Friday, Aug 29, 2008
Stripping down in the cockpit. Plus, lessons on how to stall out at the speed of sound.
May 2, 2003 | I've been asked to comment on the recent but already infamous story of the Southwest pilots terminated for going au naturel in flight. But I'm withholding statement since these sorts of things have a way of becoming wildly distorted when stripped, if you will, of context.
I don't know what they were doing. And no, I've never taken my clothes off during flight. Except for once, in the summer of 1995, when a pavement-melting heat wave was sweeping across the Midwest and I was based at Chicago as a first officer on a 64-seat ATR-72.
The European-built ATR was a wonderful example of technology for the sake of itself -- a fragile, gratuitously sophisticated aircraft deployed on short-range commuter routes that require sturdy, low-tech dependability. And in all that fancy wiring and plumbing, they forgot the air conditioning. Tiny eyeball vents blew wisps of tepid air through the cockpit and cabin.
On this particular day, the temperature had hit 107, and a thick haze had dropped over O'Hare like a yellow blanket of steam. I was up front, finishing my preflight checks and waiting for the captain. I was so hot that I could hardly move. So I took my shirt and tie off. Pilot shirts, which look nice but are mostly polyester, are uncomfortable enough in a perfect climate. Crank the heat and it's like wearing chain mail. I also removed my shoes and socks.
The captain arrived -- a serious, overweight fellow in his 50s whom I'd never met before. He stepped into the cockpit and discovered Patrick Smith drenched in perspiration, dehydrated and wearing only blue pants and a Sony headset.
He didn't speak at first. Then he sat down, looked at me and said quietly: "You are going to put your clothes back on, aren't you?"
My answer was no. I told him I'd get dressed again as soon as the interior temperature dropped below 90 degrees, provided I was still conscious. I offered to put a T-shirt on, but the only one I had handy, from my luggage, was a Hüsker Dü tour shirt from 1983. It was almost as yellow and discolored as the putrid Chicago sky, and on the front it said "Metal Circus," which seemed only to further discombobulate the captain. "Arright, fine," he said. "Just don't let anyone see you."
And so I flew bare-chested, all the way to Lansing and back.
I wish I had a more racy -- or at least embarrassing -- story, but that's about as crazy as it gets. Years later, on another scorching hot flight, a pilot showed me how to make a squeeze bottle of cold air by filling an empty soda container with dry ice and poking a hole in the cap. Of course, I had more exciting uses for dry ice.
Anyway, on that note ...
I'll have you know it was an editorial decision, not the author's, to go with the word "geekfest" in our lecture about aerodynamics two weeks ago.
No harm done, it seemed, and, after all, I've used the word myself to characterize airliner buffs and other aviation obsessives. Back when this column made its debut, one of the first letters I received called me "an aeronautics geek," which I was tempted to accept as a compliment if only it hadn't been modified by "fucking."
But then I started thinking. Are pilots geeks by virtue of their profession, or only when they start elaborating on the technicalities of ailerons and airfoils? It doesn't seem fair. To most people, flying a plane isn't geeky; and you can't fly a plane without understanding how it works. Do we call doctors "medical geeks" when they explain brain surgery? (Though I guess their business tends to be a bit more philanthropic than flying, avoiding the tease.) Do we call painters and rock musicians "arts geeks"? (But then, artists and bass players meet a lot more women than pilots do.)
Where on a résumé, exactly, is geek status revealed? Is it found at the bottom under "personal," or is it inherent in the applicant's career objective? Geekiness has always been a sort of panoccupational attribute, I thought, a product of personality, not specific to a chosen field. You tell me. I'm a guy who barely knows the multiplication tables and got a D in 11th grade algebra. Am I a geek in spite of that, or exactly because of it? Or does it all depend how I dress?
A reader -- cynical, astute and maybe a bit paranoid -- comments: "I thought geeks were computer nerds. I am beginning to see that perhaps being a geek (or a nerd) means doing or knowing absolutely anything useful, and the term is now used to describe anyone who does not use charisma, manipulation, charm or forcefulness as their means of achieving a position in society."
You mean I got no charisma? Besides, how many geeks get to carry guns to work?
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