Each of us, or maybe just most of us, has a parental figure who looms large in our day-to-day lives. I know I do. My tall, imposing father held us kids to high standards, and for the most part we benefited mightily from these great expectations. As I grew up, I would project onto other authority figures the attributes that so defined my father — sometimes at my own peril.
When I became the boss of a surgery department, I realized that many people in the group — faculty, residents and support staff — imbued in me something that was of their own making. I had begun to fulfill a parental role in their lives. In most cases, I had little or no way to understand much about their upbringing or what might be the substance of their relationship with their elders. All I knew was that when they had a problem, I was often asked to help or blamed for the difficulty. A wise chairman who preceded me said, “Remember that running a department is like raising teenagers. You will hear, ‘It’s not fair’ and ‘You don’t understand.’”
So when I was hired by JetSuite as a first officer on the Cessna Citation CJ3 in 2013, I knew I was to report to a chief pilot and that his name was Paul Proffett. Paul is even older than me (by a year), and I was fairly certain he had advocated for my employment even though other management folks thought that a 68-year-old surgeon was a bad bet as a new hire. Paul’s easy manner and soft-spoken surety made me feel like I had a friend in high places — even though I barely knew him. His long career in aviation spanned from bush flying in Alaska to chief-pilot duties at a major airline and then a stint as the airline’s director of training.
It was a surprise, then, to get a call from him one wintry night just a few weeks after I had finished initial operating experience. I had flown from sunny Miami to Appleton, Wisconsin, where the weather was 200 feet overcast with half-mile visibility, blowing snow and a contaminated runway. As the first officer, I watched with amazement as the captain, Miles Jones, not only nailed the approach and landing, but acted like this was no big deal. Soon I would think so too, but at the time all I could think was whew.
Euphoric at having survived the trip and deeply impressed by the inhospitable weather, I dragged the clean-living avid runner Capt. Miles to a restaurant for dinner, where I immediately ordered a martini while Miles had an iced tea. That’s when the chief pilot called.
Paul said, “Hi Dick, how is it going?” Thinking he had just called to chat, I answered with some swagger and mindless palaver. Then Paul got to the point. The broker for our trip had been offended by my discussion with our passengers. The broker thought I might have been trying to steal the passengers away from him. I was stunned — it was as if my father had called to reprimand me for adding too much oil to our lawn mower. I protested that I was just being friendly during a short delay. Paul was kind and cautioned me to be respectful of everybody’s livelihood when representing our company. When Paul hung up, Miles said, “Remember this: A call from the chief pilot is never good.”
From then on, I viewed my relationship with the chief pilot differently. This had nothing to do with Paul; he was as low-key and supportive as he had always been. But now I saw him as an authority figure in a job I loved completely and wanted to hold desperately. I vowed to keep my head down and stay below the radar. A few years later, Paul confirmed the wisdom of this approach. He said a successful airline career could be summed up by this simple tale: At your retirement party, the chief pilot asks, “Who is this guy?”
A first officer doesn’t have much interaction with the chief pilot — that’s the captain’s job. I did, however, make it a point to be nearby when a captain called Paul. These discussions were usually about weather and whether we were legal to make an approach or use an airport as an alternate. I could hear how he listened first and then sometimes gently steered the captain to a different conclusion. I was coming to see this guy as the consummate father figure.
When I called him one evening while he was at a Miami Dolphins game to get his advice about a captain who was reluctant to call fatigue despite clearly being exhausted, he listened over the stadium din, made a phone call to headquarters and soon we were sent to a hotel. Face was saved, and the job got done.
About a year into my tenure as an FO, I was assigned to fly with Paul from Palm Beach, Florida, to Farmingdale, New York, and on to Wilmington, Delaware. The legs were mine, and the trips were at night. About halfway up the Eastern Seaboard, I noticed something eerie. Each time we were assigned a new center frequency, Paul had already dialed it in. He had the sequence of frequencies in his bones — the result of countless flights on this route. As we approached Farmingdale on a visual, I said, “This looks OK to me, how about to you?” “Looks good,” is all he said. Our trip ended so late that the restaurant and bar were closed; there would be no further bonding. Paul did say, “You are as good a pilot as anyone here.” Or at least, I think he said that. Or maybe I just wanted him to say that.
When I moved up to captain, our interactions were a little more frequent, but I still did my best to cause no trouble. When I balked at a trip to a rural field in Oregon because the ceiling was below minimums, Paul agreed that we can’t start an approach to a field below minimums but pointed out that visibility, not ceiling, was controlling. We made the trip, the passengers were happy, the company was pleased and I felt like a good employee.
Last winter, my wife, Cathy, and I picked up Paul and his wife, Beverly, in Fort Pierce, Florida, for a short vacation in Marsh Harbour in the Bahamas. Although I’ve got thousands of hours in our Cheyenne, I found myself anxious about flying with the boss. And even though I was retired from the company, Paul still loomed large in the back reaches of my psyche. I was so bamboozled that I forget to pull the chocks, about which Paul had to prompt me.
Not to worry, we had a great time. In the spirit of JetSuite, where we traded flying duties daily, Paul flew us back to Florida as if he had been born in a Cheyenne.
A first officer doesn’t have much interaction with the chief pilot — that’s the captain’s job. I did, however, make it a point to be nearby when a captain called Paul. These discussions were usually about weather and whether we were legal to make an approach or use an airport as an alternate. I could hear how he listened first and then sometimes gently steered the captain to a different conclusion. I was coming to see this guy as the consummate father figure.
When I called him one evening while he was at a Miami Dolphins game to get his advice about a captain who was reluctant to call fatigue despite clearly being exhausted, he listened over the stadium din, made a phone call to headquarters and soon we were sent to a hotel. Face was saved, and the job got done.
About a year into my tenure as an FO, I was assigned to fly with Paul from Palm Beach, Florida, to Farmingdale, New York, and on to Wilmington, Delaware. The legs were mine, and the trips were at night. About halfway up the Eastern Seaboard, I noticed something eerie. Each time we were assigned a new center frequency, Paul had already dialed it in. He had the sequence of frequencies in his bones — the result of countless flights on this route. As we approached Farmingdale on a visual, I said, “This looks OK to me, how about to you?” “Looks good,” is all he said. Our trip ended so late that the restaurant and bar were closed; there would be no further bonding. Paul did say, “You are as good a pilot as anyone here.” Or at least, I think he said that. Or maybe I just wanted him to say that.
When I moved up to captain, our interactions were a little more frequent, but I still did my best to cause no trouble. When I balked at a trip to a rural field in Oregon because the ceiling was below minimums, Paul agreed that we can’t start an approach to a field below minimums but pointed out that visibility, not ceiling, was controlling. We made the trip, the passengers were happy, the company was pleased and I felt like a good employee.
Last winter, my wife, Cathy, and I picked up Paul and his wife, Beverly, in Fort Pierce, Florida, for a short vacation in Marsh Harbour in the Bahamas. Although I’ve got thousands of hours in our Cheyenne, I found myself anxious about flying with the boss. And even though I was retired from the company, Paul still loomed large in the back reaches of my psyche. I was so bamboozled that I forget to pull the chocks, about which Paul had to prompt me.
Not to worry, we had a great time. In the spirit of JetSuite, where we traded flying duties daily, Paul flew us back to Florida as if he had been born in a Cheyenne.
