I used to love looking at maps. As a kid, I'd pull out the biggest road atlas I could find, then try to pick out towns that appeared to be the furthest apart, and guess their distances. I'd look up the most remote locations, and estimate how long it'd take to get there. I spent hours staring holes into these maps, simply because I enjoyed it. In a related story, I also wore braces, had no girlfriend, and spent considerable time trying to pry myself out of school lockers. But as I pored over these maps, I kept coming back to Texas, and was always dumbfounded that a state could be so big. I deduced that one could spend an entire day driving from one corner to the next, and yet still not make it out of the state. Factor in the scorching heat and you're looking at a solid 12-14 hours of desert misery, which is infinitely different than dessert mystery. Fools, I thought. I'll never drive that. What a waste of time.
As I'm learning lately, elements of my past are continually creeping into the forefront of my life. Despite my best efforts to be 'drafted' by the company location I most desired, I got word late Monday evening that I would be headed out to Long Beach, CA. Goodbye Atlantic Ocean, hello Pacific. No more Jacksonville, but plenty more driving: including a straight shot through (yep, you guessed it) the heart of southern Texas. I spent most of that night ignorning Mapquest's driving directions page, instead choosing to focus my energies on procrastinating anything that resembled packing up my Jacksonville apartment. The next day, I trudged wearily into the company offices, hoping there had been some form of paperwork error or misinformation. Nope. It would be Long Beach. Almost on cue, one of the company executives laughingly pulled up the route, and cheerfully announced, "Wow, 38 hours, have fun with that trip." Thanks, man. Getting Long Beach as a base was like being named CEO of Waffle House-sure, you're excited to have reached this point in your career, but there's definitely some obstacles to overcome. After all, it was only a week earlier that I'd made the fateful joke about being 'banished to some random place, like Long Beach.' Well, here I am. Long Beach, California. Gulp.
A few snapshots from my life on the road:
-I alluded to it before, but as it turns out, Texas is really, really big. Crossing the Louisiana-Texas state line, I encountered an ominous road sign: El Paso, 857 miles. In moment of self-denial, I quickly reached for my atlas, hoping that somehow, that wasn't my route. Nope. I settled into the driver's seat a little bit deeper, relaxed my grip on the steering wheel, and took a deep, deep breath. This was going to be one long drive.
-Because I'd been driving since 9PM the previous night, I knew my stamina was about to reach the 'disgruntled fast-food employee' level quickly. I drove for a few more hours, then settled in to a Motel 6 just past San Antonio. As always, my thoughts turned to food, and I starting salivating towards the thought of a hot breakfast bar the next morning. Of course, when I woke up and inquired about said spread, the lady at the counter chortled and replied, "No, there's no breakfast here, but we do have free toothpicks!" Awesome. Thanks for all your help. The next time I'm driving 38 hours across the country and starving to death, I'll be sure to stop by your hotel and clean the food particles out of my teeth.
-Apparently there's not one Chinese person in all of Mississippi or Louisiana. I scoured the freeways for the better part of 5 hours as I transversed their states in vain for a Chinese buffet, but couldn't find one. I kept driving and driving, hoping that each subsequent exit would deliver. I wanted a Chinese buffet. Eventually, as the hunger pains began to take their toll, I resigned myself to pulling over at a Subway. Sure enough, at the first exit heading into Texas, just moments after finishing my sandwich, was a Chinese buffet. Next time, I'm using Mapquest to highlight every Chinese establishment in a six-state radius, just to be safe. I havn't been that disappointed since Home Alone 3.
-In the barren wasteland that is New Mexico, it's not uncommon to travel for long stretches without seeing any signs of life. Ordinarily, this isn't a problem, but when the Silver Tauras' gas light's been on for twenty minutes, a sense of panic ensues. After all, I've made plenty of jokes throughout this blog about pilots being eaten by wild animals. The last thing a traveler wants to have happen is run out of gas on the Interstate in a strange, lonely place. I couldn't remember the last roadsign I'd seen. How far was the next town? Once again, I instinctively reached for the road atlas, hoping to find some off-the-beaten path joint with gas services. No luck. I reduced my speed to a more fuel-efficient 55 MPH, hoping to stave off the impending doom as long as possible. I began to sweat and curse myself for not filling up an hour ago, when I had 1/4 tank left. Finally, out of nowhere, a small outpost appeared on the horizon. "Separ Gift Shop." (Note: this town was so tiny it's not even ON a map. It's true.) I could see the fueling station pumps from the exit ramp, and my I finally exhaled after nearly a half hour of terror. But, as things often seem to be for me, the town of Separ did not have fuel that day. Only the tattered remnants of a once-proud establishment remained. Incredulously, I walked inside to the gift shop, and demanded to know where they were hiding my gas. The poor counter-lady couldn't have been more distraught when I told her how long I'd been driving on empty, how I was SURE there was gas here. Despite her best efforts to sell me some moccasins and cowhide vests, I told her I really needed gas, and asked what the nearest place was. All she could muster was a consolitory, "Honey, if you want GAS, you're looking at TWENTY MINUTES, at least."
Now... it was pouring rain. I had neglected my atlas. My car hated me for subjecting it to a 3rd cross country drive in less than a month. I was hungry. Nobody else was around. Sunset was just around the corner. Thanks to some poor planning, my cell battery was waning. The odds of this story turning out good were about the same as me starting a gardening enthusiasts club. I did the only thing I could: got back into the car, began to pray that I'd miraculously make it to the next town, and kept driving west. As I crept back onto the Interstate, my car bellowed at me like one of those African water buffaloes. Pretending to be deaf, I stepped on the gas pedal, set the cruise for 55 MPH, and kept praying. Soon, a mile passed. Then five. So far, so good. I counted out ten miles, and now I was feeling it, like a high-roller who hits a hot streak at a Craps table. My atlas showed a sizable town, only 11 miles away. I used a Post-It note to cover up my fuel indicator, defiantly protesting against its indications. Another mile down. More prayers. By now, my situation was less dire: if the car died here, at least I was closer to fuel. In the end, it didn't matter: a few minutes later, my car coasted with relative ease to a large fuel station, and in my mind, onlookers and other passerby were cheering and applauding one of the greatest moments in New Mexico transportation history. Somehow, someway, my 15 gallon fuel tank managed to take 15.7 gallons of fuel. I think I'll frame the receipt. The Silver Tauras, and God, had conquered fuel starvation. The name of the town? Lordsburg. Some things were just meant to happen.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Friday, January 15, 2010
Training Days
Of all the Rat's nest, this is horrible things about life, few can stand up to the excruciating monotony of searching for a job. The agonizing periods of waiting, the endless recording of information minutae, and especially the rejection letters-of-doom all add up to some fairly undesirable feelings. More than a few people can relate, especially given the economy. As I neared the flight school finish line, more than anything else I dreaded the long days of trolling the internet for possible job openings and submitting resumes to unnamed human resource personnel in far off places I never dreamed I'd consider living. Fortunately, for all parties involved, I didn't have to wait or search long: while spending the afternoon after my final checkride cleaning the apartment and packing my car, I received an email from the HR department of my flight school, wanting to know if I'd be available for a phone interview later that afternoon. I cleared my schedule (read: there was nothing to be cleared) and prepared myself for what she might ask. The interview came and went, and a few hours later, I had been offered a job as a flight instructor, and I'd be headed back one of my least favorite U.S. cities: Jacksonville, FL.
My disdain for Jax runs deep, stemming from an encounter with a disgruntled taxicab driver back in October and continuing on with my epic two week CFI school imprisonment shortly before Christmas. Throw in the fact that it's one of the most sprawling cities around (count on thirty minutes of driving to get anywhere), obscenely high crime rates, and an overwhelming surplus of overpriced Publix grocery stores and one might begin to form an idea of why even Cleveland ranks higher on USA Today's "Top 10 Most Desirable Getaways" List. I made that last part up. But, still.
Some decisions are hard in life, like determining which breakfast cereal to eat, or whether or not Ben Affleck wears a tupee. Accepting this job wasn't one of them. In aviation, a sure-fire offer on the table always trumps what could be out there. I originally had grand visions of working as a bush pilot up in Alaska, or spending a few years overseas as a missionary pilot. And perhaps someday those plans will still come to fruition. But with a concrete offer on the table, I elected to go with the sure thing. For now, I'm thrilled to be working for the flight school I attended, and even more fortunate to be receiving a paycheck FOR FLYING AIRPLANES. Six months ago, when I first enrolled, completing school on time and exiting with a job offer in hand would have been the absolute most desirable outcome. I like how things turned out, even if I'm in Jacksonville, although it's not entirely awful living three miles from the ocean on 70 degree January days. Somebody has to do it-might as well be me.
It's not been easy. Compressing the amount of information I just learned into a 5 month, 150 Day program was intense, but the company's standardization training has obliterated anything I've ever encountered. It's like brushing your teeth at the bottom of Niagara Falls-just a catastrophic amount of excess pressure everywhere you turn. The demands placed upon me as a salaried pilot are taking their toll. Each day has been chock full of training sessions, simulator prep work, and a ridiculous amount of hours spent in the company business center, where we counsel prospective students on the perils of enrolling in our school. Before we are unleashed to one of the company's 25 nationwide locations, however, we must pass five thorough simulator evalation sessions and two flights with the Chief Instructor. It is here where I ran into my first major obstacle.
Flying in any simulator is the classic double edge sword illustration. You're performing the same checklists, announcing the same callouts, and configuring the device as you would in the air. The value of spending time in a simulator is definitely tangible. However, most sims are often labeled as being squirrelly, or difficult to fly. The obvious difference is that, in the air, you're able to 'feel' the aircraft as changes are made, and compensate accordingly. The reality is, there's simply no substitute for the real thing. Now, I'd succeeded in the sim before, but in my first attempt to pass the evaluation sessions, I crumbled under the pressure and received an unsatisfactory rating. Failing the sim session meant I lost my instructor seniority and was moved to the back of the line. I watched as the four people I was hired with plowed through their sim blocks with the ease of someone loading up their plate at Old Country Buffet. For two weeks I languished in uncertainty, wondering when I'd get another chance. In the meantime, I began pulling even longer days, spending two or three hours in the morning running through procedures and operations and another few hours at night flying in the simulator. Soon, I'd pushed myself to exhaustion and had to take a step back.
No disrespect to anyone who may have, at one point, ran an illegal dogfigthing operation, but these really have been the dog days of my fledgling pilot career. Moments of doubt, mixed with frustration and impatience, are the defining elements of my new struggle. I knew climbing the ladder would be tough, but until you're a few rungs up, you really don't know how far it is to go. Like I used to lament back in my private pilot days, it seems as though everyone is a better, safer, and more experienced pilot than I. And it's true: they are.
I remember thinking, back a few months ago, that when I finished flight school, that THEN I would celebrate and enjoy my hard work. I would lay around, basking in the glow of being done. I would be lazy. Sleep in. I would get fat. These were the things I looked forward to. I distincly recall telling myself to feel proud of what I'd accomplished, that I'd finally 'made it'. Nothing could be farther from the truth. The reality is I am a rookie, that I really don't know too much about anything, and this is the part of my life where I take my lumps, early and often. Responsibility has increased tenfold-I'm no longer the trainee-and it's all on my shoulders. The company has a saying, "If you see it, you're responsible." These days I'm seeing everything. There's no time to be lazy, and get fat, because I've got a flying career now. I am responsible. It is an incredibly sobering thought, that I know just enough to legally teach someone how to fly, and not much else. It's enough to keep me dilligent in my studies, and more than enough to motivate me towards give my everything to the students I'll be teaching.
Fast forward to a few days ago. With all that extra practice time built in, I breezed through the final few simulator evalutations, passed my initial recommendation flight, and now am readying myself for one final flight. Then, I'll wait, for my name to be called, for the final word on where I'll begin my flying career. Early word from HR is that I'll be headed to Indianapolis, or possibly Atlanta. Like an NBA Draft prospect awaiting his fate, I'll be anxious to find out where my Silver Tauras will deliver me next. I only know one thing: it will be someplace other than Jacksonville.
My disdain for Jax runs deep, stemming from an encounter with a disgruntled taxicab driver back in October and continuing on with my epic two week CFI school imprisonment shortly before Christmas. Throw in the fact that it's one of the most sprawling cities around (count on thirty minutes of driving to get anywhere), obscenely high crime rates, and an overwhelming surplus of overpriced Publix grocery stores and one might begin to form an idea of why even Cleveland ranks higher on USA Today's "Top 10 Most Desirable Getaways" List. I made that last part up. But, still.
Some decisions are hard in life, like determining which breakfast cereal to eat, or whether or not Ben Affleck wears a tupee. Accepting this job wasn't one of them. In aviation, a sure-fire offer on the table always trumps what could be out there. I originally had grand visions of working as a bush pilot up in Alaska, or spending a few years overseas as a missionary pilot. And perhaps someday those plans will still come to fruition. But with a concrete offer on the table, I elected to go with the sure thing. For now, I'm thrilled to be working for the flight school I attended, and even more fortunate to be receiving a paycheck FOR FLYING AIRPLANES. Six months ago, when I first enrolled, completing school on time and exiting with a job offer in hand would have been the absolute most desirable outcome. I like how things turned out, even if I'm in Jacksonville, although it's not entirely awful living three miles from the ocean on 70 degree January days. Somebody has to do it-might as well be me.
It's not been easy. Compressing the amount of information I just learned into a 5 month, 150 Day program was intense, but the company's standardization training has obliterated anything I've ever encountered. It's like brushing your teeth at the bottom of Niagara Falls-just a catastrophic amount of excess pressure everywhere you turn. The demands placed upon me as a salaried pilot are taking their toll. Each day has been chock full of training sessions, simulator prep work, and a ridiculous amount of hours spent in the company business center, where we counsel prospective students on the perils of enrolling in our school. Before we are unleashed to one of the company's 25 nationwide locations, however, we must pass five thorough simulator evalation sessions and two flights with the Chief Instructor. It is here where I ran into my first major obstacle.
Flying in any simulator is the classic double edge sword illustration. You're performing the same checklists, announcing the same callouts, and configuring the device as you would in the air. The value of spending time in a simulator is definitely tangible. However, most sims are often labeled as being squirrelly, or difficult to fly. The obvious difference is that, in the air, you're able to 'feel' the aircraft as changes are made, and compensate accordingly. The reality is, there's simply no substitute for the real thing. Now, I'd succeeded in the sim before, but in my first attempt to pass the evaluation sessions, I crumbled under the pressure and received an unsatisfactory rating. Failing the sim session meant I lost my instructor seniority and was moved to the back of the line. I watched as the four people I was hired with plowed through their sim blocks with the ease of someone loading up their plate at Old Country Buffet. For two weeks I languished in uncertainty, wondering when I'd get another chance. In the meantime, I began pulling even longer days, spending two or three hours in the morning running through procedures and operations and another few hours at night flying in the simulator. Soon, I'd pushed myself to exhaustion and had to take a step back.
No disrespect to anyone who may have, at one point, ran an illegal dogfigthing operation, but these really have been the dog days of my fledgling pilot career. Moments of doubt, mixed with frustration and impatience, are the defining elements of my new struggle. I knew climbing the ladder would be tough, but until you're a few rungs up, you really don't know how far it is to go. Like I used to lament back in my private pilot days, it seems as though everyone is a better, safer, and more experienced pilot than I. And it's true: they are.
I remember thinking, back a few months ago, that when I finished flight school, that THEN I would celebrate and enjoy my hard work. I would lay around, basking in the glow of being done. I would be lazy. Sleep in. I would get fat. These were the things I looked forward to. I distincly recall telling myself to feel proud of what I'd accomplished, that I'd finally 'made it'. Nothing could be farther from the truth. The reality is I am a rookie, that I really don't know too much about anything, and this is the part of my life where I take my lumps, early and often. Responsibility has increased tenfold-I'm no longer the trainee-and it's all on my shoulders. The company has a saying, "If you see it, you're responsible." These days I'm seeing everything. There's no time to be lazy, and get fat, because I've got a flying career now. I am responsible. It is an incredibly sobering thought, that I know just enough to legally teach someone how to fly, and not much else. It's enough to keep me dilligent in my studies, and more than enough to motivate me towards give my everything to the students I'll be teaching.
Fast forward to a few days ago. With all that extra practice time built in, I breezed through the final few simulator evalutations, passed my initial recommendation flight, and now am readying myself for one final flight. Then, I'll wait, for my name to be called, for the final word on where I'll begin my flying career. Early word from HR is that I'll be headed to Indianapolis, or possibly Atlanta. Like an NBA Draft prospect awaiting his fate, I'll be anxious to find out where my Silver Tauras will deliver me next. I only know one thing: it will be someplace other than Jacksonville.
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