Highest Duty (2 page)

I didn’t completely focus on it at the time, but I realize now that my entrance into the world of piloting was very traditional. This is how people had learned to fly since the beginning: an older, veteran pilot teaching the basics to a youngster from a grass strip under an open sky.

I look back and appreciate very much that I was a lucky young man. It was a wonderful start.

N
O ONE
else in my high school was interested in being a pilot, so I was alone in my pursuit. I had friends, but a lot of the other kids saw me as this shy, studious, serious boy always reading flight manuals and heading out to the airstrip. I was not easily outgoing. I was more comfortable in a cockpit.

In some ways, I grew up fast on that airstrip, learning things that helped me see the possibilities in life, and the great risks.

One day, when I got out to Mr. Cook’s hangar, I noticed a Piper Tri-Pacer, painted white with red trim, crumpled on the field at the north end of the runway. Mr. Cook told me the story. A friend of his was bringing the Tri-Pacer in for a landing, approaching the airstrip, and he had to cross over U.S. 82. He didn’t realize until it was too late that there were twenty-foot-high power lines stretched along the highway. He pulled up the nose of the plane to clear the wires, but that action caused him to slow down and lose lift. His plane slammed down nose-first into the ground, and he died instantly.

No one had come yet to collect the wrecked plane, and so there it still sat at the end of the airstrip. I walked a quarter mile up to it and looked inside at the blood-splattered cockpit. In those days, airplanes had only lap belts, not shoulder harnesses, and I figured that his head must have hit the instrument panel with great violence. I tried to visualize how it all might have happened—his effort to avoid the power lines, his loss of speed, the awful impact. I forced myself to look in the cockpit, to study it. It would have been easier to look away, but I didn’t.

It was a pretty sobering moment for a sixteen-year-old, and it made quite an impression on me. I realized that flying a plane meant not making mistakes. You had to maintain control of everything. You had to look out for the wires, the birds, the trees, the fog, while monitoring everything in the cockpit. You had to be vigilant and alert. It was equally important to know what was possible and what was not. One simple mistake could mean death.

I processed all this, but that sad scene didn’t give me pause. I vowed to learn all there was to know to minimize the risks.

I knew I never wanted to be a hot dog—that could get me killed—but I did make my own fun. I’d tell my parents and younger sister to step outside our home at an appointed time, and then I’d fly over and waggle the wings up and down to say hello to them. We lived in such a sparsely populated area that regulations allowed me to fly as low as five hundred feet above the house. My family couldn’t exactly see my face, but they could see me waving at them.

By October 1968, after seventy hours in the air, I was ready to try for a private pilot certificate, which required a “check ride” with an FAA examiner. I passed, which allowed me to fly with a passenger.

I thought the honor of first passenger ought to go to my mother, and my logbook shows I took her for a ride on October 29, 1968, the day after I got my certificate. I put a simple little star next to the flight data in the logbook; a small acknowledgment of a special moment. It was the 1960s equivalent of an e-mailed smiley face.

My mom didn’t seem nervous that day, just proud. As I helped her into the back seat and strapped her in, I described the sounds she would hear, what we’d see, how her stomach might feel. The upside of my being so serious, I guess, is that I struck people as responsible and able. I wasn’t a flouter of rules. And so my mom had confidence in me. She just sat back, her life in my hands, with no urge to be a back-seat driver. She let me chauffeur her around in the sky, and when we landed, she hugged me.

The possibility of having passengers opened up a new world, and after I took my sister, my dad, and my grandparents for a ride, I found the courage to ask someone else. Her name was Carole, and she was a cute, slender girl with brown hair and glasses. We went to Denison High together, and we were also in our church choir. I had a crush on her, and I liked to think she had noticed me, too. There are girls who are good-looking and know it, and have the luxury of getting by on their beauty. Carole was attractive, yet she didn’t carry herself like those girls. Even though she wasn’t overtly outgoing, she had an open, friendly manner that just drew people in.

No girl had ever expressed much interest in my experiences as a pilot. This was long before the movie
Top Gun
, and in any case, I wasn’t Tom Cruise. Besides, flying was an abstract thing. No one saw me doing it. It’s not like I caught winning touchdown passes and had my picture in the local paper. Everything I did was out of view and high in the sky. If I mentioned flying to girls, they never seemed hugely impressed. It sometimes felt like they were bored with the conversation. Or maybe I wasn’t able to find the right words to convey the majesty of it.

In any case, I decided to see if I could interest Carole. She was quiet—similar to me in that way—and so it was often difficult keeping conversations going with her. When I asked her if she’d like to go flying with me, I had no expectations. Even if she wanted to go, I figured her parents wouldn’t allow it. But she asked them, and they agreed to let her go on a forty-five-minute trip across the Arkansas and Poteau rivers to Fort Smith, Arkansas.

This was my effort at a date, and I was pretty thrilled that it
was going to happen. Looking back, it’s remarkable that her mom and dad said yes. In essence, they were allowing a boy, not yet eighteen years old, to take their underage daughter across state lines. In a light airplane, no less.

And so we went. It was a clear, cold day with smooth air and good visibility. You could see for miles in any direction. Airplanes are noisy, so it’s hard to converse. I’d yell, “That’s the Red River down there,” and she’d yell back, “What?” and I’d repeat myself. But I was so happy to have her aboard.

We flew in a Cessna 150 I’d rented for two hours. This was a very small airplane, with room only for two people, sitting side by side. The whole cabin was just three feet wide, and so my right leg was touching her left leg. There was no other way to do it.

Picture me, seventeen years old, with this pretty girl next to me, her leg touching mine for two hours, my arm rubbing against her arm. I could smell her perfume, or maybe it was her shampoo. Once in a while she’d lean over me to look at the sights out my window, her hair brushing against my arm. It was a new experience for me, realizing that flying could be such a sensual experience.

Was it hard for me to concentrate on the controls? No. I guess that was just another example of how a pilot has to learn to compartmentalize. I was completely aware of Carole, but I was also on task and responsible. I wanted to woo her, but my most important job was to keep her safe.

Not much came of our relationship, but that flight—sitting so close to her, shouting out landmarks of the Texas countryside, taking her to lunch at the Fort Smith airport—well, it’s just a sweet, warm memory.

A pilot can have thousands of takeoffs and landings, most of them unremarkable. Certain ones, though, he never forgets.

T
HE LAST
time I was out at L. T. Cook’s airstrip was in the late 1970s. I had lost touch with him in the early eighties, and I later learned he had cancer, and had several tumors removed from his neck and jaw. Some people speculated that his illness was a result of all the crop-dusting chemicals he sprayed every day. He died in 2001.

After my emergency landing of US Airways Flight 1549 in the Hudson River, I got thousands of e-mails and letters from people expressing gratitude for what my crew and I did to save all 155 people on board. In one stack of mail, I was thrilled to discover a note from Mr. Cook’s widow, whom I hadn’t heard from in years. Her words lifted my spirits. “L.T. wouldn’t be surprised,” she wrote, “but he certainly would be pleased and proud.”

In many ways, all my mentors, heroes, and loved ones—those who taught me and encouraged me and saw the possibilities in me—were with me in the cockpit of Flight 1549. We had lost both engines. It was a dire situation, but there were lessons people had instilled in me that served me well. Mr. Cook’s lessons were a part of what guided me on that five-minute flight. He was the consummate stick-and-rudder man, and that day over New York was certainly a stick-and-rudder day.

I’ve done a lot of thinking since then about all the special people who mattered to me, about the hundreds of books on flying that I’ve studied, about the tragedies I’ve witnessed again and
again as a military pilot, about the adventures and setbacks in my airline career, about the romance of flying, and about the long-ago memories.

I’ve come to realize that my journey to the Hudson River didn’t begin at LaGuardia Airport. It began decades before, in my childhood home, on Mr. Cook’s grass airfield, in the skies over North Texas, in the California home I now share with my wife, Lorrie, and our two daughters, and on all the jets I’ve flown toward the horizon.

Flight 1549 wasn’t just a five-minute journey. My entire life led me safely to that river.

I
WAS LUCKY
enough to discover my passion for flying when I was very young, and to indulge that passion day after day. Lucky that some things went my way; my eyesight, for instance, was good enough to allow me to become a fighter pilot. And lucky that when I left the military, I found work as an airline pilot, when such jobs weren’t plentiful.

I still feel fortunate, after all these years, to be able to follow my passion. The airline industry has its problems, and a lot of the issues can be troubling and wearying, but I still find purpose and satisfaction in flying.

There’s a literal freedom you feel when you’re at the controls, gliding above the surface of the earth, no longer bound by gravity. It’s as if you’re rising above the nitty-gritty details of life. Even at a few thousand feet, you get a wider perspective. Problems that
loom large down below feel smaller from that height, and smaller still by the time you reach thirty-five thousand feet.

I love that flying is an intellectual challenge, and that there’s mental math that needs to be done all along the way. If you change the angle of the nose versus the horizon by even one degree while traveling at a typical commercial airliner speed of seven nautical miles a minute, it’s enough to increase or decrease your rate of climb or descent by seven hundred feet per minute. I enjoy keeping track of all the calculations, staying aware of the weather conditions, working with a team—flight attendants, air traffic controllers, first officers, maintenance crews—while knowing intimately what the plane can and cannot do. Even when the controls are being manipulated through automation, pilots have to back up the computer systems with their own mental math. I like the challenge of that.

I also like sharing my passion for flying. It’s a disappointment to me that a lot of kids today aren’t especially fascinated by flight. I’ve watched countless children walk past the cockpit without paying much attention; they’re too focused on their video games or their iPods.

When there are children who eagerly want a look inside “my office” at the front of the plane, their enthusiasm is contagious. It’s so gratifying to see their excitement about something I care deeply about. If we aren’t busy during boarding, the first officer and I enjoy inviting inquisitive children to sit in our seats in the cockpit, ask questions, and let their parents take photos of them wearing a captain’s hat.

Being a pilot has a tangible end result that is beneficial to society.
It feels good to take a planeload of 183 people where they need or want to go. My job is to reunite people with family and friends, to send them on long-awaited vacations, to bring them to loved ones’ funerals, to get them to their job interviews. By the end of a day, after piloting three or four trips, I’ve taken four or five hundred people safely to their destinations, and I feel as if I’ve accomplished something. All of them have their own stories, motivations, needs—and helping them brings a rewarding feeling.

This is what gets me ready for work, and one of the things I look forward to.

I
DID
not kiss my wife good-bye.

It was five-thirty Monday morning, and I was leaving home for a four-day trip. My schedule had me piloting seven US Airways flights, with the last leg set for Thursday, January 15: Flight 1549 from New York to Charlotte.

I didn’t kiss Lorrie because, over the years, I’ve come to realize that Lorrie is a light sleeper, and though I’d like to quietly kiss her before every trip and whisper “I love you,” doing so at 5:30
A.M
. wouldn’t be fair to her. I’d leave, and she’d be left there in bed, eyes open, to contemplate everything that she and our two daughters needed to do in the days ahead—all of it without me or my help.

Despite my passion for flying, the constant departures that define a pilot’s life have been very hard on us. Gone from home about eighteen days per month, I have missed well over half of my children’s lives.

My leaving isn’t an indication that I love flying more than I love my wife and kids. In fact, Lorrie and I have talked in recent years about my doing something besides commercial aviation, something that would keep me closer to home. Despite the limits on how a man can reinvent himself, I’ve been confident about finding another way of meeting my family’s financial needs that would equal being an airline captain. But I’ve wanted it to be a good fit that would take advantage of my life experiences. In the meantime, my dedication to the profession remains strong. And Lorrie knows me. She knows what flying means to me. We’ve found our ways to cope.

And so on that Monday, like so many before, I took my leave. Lorrie and our daughters, Kate, sixteen, and Kelly, fourteen, were fast asleep when I pulled the car out of our garage in Danville, California, and headed for San Francisco International Airport.

As the sun rose, I was already thirty-five miles away, crossing over San Francisco Bay on the San Mateo Bridge. I needed to be on a 7:30
A.M
. flight to Charlotte—as a passenger.

Flight crews all have a base of operation, and mine is Charlotte, North Carolina. I used to be based in San Francisco, beginning in the early 1980s, when I flew for Pacific Southwest Airlines. In 1988, PSA merged with USAir, and I became a USAir pilot. In 1995, when USAir closed its San Francisco base, my base became Pittsburgh and then Charlotte. Lorrie and I wanted to remain in California, so like others based far from home, I’ve made a decision to commute across the country to start my work. We have chosen this life, and I’m grateful the airline allows it. Still, the logistics of it are wearying.

I don’t have to pay for my flights to get to work, but I do have to go standby. If no seat is available, I can usually ride in the jumpseat in the cockpit. That’s my ace in the hole. Mostly, though, I prefer to be in the back of the plane, out of the way of the pilots doing their job. In the back, I can read a book or close my eyes and try to sleep.

Because I’m in uniform, passengers will sometimes ask me a question about the flight, the turbulence, or how to best jam their overstuffed bags into the overhead compartment. Just as often, no one really notices me.

That’s how it was on the flight that day to Charlotte. I sat there in my middle seat in coach, as anonymous as always, with no conception that by week’s end everything would change. These were the final days of my old familiar life as a pilot.

I
AM
a man of routine, and there’s a precision to my life that leaves Lorrie rolling her eyes sometimes. She says I’m very controlled and regimented, and though she believes that is part of what makes me a good pilot, it also makes me hard to live with on occasion. Lorrie knows other pilots’ spouses who describe them the same way. Like me, they’ll come home after days away and try to take charge, annoying loved ones by reorganizing the dishes in the dishwasher, finding a more efficient way to stack everything. I guess the flying culture—all our training—is what makes us so organized. Or, as Lorrie suspects, maybe there’s a certain type of personality attracted to the profession. In any case, I suppose I’m guilty as charged. But my exacting
approach to things may serve me well in a lot of ways.

I had packed for this four-day trip the same way I pack for every four-day trip. I never want to bring more than necessary. I wore my captain’s uniform—jacket and pants—and in my pilot’s “roll-aboard” carry-on, brought three clean shirts, three pairs of underwear, three pairs of socks, my shaving kit, running shoes, an umbrella, an iPod, my laptop to check e-mail, and four books to read. I also had my American Express
SkyGuide
, which lists the complete North American flight schedule for all airlines. In a shirt pocket I had a US Airways trip sheet, with a full itinerary for the four days. Since my travels would take me to Pittsburgh and New York, where the weather would be cold and possibly snowy, I also brought a long winter overcoat, gloves, and a knit cap.

I enjoy listening to music on an iPod when I am in a city for an overnight. I always try to make a point of leaving the hotel to go for a walk, with music in my ears. Lately, I’ve been partial to Natalie Merchant, Green Day, the Killers, and Evanescence. I also find myself listening again and again to the works of Fritz Kreisler, the legendary Austrian violinist. He composed and recorded
Liebesleid
(Love’s Sorrow) and
Liebesfreud
(Love’s Joy), which is an inspiring sound track on a walk or run around a city, lost in your own thoughts.

In recent years, I’ve also been spending more time on the road focused on my future up the road. I am fifty-eight years old, and I face mandatory retirement from the cockpit when I turn sixty-five. What will I do then? Since September 11, 2001, the airline industry has been ailing, and as a result of cutbacks, I’ve lost 40 percent of my salary. Meanwhile, the US Airways pension
I thought I could count on was terminated in 2004, and a government-backed replacement plan is a very weak substitute. As a result, I’ve lost more than two-thirds of my pension. My story is a familiar one across the airline industry.

Trying to earn money elsewhere, I’ve bought some real estate over the years, with mixed results. I own a property in Northern California that used to house a Jiffy Lube oil-change franchise. The operation didn’t renew its lease, however, and I’ve been unable to find a new tenant. So as I sat on that flight to Charlotte, I went over some of those details in my head.

About a year ago, I also started my own side business, a consulting company called Safety Reliability Methods, Inc. It seemed like the right fit for me as my flying career winds down. Long before the landing in the Hudson, I’d been passionately involved in matters of air safety, dating back to my days as an Air Force fighter pilot. And so I brought three books on this four-day trip that were related to issues I want to address as a consultant.

I’ve been slowly building my firm, designed to help those in other occupations benefit from the airline industry’s tactical and strategic approaches to safety. Pilots have extensive checklists that we follow in the cockpit. My firm encourages initiatives, such as those now under way in medicine, that mirror pilots’ checklists. For instance, the World Health Organization now suggests the use of surgical safety checklists, requiring hospital teams to make certain that a patient’s known allergies are checked, and instruments, needles, and sponges are counted to make sure none are left inside a patient.

I think commercial aviation is ultrasafe. Given the number of
passengers we deliver safely to their destinations each day, and the relatively low risk associated with flying, our record so far is commendable. But airline companies must remain diligent, especially in the face of all the economic cutbacks plaguing the industry, or our good record could be compromised.

One of the books I had with me on that trip was
Just Culture
by Sidney Dekker, borrowed from my local library. Dekker writes about the balancing act between accountability and learning when it comes to people reporting safety issues. I have long believed that we can make a company culture, government, or community safer by encouraging people to report their own mistakes and safety deficiencies. So this book was a confirmation of my own study of these issues and my years of experience as a pilot.

As I sat in my middle seat on the way to Charlotte, I found myself reading and taking notes for my consulting business. I don’t recall trading too many words with the passengers on either side of me.

When I’m a passenger in the back of a plane, though I’m reading or trying to nap or worrying about the shuttered Jiffy Lube, I still have a general awareness of how the flight is going and what the pilots are doing. I can feel the movements of the airplane. Most of my fellow passengers are engaged with their own books or are tapping away on their laptops, and they don’t realize subtle things. But even when I’m not trying, I can tell when the plane is climbing or descending, or when the pilots are changing the flap setting or the engine thrust. For pilots, that general awareness comes with the territory.

The flight I was on had left San Francisco at 7:30
A.M.
Pacific
time, and arrived in Charlotte at 3:15
P.M
. Eastern time. I got something to eat at the airport in Charlotte and then made my way to the gate for my first piloted flight of the four-day trip. I’d be going right back to San Francisco, flying an Airbus A321, carrying about 180 passengers.

Once I got to the gate, I smiled at some of the passengers and greeted the three flight attendants—Sheila Dail, Donna Dent, and Doreen Welsh. I had flown with Sheila and Donna before. I’m guessing I had shared trips with Doreen, too, some years ago, when we were both based in Pittsburgh. Because US Airways hasn’t hired new flight attendants in years, all our crews are veterans. Doreen, now fifty-eight, joined the company in 1970 when it was Allegheny Airlines. That’s thirty-eight years of experience. Both Sheila, fifty-seven, and Donna, fifty-one, have more than twenty-six years with the airline.

At the gate, I also shook hands with Jeff Skiles, the first officer who’d be flying with me. He and I had never met before, so we introduced ourselves. Along with Sheila, Donna, and Doreen, we’d be a team for the next four days.

Despite all my years as a pilot, it’s common for me to have a first officer or flight attendants I’ve never met. Even after some serious downsizing, US Airways still has about 5,000 pilots and 6,600 flight attendants. It’s impossible to know them all.

It is standard at our airline for a crew to have a brief meeting together at the start of a trip. It’s vital to make individuals feel like a team quickly so that they can work almost as well together on the first flight as they naturally would after having flown several flights together. So before the passengers boarded we stood—Jeff,
Sheila, Donna, Doreen, and I—in the aisle of the empty first-class cabin for a couple minutes, and I said a few words.

As the captain, it’s up to me to set the tone. I want to be approachable. I asked the flight attendants to be my eyes and ears during the days ahead, to tell me about anything important that I couldn’t observe from the cockpit. I asked them to let me know what they needed to do their jobs—catering, cleaning, whatever—and told them I’d try to help. I wanted them to know I was looking out for them. “I can’t get you your retirement plans back, but I can do a few things that will make your quality of life better. One of them is, when we arrive at our destination on the last flight of a day, I’ll call the hotel and make sure that they’ve sent the van so we’re not waiting for twenty minutes.”