From my peripheral vision, I caught a glimpse of our flight engineer using his thumb repeatedly to push on an amber press-to-test light. I turned in my seat and looked directly at the engineer panel, taking note of the area causing concern. The area was the hydraulic system. One of the B-pumps appeared to be inoperative. That was a no-go item on the 727. And we were in Santo Domingo — not a major maintenance base. Great.
My copilot informed operations of our plight via the radio. I unbuckled from my seat and wandered outside onto the ramp. A mechanic had already opened the hydraulic access panel on the underside of the fuselage. After a brief conversation, he confirmed that indeed the B-pump had failed. Miraculously, a replacement was available, but it would be at least an hour before the task was completed.
I had an informal discussion with our flight attendants regarding the delay. All but one nodded and shrugged their shoulders. For the flight attendant who didn’t nod, I offered a simplified explanation of the hydraulic system, hoping the brief lesson would satisfy her apparent trepidation. Her dissatisfied expression indicated otherwise. Her three other colleagues rolled their eyes and scurried away down the jet bridge and into the terminal, using the delay as an opportunity to shop the duty-free stores.
With the repair completed, the entire crew returned to the airplane. My dissatisfied flight attendant appeared at the threshold of the cockpit door. In a voice audible to our boarding passengers, and most of the Dominican Republic, for that matter, she demanded a review of the maintenance logbook. The request was rather unorthodox and borderline insubordinate in its tone. Regardless, I informed her politely that the faulty hydraulic pump had been replaced and the appropriate entries made. She remained steadfast in her request to review the logbook.
My demeanor soured. Realizing that she would get no further, she abruptly twirled away into the crowded aisle of the cabin. The shaking heads of my first officer and flight engineer were silent disapproval of the unpleasant exchange.
At some time prior to climbing through 10,000 feet — the sacred sterile period — the interphone chimed. I picked up the handset. Our disagreeable flight attendant was requesting cool air for the aft cabin. Aside from the inappropriate timing, she ended the request with a code phrase that is reserved for conveying duress in the event of an airplane hijacking. She immediately discontinued the call, leaving me to stare incredulously at the interphone wondering if by some small chance we actually did have a problem.
I called the purser, the lead flight attendant, paraphrasing the exchange I just had. Not surprising, the purser informed me that a hijacking was not in progress.
Later in the flight, a handwritten note was found underneath the cockpit door. It was an apology from our “favorite” flight attendant. Although the word sorry was present in the note, it rambled on, justifying her behavior. I was thankful that she had unwisely chosen to document her own unacceptable performance. She sealed her own fate. Upon arrival in Miami, I chose to remove her from the remainder of our three-day trip. It was the first time, and still the only time in my career, that I felt compelled to remove a flight attendant.
From the 1967 movie Cool Hand Luke, the incident was “a failure to communicate.” Perhaps I could have handled the situation better. Even though it was discovered later that this particular flight attendant had a history of problems, her perception of our maintenance process was different from mine. One person’s perception is another person’s reality. I locked the event away as a life experience in improving my communication skills.
Fast-forward to a recent trip and a different flight attendant. Returning from London on our way back to JFK, we were not quite halfway across the Atlantic when I received an intercom call from (let’s call her) Vera. In a slightly strained voice, Vera requested a “conference” in the cockpit. My raised eyebrows caught the attention of the copilot as I snapped the intercom handset back onto its cradle. I shrugged my shoulders, got up from my seat, and looked through the viewing port. Satisfied it was Vera, I opened the door.
A rather lengthy explanation ensued regarding a passenger in the business section of the 777. The passenger was claiming to have accidentally swallowed a chipped piece of the ramekin dish used to serve warm nuts. Despite numerous apologies from various cabin crew members, the man was refusing to eat his meal, perhaps out of fear.
Vera’s account of the incident implied that the passenger would be suing our airline such that he would own our 777-300 by the time we parked the airplane in JFK. It was a convincing story.
In my marriage, as well as with flight attendants, I have learned that sometimes it is better to just listen. The key is to listen objectively with the understanding that perception can be reality. I failed … again.
Based on Vera’s perception, I made the immediate assessment that the matter was not urgent enough to snap-roll the airplane toward Keflavik, Iceland, for a medical diversion. After all, the passenger was not choking. And it seemed that the man’s evil plot was to extort money from my company, or at least obtain a free first-class upgrade.
The almost imperceptible smirk on my copilot’s face reflected his mild amusement at the situation and the relief that he wasn’t the captain. (I deducted points because he was unfamiliar with a ramekin dish, however.) Reassuring Vera, I indicated that we would inform dispatch as to the situation. Satisfied, she exited the cockpit.
Thinking that the crisis had been averted, the intercom chimed 20 minutes later. Once again Vera entered the cockpit for another conference, this time with one of the murderous chips from the ramekin dish scrunched into a cocktail napkin as forensic evidence. The passenger was still making a fuss. Explaining that I was five minutes from leaving the cockpit for my break, I volunteered to speak to our unhappy customer personally.
Air marshals present on the airplane added a level of difficulty. They squirm when a pilot trots into the main part of the cabin. I devised a clandestine method of communicating with them before I left the cockpit. Had our trip not included a third pilot, I most likely would not have considered a personal visit.
My conversation with the passenger was in contrast to Vera’s version of his story. He was simply concerned about his health. He had no intention of filing a multimillion-dollar lawsuit but was merely requesting medical advice. Would consuming a meal or even a beverage aggravate his digestive system if he swallowed the ramekin chip? I apologized on behalf of the entire airline industry and promised to get him medical advice.
I called my two copilots in the cockpit and gave them a clarified explanation, instructing them to contact Dispatch and the physician-on-call via satcom. The advice? The passenger was not in any danger unless he was experiencing discomfort. A meal or a beverage would not cause harm. Case closed.
Well, not exactly. Once the incident was reported, the airline put all hands on deck because the lawyer caution light had illuminated at headquarters. Our flight was met at JFK with a potpourri of airline supervisors to document the event. As of this writing, I have no idea regarding the outcome. Judging by the prevailing calm of all involved with this terror in the sky, our passenger probably received an apology in the form of mileage points, upgrades, fare credit or something related.
I would like to think that my style of command promotes open discussion. Time permitting prior to departure, I give a formal briefing to all flight attendants, apparently a practice that has been disappearing. Not only is the purpose of the briefing to discuss emergency and operational procedures for the flight, but also it is to spread love and encourage harmony on both sides of the cockpit door.
That being said, the latest incident proves I still have more to learn regarding communication skills. Had I not chosen to speak directly with the passenger, it would have been an almost complete failure in separating perception from reality.
Twenty-nine years later, I’m still learning.
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