As with everything in life, if you like doing something, you will do it more often.”

In Lorrie’s case, hiking liberated her. Walking outdoors and seeing a red-tailed hawk gliding overhead or looking out over the carpetlike hills of California or feeling the softness in the summer wind—she realized she was having spiritual experiences she’d never find on a treadmill. And her enthusiasm was contagious. She wanted to hike every day, and to take me and the girls with her.

“I think I’m in love,” she told me one day, “…with exercise.”

Lorrie would go on to be a fitness expert on the San Francisco
ABC-TV affiliate, hosting regular segments about how women can incorporate the outdoors in their quest for better health. And she takes groups of women on regular hikes, listening to the stories of their lives as they walk, and sharing her own.

“The body that betrayed me for so long responded to the outdoors,” she explains to them. “Exercise gave me the confidence that had eluded me. It made me a better mother, wife, and friend. And I hiked off those thirty-five extra pounds.”

Lorrie is frank. “As women, we have to become comfortable with our bodies. That’s crucial. A woman who isn’t comfortable will turn off the lights at night and say to her husband, ‘Please don’t touch me.’ When a woman is happy in her own skin, she’s more willing to let her partner be close.”

For years now, Lorrie has included me as a character in her repertoire of inspirational stories. I’m not sure I want to know everything discussed high in those mountains about our private lives. But I’m happy with Lorrie’s basic message: “Hiking,” she says, “has reinvigorated my marriage.”

I
T WAS
Lorrie’s idea. She wanted us to hike together to the top of California’s Mount Whitney, which is in the Sierra Nevada range, southeast of where we are in Northern California. At 14,505 feet, it’s the highest peak in the contiguous United States.

This was fairly early in Lorrie’s discovery of hiking, and she arranged for eight couples to go together. She got the necessary U.S. Forest Service hiking permit, but one by one, for scheduling reasons or because they hadn’t trained well enough, each of the
other couples dropped out. The sixteen-person hike became a two-person hike—me and Lorrie—but we decided, what the heck, we’d still do it.

We trained for the adventure faithfully. Whenever I was home from a trip, we’d put on our running shoes and run over to a shopping center a mile from our house, where there is a series of stairs leading up a hill to a parking lot. We’d run up and down the stairs fifteen or twenty times, and then we’d jog home.

We kept going to the gym to lift weights, and we went on practice hikes locally, carrying weights in our backpacks. We also did a lot of biking up Mount Diablo, just northeast of Danville.

Lorrie believes that to meet your goals in life, it’s important to write them down. But that’s not enough. You also need to take what she and others call “authentic action” every day to achieve them. That means you have to knock on a door, or make a phone call, or do something concrete to get you closer to your goal. When training to hike the tallest mountain in the continental United States, you have to get out every day and prepare. She made sure we did that. In the middle of our training, I hit a patch of gravel while riding a mountain bike on Mount Diablo, breaking my pelvis. I was out of work for six weeks, and it made getting back to preparations for Mount Whitney that much more challenging.

Lorrie felt that, not unlike our adoption journey, training for the hike would be good for us as a couple. We needed each other for emotional support. When one of us was tired, the other would offer encouragement. And these moments of rallying for each other would be good practice for the support we’d have to give each other on the actual hike.

Our ascent of Mount Whitney was set for September 2, 1999. We got a babysitter for the girls, and rather than driving the seven hours southeast from our house to the mountain, we decided to rent a Cessna Turbo 182RG (a four-seat, single-engine plane) and fly there. It was pretty romantic, just the two of us, heading off to test ourselves in the wilderness.

We planned to complete the hike in one day, but that meant we’d have to start very early. We stayed in a motel near the mountain, woke up at 3
A.M.
, and were on the trail at four-fifteen, wearing our headlamps and backpacks, ready to go. The trailhead starts at 8,300 feet, and if we could make it to the top and back, it would be twenty-one miles round-trip.

In our backpacks we had rain gear, hats, gloves, spare batteries, matches, power bars, water, peanut-butter sandwiches, and other essentials. I also had brought along a gallon-size plastic bag with my mother’s ashes. She had died the January before, and I thought the mountain might be an appropriate place to spread her ashes.

My dad had passed away four years earlier, and after living a pretty traditional life with him, my mom had really come into her own in her final years. My father had been more of a homebody, and my mom had loyally stayed on the home front with him. But once he was gone, she did a great deal of traveling with friends. It was as if she was making up for lost time. She embraced every part of living she could, and it was wonderful to see that. Lorrie and I thought it would be fitting to bring her ashes to this tallest peak so we could set her free in the wind, to continue her travels.

We started our hike well before sunrise, but the moon was half
full, and straight up in the sky. There was so much light from the moon that our bobbing headlamps were almost unnecessary.

The predawn darkness was magnificent. Astronomers would say “the seeing was good.” The air was stable, and so the stars were bright and clear, without much twinkling. It was almost as if we could reach out and touch them.

At first, we were walking in the shadows of tall trees, wearing just light jackets. Once the sun started rising and warmed the mountain, we were able to put the jackets into our backpacks.

The sunrise was spectacular. We were hiking on the eastern side of the mountain, facing west, and one peak behind us was perfectly aligned with the sun, forming a triangularly shaped shadow on the expanse of Whitney ahead of us. As the sun got higher, the black triangle moved down the face of the mountain. It was an amazing sight.

We were also fascinated by how the mountain changed as we climbed. With each change in elevation, we traversed different zones with varying terrain and plants. We encountered marshy areas and some lakes and streams, but as we got higher, the vegetation became more sparse. Portions of the trail were rugged and rocky, and at one point we had to scramble over large boulders. Then the altitude began taking its toll on us. We knew this would happen—we had read the books—but that made it only a little easier to handle. Lorrie had a raging headache, and both of us got sluggish and very tired.

We kept reassuring each other with an old line that marathon runners use: “It’s not twenty-six miles. It’s one mile, twenty-six times.”

We had another mantra: “Anyone can hike Mount Whitney. You just point your feet in an uphill direction, and put one foot in front of the other.” We kept repeating that.

We lost our appetite, which is also common. We knew we had to force ourselves to eat, because we’d need our energy. The guidebooks had told us to bring our favorite foods, even junk food, because we’d be more apt to eat something we liked. It was remarkable to see what happened every time we pulled something to eat from our backpacks. Blue jays would try to land on our shoulders or backpacks to take the food away. Large ground squirrels called marmots would come out of the rocks, almost out of nowhere, and would also try to grab their share. They were all obviously very used to humans and knew that where there were people, there was food.