(May 2011) I HAD COMMUTED INTO JFK from my home in Florida with plenty of time to spare before my late evening trip to São Paulo. As I opened the door to Operations and walked past the revision room, Rocco Zavaglia was engaged in the mundane chore of wrestling Jeppesen paper in and out of a three-ring binder. He looked up, grinned and offered a greeting. Rocco would be my relief pilot — the third crew member for the trip.
I stopped by the crew mailbox room anticipating that after eight days away from work I would also have to participate in the revision ritual. I was right. My mail slot was stacked. Gray, blue, orange and tan packets filled the space. Not one geographic division was absent. Europe, South America, Domestic and the Far East all needed my attention. I sighed. The sampling of the airport’s fine dining would be delayed. I opened my flight kit bag and removed most of the contents, depositing the Jepp binders on a tabletop.
Once my administrative duties were complete and my appetite satisfied, I treated myself to some tasteless vending machine cookies while catching up with CNN in the TV lounge. Unfortunately, I had one problem.
For some inexplicable reason, I had it in my head that departure time was an hour later than reality. Rocco was first to notice the error of my ways. My casual T-shirt attire and reclined position was a good clue.
Approximately an hour and five minutes prior to departure, both Rocco and my copilot, Tom Walman, approached the lounge chair that I was anchored to. A U.N. ambassador could not have equaled their diplomacy. Incredulous at my own inattentiveness, I sprung into action and rushed to the nearest computer. I typed the entries for our flight plan information onto the keyboard.
While the printer began to tap away, I reviewed the WSI satellite weather picture for our flight into South America. Tom had done the same, confirming that I had noticed the good news/bad news story. The good news: South America had very few convective weather issues. The bad news: The northern Caribbean routes, the initial part of the trip, contained an organized system of thunderstorms. Dispatch appeared to be launching us at an altitude that would be most affected.
Validating Tom’s well-founded concern, I directed him to call our dispatcher. Tom reacted with a hint of surprise. Customarily the call is the captain’s prerogative, but delegation is an important ingredient to leadership. Besides, I couldn’t think of anyone more competent to make the call than an experienced copilot. In any case, the end result was that our dispatcher had more accurate information. The most serious portion of the weather was moving rapidly east away from our course.
With the flight plan review complete, I suggested that Tom and Rocco walk to the gate without me. Since we would be flying into the hours normally reserved for coyotes, I thought it best to take the edge off the beginnings of a 5 o’clock shadow. Brushing my teeth wouldn’t hurt either. Why frighten passengers unnecessarily?
Leaving me to the appropriate hygiene chores, Tom and Rocco dispersed toward the exit door. It was then that I realized the business of flying the airplane would be the easy part of the trip. When I reached the airplane itself, I would discover that my revelation was even closer to the truth.
The first crisis to manifest itself involved a dog. Yup, you read it correctly … a dog. Our airline policy does not allow pets in the cabin on international flights. One of our first-class passengers had marched down the jet bridge with a terrier-something on a leash. The gate agent had not noticed the animal until after she had scanned the boarding pass. Apparently a heated discussion ensued with the passenger claiming that the critter was a service dog and that the appropriate documentation had already been verified. Of course, the agent had 246 more people to board, so she left that battle for later. Unfortunately, that strategy put our flight attendants in an awkward position. Compliance with procedures needed to be determined.
