---So I was working EA's D-side one day and there wasn't a whole lot going on, but there was enough traffic to keep me there. Anyway, EA drops his pencil, looks down, bends over to get it muttering "Well shit" while he does so.
What he doesn't know is that the microphone trigger that he's got clipped to his waistband was just depressed by his belly when he bent over.
He straightens up, and an aircraft broadcasts over the frequency "I hope that wasn't for us Center."
---I'm working at the Toledo sector and CC is working to my right at the Lansing sector. I figure he's got a pilot that's not paying attention which is really bad. But he's not busy, evidently, cause he starts knocking on the scope saying "Hello, McFly." Anyway, I look over at him, and I see behind him one of the supervisors with a bunch of middle aged ladies on a tour of the place. Cracks me up.
So I'm laughing really hard and CC is looking at me like I'm mental cause what he's doing isn't all that funny. He goes with it though and continues to knock on his scope and say "Hello, McFly" until it occurs to him to look around.
Didn't take him long to see why I thought what he was doing so funny. There they all stood watching him. Really made an impression on them, I'm sure.
---We had this one guy there that had RW as his operating initials. Always knew where you stood with RW. I'm pretty sure he didn't like anybody.
Anyway, there was weather that day, and we all get verbal when there's weather. By that, I mean we tend to swear. A lot.
So RW works a fairly ugly session at the Peck sector (Chicago O'Hare arrivals mainly). He gets done, takes a look around the control room and without missing a beat says "Who let those fucking nuns in here?"
Yup. There were nuns in the control room. Another tour group that got to see a controller at his finest.
---Last one, for today anyway, DR was working the Jackson sector which happened to be right next to the supervisors desk. He's working the Detroit Metro departures out, when the phone rings behind him and the supervisor answers.
One of the other controllers was on the phone trying to get the night off, but he wasn't going to get it.
An aircraft on DR's frequency asks for direct Green Bay, DR keys up to answer him just as the supervisor fairly shouts into the phone "Not only no, but hell no!"
The aircraft says "Roger".
Saturday, October 27, 2007
Monday, October 22, 2007
Just having a little fun
I don't suppose most of you will find this funny, but I sure did.
It was April 1st, you know, anyway one of the services we provide is to call "traffic" for aircraft since most of the midairs occur between an IFR aircraft and VFR aircraft. Anyway, QK was working one of the high sectors, no VFR traffic up there, and mostly commercial airliners.
She gets this idea in her head, but doesn't follow through on the frequency. Probably a good thing.
She tells me about it on our next break.
Here's how it goes:
She's going to call traffic to two aircraft, "Northwest one-twenty-one, traffic, twelve o'clock, eight miles, opposite direction, flight level three-five-zero."
"United six-forty-three, traffic, twelve o'clock, eight miles, opposite direction, flight level three-five-zero."
Then she'd give them a minute to realize she's just told them they're both at the same altitude, and heading straight for each other.
Then she'll key up and say "April Fool's".
So maybe I'm the only one laughing here, but it is funny.
It was April 1st, you know, anyway one of the services we provide is to call "traffic" for aircraft since most of the midairs occur between an IFR aircraft and VFR aircraft. Anyway, QK was working one of the high sectors, no VFR traffic up there, and mostly commercial airliners.
She gets this idea in her head, but doesn't follow through on the frequency. Probably a good thing.
She tells me about it on our next break.
Here's how it goes:
She's going to call traffic to two aircraft, "Northwest one-twenty-one, traffic, twelve o'clock, eight miles, opposite direction, flight level three-five-zero."
"United six-forty-three, traffic, twelve o'clock, eight miles, opposite direction, flight level three-five-zero."
Then she'd give them a minute to realize she's just told them they're both at the same altitude, and heading straight for each other.
Then she'll key up and say "April Fool's".
So maybe I'm the only one laughing here, but it is funny.
Sunday, October 21, 2007
Say What?
Another friend of mine, and one that went through the academy with me is QK. She's a riot to work with, though most people don't "get" what the hell we're laughing about. All the time.
Anyway, she was working the Toledo sector for the second day in a row during the noon departure rush. They were coming out steady from Detroit, and she kept pumpin' them up, handing them off, and climbing them out of her airspace.
She took several handoffs and here's what happened next.
"Cleveland Center, Northwest twenty-six, out of eight thousand for one-three thousand."
"Northwest twenty-six, Cleveland Center roger, climb and maintain one-six thousand. The Toledo altimeter, two-niner-niner-eight."
Before the Northwest could respond someone keyed up and broadcast "OH NO, IT'S YOU!"
A quick scan showed her one of the handoffs she'd taken was a general aviation aircraft that she'd kind of dicked over the day before.
We both got a good laugh out off the situation.
And it just goes to show, you might only be a voice, but everyone still knows who you are.
Anyway, she was working the Toledo sector for the second day in a row during the noon departure rush. They were coming out steady from Detroit, and she kept pumpin' them up, handing them off, and climbing them out of her airspace.
She took several handoffs and here's what happened next.
"Cleveland Center, Northwest twenty-six, out of eight thousand for one-three thousand."
"Northwest twenty-six, Cleveland Center roger, climb and maintain one-six thousand. The Toledo altimeter, two-niner-niner-eight."
Before the Northwest could respond someone keyed up and broadcast "OH NO, IT'S YOU!"
A quick scan showed her one of the handoffs she'd taken was a general aviation aircraft that she'd kind of dicked over the day before.
We both got a good laugh out off the situation.
And it just goes to show, you might only be a voice, but everyone still knows who you are.
Saturday, October 20, 2007
On Killing the Pope
It is frowned upon by management to endanger either the Pope, or the President of the United States. Sure, there are other dignitaries we're not supposde to kill either, but since I'll mostly talk about these two, here's the rules I was taught to play by.
Our usual separation standards are five miles or a thousnad feet. That means that we can't get two planes within five miles laterally, or a thousand feet vertically of each other. Ever.
With the Pope and the President we used to have to add additional miles and feet because they were such important men.
On this specific day, a friend of mine RB was working the Pope's plane. He'd been told not to let anyone get within twenty miles or two thousand feet of the Pope. So the Pope departs the Detroit Metro area and RB is climbing him to sixteen thousand feet because there's opposite direction traffic that he's not talking to that's climbing to flight level two-three-zero.
He hears his D-side coordinate with the sector that is working the traffic aircraft and hear's his D-side say "You're going to stop yours under him then."
So he issues flight level two-three-zero to the Pope. Then turns his attention to getting the rest of the Detroit Metro departures up and running.
The next time he scans his scope, he sees that the Pope's aircraft is out of nineteen-five, twelve miles and closing with the traffic aircraft who's only out of twenty.
Twelve miles and five hundred feet.
Another miscommunication between RB and the other controller has seconds passing where the aircraft are still coming together. RB realizes the other controller is not going to solve the situation so he takes action.
"Shepherd One, turn forty degrees left immediately, maintain flight level two-one-zero." See the plane kept climbing during the interim, and is out of flight level two-zero-zero. His traffic is just leaving flight level two-zero four.
Eight miles and four hundred feet.
The conflict alert, a computer program that determines if aircraft are going to lose standard separation, starts "flashing" (blinking) the two data blocks, the Popes, and his traffic.
By now the supervisor is hovering behind RB, and everyone is holding their breath. Seconds tick by, the track of the Pope's aircraft slowly showing his turn. The track of the conflict aircraft slowly showing he's also turning away.
Time crawls by, RB keeps issuing clearances to his other aircraft, but keeps an eye on the Pope. Finally the two airplanes are past each other. RB clears the Pope on course, and gives him higher once again.
Everybody breathes.
Closest distance? Six miles and four hundred feet.
RB's operating initials were changed that day to PK.
Pope Killer.
Our usual separation standards are five miles or a thousnad feet. That means that we can't get two planes within five miles laterally, or a thousand feet vertically of each other. Ever.
With the Pope and the President we used to have to add additional miles and feet because they were such important men.
On this specific day, a friend of mine RB was working the Pope's plane. He'd been told not to let anyone get within twenty miles or two thousand feet of the Pope. So the Pope departs the Detroit Metro area and RB is climbing him to sixteen thousand feet because there's opposite direction traffic that he's not talking to that's climbing to flight level two-three-zero.
He hears his D-side coordinate with the sector that is working the traffic aircraft and hear's his D-side say "You're going to stop yours under him then."
So he issues flight level two-three-zero to the Pope. Then turns his attention to getting the rest of the Detroit Metro departures up and running.
The next time he scans his scope, he sees that the Pope's aircraft is out of nineteen-five, twelve miles and closing with the traffic aircraft who's only out of twenty.
Twelve miles and five hundred feet.
Another miscommunication between RB and the other controller has seconds passing where the aircraft are still coming together. RB realizes the other controller is not going to solve the situation so he takes action.
"Shepherd One, turn forty degrees left immediately, maintain flight level two-one-zero." See the plane kept climbing during the interim, and is out of flight level two-zero-zero. His traffic is just leaving flight level two-zero four.
Eight miles and four hundred feet.
The conflict alert, a computer program that determines if aircraft are going to lose standard separation, starts "flashing" (blinking) the two data blocks, the Popes, and his traffic.
By now the supervisor is hovering behind RB, and everyone is holding their breath. Seconds tick by, the track of the Pope's aircraft slowly showing his turn. The track of the conflict aircraft slowly showing he's also turning away.
Time crawls by, RB keeps issuing clearances to his other aircraft, but keeps an eye on the Pope. Finally the two airplanes are past each other. RB clears the Pope on course, and gives him higher once again.
Everybody breathes.
Closest distance? Six miles and four hundred feet.
RB's operating initials were changed that day to PK.
Pope Killer.
Friday, October 19, 2007
Telling Tales
Regardless of the stories I'm sharing with you here, there is one thing that controllers know for a fact; the skies are safe. They're safe because of us.
That said, I'll tell you about the time I was working the Blue Angels. Now I've worked them more than once in my career, and they're always arrogant bastards, but these guys were the worst.
There was weather and they were inbound to Yipsillanti Michigan for an airshow. In order to get into Detroit Metro's airspace they had to cross this specific arrival fix, Polar, at five thousand feet. I used that fix for the Detroit Metro arrivals and I was running turboprops over it at eleven thousand and jets over it at twelve. So when they checked on with me I told them to descend to eleven thousand. That's the lowest altitude I owned in that area.
Because of who they were, they wanted to stay at altitude (twenty-three thousand feet) for as long as possible. I told them they'd have to cross Polar at five. They didn't want to. They argued with me. I told them their only other option was to fly a two-twenty heading for the satellite arrival fix Sprtn, on the west side of Detroit's airspace.
They didn't want to do that either.
I told them they only had those two options because I had Polar arrivals. (Which I was spacing and descending while I was wasting my time with these guys).
Without a word the entire group of Blue Angels descended to ten thousand feet.
Two problems with that. One, I didn't own ten thousand feet so they'd just busted their way into Saginaw Approaches airspace, and two, I'd just handed-off and arrival to Saginaw Approach who happened to be at ten thousand feet and the Blue Angels were now head on with him.
I called Saginaw real quick and apologized. They descended the arrival so the Angels didn't hit him.
Good going guys.
That said, I'll tell you about the time I was working the Blue Angels. Now I've worked them more than once in my career, and they're always arrogant bastards, but these guys were the worst.
There was weather and they were inbound to Yipsillanti Michigan for an airshow. In order to get into Detroit Metro's airspace they had to cross this specific arrival fix, Polar, at five thousand feet. I used that fix for the Detroit Metro arrivals and I was running turboprops over it at eleven thousand and jets over it at twelve. So when they checked on with me I told them to descend to eleven thousand. That's the lowest altitude I owned in that area.
Because of who they were, they wanted to stay at altitude (twenty-three thousand feet) for as long as possible. I told them they'd have to cross Polar at five. They didn't want to. They argued with me. I told them their only other option was to fly a two-twenty heading for the satellite arrival fix Sprtn, on the west side of Detroit's airspace.
They didn't want to do that either.
I told them they only had those two options because I had Polar arrivals. (Which I was spacing and descending while I was wasting my time with these guys).
Without a word the entire group of Blue Angels descended to ten thousand feet.
Two problems with that. One, I didn't own ten thousand feet so they'd just busted their way into Saginaw Approaches airspace, and two, I'd just handed-off and arrival to Saginaw Approach who happened to be at ten thousand feet and the Blue Angels were now head on with him.
I called Saginaw real quick and apologized. They descended the arrival so the Angels didn't hit him.
Good going guys.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
One Day
So I'm working on W.G's D-side (it's called the "radar associate" position. I'm supposed to be catching problems before they get to our airspace, answering lines, and making sure nobody is entering someone else's airspace without a hand off. I'm another set of ears to catch readback errors, and another set of eyes to catch aircraft going off route, or a faster guy running down a slower guy) any way, W.G is one foul mouthed, loud ass kind of guy.
There'd been weather in the Area all night, and weather makes us all a bit testy. We were coming to the end of the shift, and there were a few stragglers trying to get to their destinations. Out of the blue, one of the pilots broadcast over the frequency (I have no doubt he did not mean to) "If I make it home tonight, I deserve a blow job."
I clench, waiting to see what moronic thing W.G. is going to say to the pilot. Surprised the shit out of me when he didn't say anything at all.
Personally, I thought the pilot had a point.
There'd been weather in the Area all night, and weather makes us all a bit testy. We were coming to the end of the shift, and there were a few stragglers trying to get to their destinations. Out of the blue, one of the pilots broadcast over the frequency (I have no doubt he did not mean to) "If I make it home tonight, I deserve a blow job."
I clench, waiting to see what moronic thing W.G. is going to say to the pilot. Surprised the shit out of me when he didn't say anything at all.
Personally, I thought the pilot had a point.
First Days
Backtracking here a little, but there's a few quotes I want to give you. The first is the "Mantra" of ATC: "The Safe, Orderly, and Expeditious flow of air traffic."
The second is something one of the supervisors said to me right after I came to the floor: "You're not expected to be perfect, you're human. But you are expected to be fast enough to fix your mistakes before anyone dies."
Between these two, and my favorite, the one at the beginning of that fucked up movie Pushin' Tin, it wraps the job up nicely: "You land a million planes safely, then you have one little midair and you never hear the end of it."
The second is something one of the supervisors said to me right after I came to the floor: "You're not expected to be perfect, you're human. But you are expected to be fast enough to fix your mistakes before anyone dies."
Between these two, and my favorite, the one at the beginning of that fucked up movie Pushin' Tin, it wraps the job up nicely: "You land a million planes safely, then you have one little midair and you never hear the end of it."
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
On My Way Out
After 9 1/2 years of service as an Air Traffic Controller, I've been given notice. Seems the Aviation Medical department has suddenly decided a medication I take for migraines is no longer acceptable. Funny, they found it acceptable for years. Why now?
Because the agency is under a directive to remove from service all medically disqualified controllers.
So, I'm changing careers.
That said, I thought I'd start this blog and share with you some of the experiences I've had over the past 9 1/2 years.
Because the agency is under a directive to remove from service all medically disqualified controllers.
So, I'm changing careers.
That said, I thought I'd start this blog and share with you some of the experiences I've had over the past 9 1/2 years.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
