My first flight instructor, Mario Feola, always loves to ask me questions like that one. He is perpetually curious about how my job is going and how it relates to the tips he passed on to me. He likes to see the ripple effect his teaching had on the making of a learner pilot, especially one like myself, now a new captain on a 45-ton airliner. Instructors are like that, especially wise, gray-haired ones. Mario has as much experience, and gray hair for that matter, as any airman I ever met. He has a big belly, a white beard, and a dominating presence in any room. He’s pretty much a jolly Italian Santa, only happier and more generous if that’s possible. This Santa, however, doesn’t have any reindeer—just a small, single-engine Cessna.

“So, what do you use?”

“Well, to tell you the truth, all of those hours crammed in that sardine can-sized plane with you, sweating in the Mississippi heat, cruising at what seems like dangerously low altitudes, really did have a profound effect. I learned a lot.”

• READ MORE: Ice on the Wings Brings About a Near-Miss Episode

Like the time I was in freezing conditions and started picking up heavy ice outside Minneapolis-Saint Paul International Airport (KMSP). It was the kind of cold that makes penguins shiver and Minnesotans fly south for the winter—which was exactly what we were doing. The thick, clear ice started piling up on any surface exposed to the elements. No big deal: “Turn on the wing anti-ice protection.” Without hesitation, my first officer reached up and moved a switch that propels lava-hot air, taken directly from the interior of our own jet engines, and shoots it down a shielded enclosure within the edge of the wings. The resulting spike in temperature melts even the worst that this frozen tundra can throw at us.

Then it happened…a triple chime.

A triple chime is the highest-priority audible alarm in the aircraft. It is usually followed by a dozen nasty messages from the flight computer and an equal number of vulgarities from the flight crew. This one was no exception—bleed leak. The boiling, hot air from the turbines had escaped and was pouring into the unprotected components inside the wing. In a few moments, the compressed air would begin to destroy flight controls or even melt and deform the wing, leading to an uncontrolled roll motion. But to stop the heat now also meant that the ice would continue to compound aggressively on a cold wing, adding weight and disrupting the flow of air, which leads to an aerodynamic stall and a really bad day for my airline’s insurance provider.

“Remain calm, slow down, think.” Mario’s words passed through my mind. I first heard them a decade before. He was trying to get me to finally understand cross-country flying. Back then, long distance was from Diamondhead, Mississippi, to Slidell, Louisiana, not quite LAX to JFK just yet. “Remain calm, slow down, think.” Sage words reminding a learner that a lot of wrong decisions made in haste can turn a simple problem into the headline on the 9 o’clock news. OK, deep breath…think. I just heard another airplane report that the turbulence dissipated when it exited the clouds far below us. That means this layer must end with the base of the clouds.

• READ MORE: Treat High-Altitude Turbulence with Knowledge and Respect

“Perform the checklist for the bleed leak. We are going to declare an emergency, descend out the bottom of this weather layer and into the clear below,” I thought to myself. “Any ice we pick up will be minimal, and we will carry extra speed into the landing to compensate for any lift lost or weight gained.” Twenty minutes later, I was calmly telling the passengers, “Thank you. Please fly with us again.”

That wasn’t the only time a lesson came hurtling back into my consciousness uninvited. Like the time we were learning how to climb and descend at set speeds. It was a basic and rudimentary task that every pilot must get through. It was during that lesson that I observed our course would drive us into a spring shower, the kind that gently sprinkle rain, barely enough to get the ground wet, just enough to make you curse if you just finished washing your car. I asked Mario to go around it, but he refused: “It’s just water. Remember, it’s only water.” We passed through the shoot of drizzle without so much as a bump. The rain splattered the windscreen and slid right off. My fear was unfounded.

Once on the other side, Mario was quick to point out an unusual anomaly. Down below us, on a bubbly set of cotton-white clouds, was a perfectly round rainbow, cotton-white clouds, was a perfectly round rainbow, and in its center, the shadow of our airplane. “It’s a pilot’s cross,” he said. “It only happens when the sun is behind you, water is still hanging in the air, and those puffy marshmallows are down there. Our shadow makes the shape of a cross, and it’s only ever seen from above, solid proof that God loves pilots.”

A dozen years later, I was passing over the Great Plains. This time, however, I was five times faster and 10 times higher but still just as uneasy when the first few raindrops hit my windscreen. After all, the place 30,000 feet beneath me is nicknamed “Tornado Alley.”

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. You may notice some flashes of lightning originating from the thunderstorm cell to the left side of the aircraft. I just wanted to reassure you that I’ve adjusted our flight path to take us well clear of the storm. However, I do ask that you remain seated and firmly buckled up, as I expect to encounter some residual pockets of isolated rain and turbulence. Please do not be alarmed if we fly through any rain. Remember, it’s only water.”

As I ended the PA, I could see the apprehension of my new-hire copilot beginning to crack through her calm demeanor. “You’re not nervous?” she squeaked out. “Nah, we will be fine,” I said. “God loves pilots.”

At no point did Mario’s words ring truer than during an August flight to Montreal. We had just taken off and made our first turn out of Minneapolis. Passing through 3,000 feet, barely two minutes into our journey, a deafening boom rattled the whole airframe. Dials and needles on the faces of the engine instruments spun wildly out of control, the airplane lurched to one side, and a flame the length of a small car spewed out of the tailpipe of our left engine. I had seen this scenario a dozen times before from the relative calm and safety of our company simulator, but now the stakes were raised with real people behind me and real granite below. Instinctively, I grabbed the controls and reverted back to my Cessna days: “You fly the airplane. Don’t let it fly you.”

“I have the controls. Give me the quick reference checklist for engine one fail, severe damage, no relight, N₁ at 0.0 percent, engine temp past limits, standby for possible fire indication.”

That bark to my copilot was unmistakable. I am the captain. The ship returned to earth just a few seemingly hour-long minutes later with procedures done, flight attendants needlessly ready to spring into action, miles of runway cleared, a massive commercial airport at a standstill, and a dozen fire trucks waiting patiently. I landed without incident, taxied to the gate and then personally apologized to each passenger for the interruption of their travel plans. Every single one of them boarded our spare airplane to take them along the same stretch of sky just 40 minutes later. That told me that they trusted me—and would do so again.

Mario, there are some lessons from you that are far more important, though—the ones I live every day. The things I took to heart most were the things you didn’t do or say—like the fact that you never gave me a bill. Thousands of dollars and hundreds of hours of your time, just volunteered, for nothing in return. You taught me that the best things in life are freely given to those that can never give it back to you. I’ve heard it elsewhere called grace. You taught me the value of patience, especially during the times it seemed like I was learning to crawl, not fly. I’ve never seen you get angry, and I’m not sure it’s possible for you. You taught me about having faith in the people you care about, and you never doubted me, even when I failed—and I failed a lot. You taught me to push myself to excellence, even if that push felt like a kick in the butt.

You once told me that you envied me. I guess it’s because I’m living out your dream occupation. But that’s just not the reality. I envy you. It is true that I’m a captain now, but you didn’t just make me into a pilot. You molded me into a better man, a man more like yourself, and that’s what I really wanted the most. That’s what I learned from you, Mario. I learned about flying, and life, from that.

This column first appeared in the December 2023/Issue 944 of FLYING’s print edition.

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I half-joked that if John was younger and more junior, I could probably guess with reasonable accuracy whether he was a “McChord C-17,” “Whidbey P-3,” or “Whidbey Growler” guy. This is because even though military pilots make up less than half of my airline’s new hires for the first time in our history, they comprise a surprisingly high percentage of the newbies in the Seattle 737 base. I attribute this to the presence of multiple nearby Air Force and Navy Reserve units, which allow pilots who have recently separated from active duty to continue to fly for the military part-time, building toward the 20 years of service that merits a government retirement and healthcare. The largest of these is the Air Force’s 446th Airlift Wing, with three squadrons of C-17s at McChord AFB in Tacoma, Washington. Up at Naval Air Station Whidbey Island, there are three Navy Reserve squadrons: VP-69 (until recently flying the Lockheed P-3 Orion, now converted to the Boeing P-8A Poseidon), VAQ-209 (EA-18G Growler), and VR-61 (Boeing C-40A Clipper).

My limited claim to omniscience perked up John’s attention and he demanded, with a grin, that I take a stab at his background. I knew he was retired military, but his demeanor offered few clues to branch, base, or aircraft. I guessed McChord C-17 and was wrong; in fact, John spent 20 years flying and teaching on P-3s for the Navy and Navy Reserve. But he also spent years in Boeing Flight Test and has been at our airline for six years, which is more than enough to blur the differences not only between military branches and communities but also between military and civilian pilots. Molded by our various backgrounds and experiences, time spent in the airline’s culture tends to erode the edges of all but a few particular individuals.

There was a time, when I was quite young, that my bedroom was adorned with F-16 posters and I had aspirations of military flying. At 12 years old, I was disabused of the notion by an Air National Guard recruiter who noted my substandard eyesight—in those days before LASIK acceptance—barred me from a flight slot in every branch. No matter; I committed to the civilian path and stuck with it.

I had little contact with military aviators at the regional airlines. Horizon had a few Vietnam-era guys on the cusp of retirement, and they were a wild-and-wooly lot even in their dotage. At Compass almost everyone was civilian, but my initial simulator training partner, Rich Metcalf, was a former Air Force F-15C driver who hadn’t touched an airplane in eight years. He had never flown a transport category jet, nor a multicrew airplane, nor one with a glass cockpit or flight management system. Yet for all that, he was magnificent, arguably the sharpest training partner I’ve had in a happy procession of excellent ones.

The major airlines, by their hiring practices, gave credence to the popular notion that military selection and training produced superior pilots, and in Rich I seemed to find terrible confirmation of my inherent inferiority. But then, six years later, I was hired at my current airline, where 95 percent of the captains I flew with were former military aviators. I was startled to find just how similar they were to the pilots I’d known in my decade at the regional airlines. Some were very sharp, others less so; some had natural flying ability, others were wooden; many were kindhearted souls, a few were loudmouthed boors. Every single one made mistakes I’d seen a dozen times before, mistakes I’d made myself. These folks were not superhuman at all; they were working pilots like me. Relieved of my lingering sense of inferiority, I got along famously with almost all these captains and really enjoyed hearing stories of the Ronald Reagan-era military: chasing Russian subs during the Cold War, intercepting TU-95s off the Aleutian Islands, landing on a heaving carrier deck in a typhoon. Often these captains, so used to flying with birds of their own feather, were quite interested to hear my own stories of dark, anxious nights spent alone in the thrumming cocoon of an ancient, overloaded Piper Navajo.

Every once in a while, I’d fly with someone who had never really left the service in their own mind, whose whole identity and ego were wrapped up in their past as a military aviator (most often in the single-seat fighter community). Such captains occasionally earned themselves a private eye roll, but for the most part I indulgently peppered them with questions about their past, to which they predictably rose like a choice trout to a well-presented fly. I received hours of entertaining, most certainly embellished tales out of the deal, plus more than a few free layover beers.

Once I upgraded to captain, I continued to fly with many military pilots, but now they were mostly my age or younger and had been hired within the last few years. Unlike the mostly peacetime Reagan-era captains, these folks spent much of their adult lives at the pointy end of the two-decade “global war on terror.”

The differences are interesting: The egos are smaller, even among fighter jocks, there’s a great deal more diversity, and there’s much more skepticism about the military’s role in the world—and more frank discussion about the highs and lows of service life. I am constantly impressed by the high quality of our new hires, both military and civilian. With rare exceptions, they are extremely sharp individuals and great cockpit companions. They make my job easy. The military pilots, in particular, must learn a great deal in their first months at the airline, especially if they haven’t been flying transport category or multicrew aircraft. Most are very quickly up to speed. I’ve come to realize the airlines’ preference for military aviators isn’t because they’re necessarily superior pilots but because they are predictably trainable in stressful environments. They are used to “drinking through a fire hose.”

A year or two into these pilots’ airline careers, it’s increasingly difficult to tell what branch they came from, even if they continue to fly in the reserves. Another year later, you can’t tell them apart from the civilians. The military pilots have relaxed while the civilians have added some spit and polish. After a few years, most everyone has drifted to a happy medium, which is on the whole a quite good standard—and a big part of the airlines’ enviable safety record the past two decades.

Speaking of which, during our flight to Phoenix, John and I had a eureka moment in which we recalled the details of our previous trip. It was the day of the Christmas bomb cyclone I wrote about in the March issue, with historically terrible weather in Boston, Detroit, and Seattle. John was a fantastic first officer that day, but his cool competence in tough conditions was so utterly normal to my experience that it didn’t make him particularly memorable. This is a great credit not only to John but to all the excellent first officers, military and civilian, with whom I ply the nation’s skies every week. As I near the top third of the seniority list, these folks coming up behind me are becoming the backbone of our airline, remolding our culture in their image. It is a very heartening thing to see.

This column first appeared in the July 2023/Issue 939 print edition of FLYING.

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According to data from FAPA – a pilot career advisory group that’s been tracking hiring trends across 13 major U.S. airlines for over 30 years – United hired 270 pilots in October 2023, the carrier’s highest amount of new hires in a single month. This boils down to nearly 70 new hires each week.

Last year, the airline hired 2,500 pilots, making 2022 a record-setting year for new aviators on United’s property. The 270 new hires in October bring United’s total to 2,296 new pilots so far this year.

In a statement, United told AirlineGeeks that October 2023 was one of the biggest months for pilot hiring in its history.

“In support of our United Next plan, we set out to hire 2,300 pilots this year alone and are on track to exceed that total. We hired over 260 new pilots in October, which is one of [our] highest months ever, and are already working on filling new hire pilot classes in early 2024,” a spokesperson for the airline said.

Trending Above Other Airlines

Across the board, major U.S. airline pilot hiring trended down slightly in September and October 2023. Ultra-low-cost carrier Spirit announced it would be halting all pilot hiring indefinitely. Even for pilots already on their properties, FedEx and UPS management recently told pilots to look for jobs at regional airlines.

So far in 2023, United has been hiring an average of 227 new pilots each month, the highest of any airline in FAPA’s data. Atlanta-based Delta Air Lines is a close second at 224 new hires.

With the COVID-19 pandemic wreaking havoc on pilot training throughput, airlines have been forced to think a bit outside the box to attract and retain new aviators. United has been trying to weather this storm with its Aviate Academy in Arizona.

According to The Denver Post, the airline has also made a $100 million investment to expand its pilot training center in Denver, Colo., which is the largest of its kind worldwide. In addition, some of the carrier’s new hires can bid for higher-paying Boeing 777 and 787 first officer positions after completing initial training.

Not Out of the Woods

Even with a record number of first officers entering its ranks, United and its peers still aren’t out of the woods just yet. A broader pilot shortage has pivoted to a captain shortage where retaining pilots in the left seat has become increasingly more challenging.

United CEO Scott Kirby acknowledged the issues surrounding captain hiring in the company’s Q2 2023 earnings call according to Reuters. “It’s the first time that I’ve ever known it to happen in the airline industry,” he said. “It is going to impact capacity in the fourth quarter.”

Regional carriers can hire so-called ‘direct entry captains’ with the right number of hours. Mainline airlines are restricted to hiring only first officers, but upgrade times to the left seat have become increasingly shorter in recent years. A January 2023 report in Aero Crew News showed that some Delta first officers could move to the left seat in as little as 4.5 months.

Editor’s Note: This article first appeared on AirlineGeeks.com.

The post United Doubles Down on Pilot Hiring, Sets New Record appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

The simple answer is, “No, I don’t miss the airline.” Most folks assume my response is because of COVID-19, inclusive of lunatic passengers, inconsistent schedules, and more. I don’t envy my colleagues, but virus protocols wouldn’t have dictated my early departure had I still been employed. The industry is not a stranger to turmoil, nor are we strangers to the resiliency required to perform the mission of safely flying people, regardless of distractions.

In the glamorous age of the ’60s, the airlines began to transition from complex propeller-driven airplanes to the sophistication and speed of the turbojet. Though the transition was a positive step in air travel, higher altitudes and significantly faster airplanes involved drastic changes for an evolving air traffic control system, growing airport terminals, airline operations, overall training, and pilot skill sets. Were older and more senior pilots capable of transitioning to jets? How would hourly pay be reformulated, now that it took less time to fly from New York to Chicago? In today’s environment the issues may be miniscule, but they created turmoil at the time.

Deregulation was introduced in 1978. Carriers scrambled to fly routes that weren’t accessible in the regulated environment, some biting off more than they could chew. Establishing profitable fares for these routes has become
an artful science of mysterious mathematics.

The turmoil of deregulation continued into the ’80s. Though new carriers attempted to enter the market—e.g., People Express—the casualties were big-name companies that failed to compete: Braniff, Pan Am, and Eastern. Bankruptcies were part of the equation. Furloughed pilots had the option of seeking employment with newer airlines, accepting a position at the bottom of another airline’s seniority list, or simply finding another career.

My former employer, American Airlines, weathered the storm by better defining its market. The company and the union agreed to implement the dreaded “B scale,” a permanent lower-tiered pay structure for new-hire pilots. Other airlines adopted their own versions. The incentive for pilots already on the payroll was rapid advancement.

The plan created a second class of pilots, however. The union felt the pressure of a potential revolt when the number of second-class pilots began to outnumber the others. The airline was becoming profitable with or without the lower pay scale. Within five years, the B scale had all but been eliminated…well, with some caveats.

I accepted the B scale, gambling that it would disappear. American had been my dream since I was 6 years old. However, I soon became despondent enough to consider resigning based on a divisive attitude from some incumbents who believed that “B-scalers” existed only because of the lower pay. They inferred we wouldn’t have been hired based on our own merits—hiring boom or not.

The challenge in the ’90s became the glut of carriers competing in over-saturated markets at high-density airports. On a blue-sky day, it was not uncommon at New York’s LaGuardia airport to crawl an inch at a time in a one-hour departure conga line. Additionally, in the same decade, a handful of accidents changed our way of doing business from loss-of-control training to deicing procedures, and terrain awareness operation.

And then, of course, 9/11 changed not only our threat procedures but our psyche. The old philosophy of simply cooperating with a hijacker vanished almost overnight—we were to fight for control of the cockpit at all costs. Airline pilots lobbied for guns in the cockpit. The Federal Flight Deck Officer (FFDO) program was created.

As the airlines attempted to recover from the financial effects of 9/11 and a self-induced market of inefficient, over-saturated frequency, Chapter 11 became the industry buzzword. Pay cuts were another solution. Pilots were furloughed. Retirement funds were decimated. Carrier consolidation became the next progression. The painful merging of seniority lists made no one happy.

Now comes COVID-19: Mask mandates. Drastic schedule reductions and irregularities. Restricted layover protocols. As for the federal vaccine mandate, contrary to the media’s focus, the issue is not “get the shot or get out,” but rather how a pilot is “accommodated,” if he or she is eligible for a medical or religious exemption. Additionally, pilots don’t react well to being forced into compliance. They need time to analyze. Some hold the concern that if an adverse long-term effect from the vaccine is discovered, will the carrier consider disability pay? For most carriers, an unpaid leave of absence is not an option—they need working employees. So, the solution could be in the form of regular testing for those with exemptions.

For me, the vaccine would be a no-brainer. It’s a mitigation of risk to protect passengers, crew, and fellow employees from a common enemy, just like the FFDO program in which I participated. Yes, the FFDO program was voluntary, but allowing a lethal weapon in the cockpit was mandatory, whether you were the one carrying or not. Initially, I thought the risk outweighed the threat, but I reconsidered when the program proved its worth.

So, why did I retire early? After 34 years, I had reached the pinnacle of my career. Something in my soul said it was time to go. I am truly fortunate that I could choose my own time to make that final retirement flight because so many of my colleagues had no idea they had actually flown their last trip.

Editor’s Note: This column originally appeared in the Q1 2022 issue of FLYING.

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