|Apr 26, 2011, 02:24 PM|
It was 1977 and we were on an old DC8 Air Ceylon coming in to Colombo, Ceylon from Bangkok. The landing approach was pretty bumpy, but the biggest bump was saved for when we hit the tarmac - a massive shudder and shake - at least I hoped it was the runway.. We were soon however airborne again and climbing steeply when a voice with a heavy Indian accent came over the PA as follows:— Tim Stuart, Great Aviation Quotes reader
I am sorry about the landing ladies and gentlemen, the pilot will now take over.
|Apr 26, 2011, 02:31 PM|
P = The problem logged by the pilot.P: Left inside main tire almost needs replacement.
S = The solution logged by the mechanic.
S: Almost replaced left inside main tire.
P: Test flight OK, except auto-land very rough.
S: Auto-land not installed on this aircraft.
P: No. 2 propeller seeping prop fluid.
S: No. 2 propeller seepage normal. Nos. 1, 3 and 4 propellers lack normal seepage.
P: Something loose in cockpit.
S: Something tightened in cockpit.
P: Dead bugs on windshield.
S: Live bugs on backorder.
P: Autopilot in "altitude-hold" mode produces a 200-fpm descent.
S: Cannot reproduce problem on ground.
P: Evidence of leak on right main landing gear.
S: Evidence removed.
P: DME volume unbelievably loud.
S: DME volume set to more believable level.
P: Friction locks cause throttle levers to stick.
S: That's what they're there for!
P: Transponder inoperative.
S: Transponder always inoperative in OFF mode.
P: The T/C ball seemed stuck in the middle during my last turn.
S: Congratulations! You've just made your first coordinated turn.
P: Suspected crack in windscreen.
S: Suspect you're right.
P: Number 3 engine missing.
S: Engine found on right wing after brief search.
P: Aircraft handles funny.
S: Aircraft warned to straighten up, fly right, and be serious.
P: Radar hums.
S: Reprogrammed radar with words.
P: Mouse in cockpit.
S: Cat installed.
P: Radio switches stick
S: Peanut butter no longer served to flight crew
P: Screaming sound in cabin at start-up
S: Company accountant deplaned
P: Funny smell in cockpit
S: Pilot told to change cologne
P: Aircraft 2,400 lbs over max weight
S: Aircraft put on diet of 92 octane
P: #3 engine knocks at idle
S: #3 engine let in for a few beers
P: #3 engine runs like it's sick
S: #3 engine diagnosed with hangover
P: Brakes howl on application
S: Don't step on 'em so hard!
P: Radio sounds like a squealing pig
S: Removed pig from radio. BBQ behind hangar tomorrow
P: First class cabin floor has a squeak
S: Co-pilot told not to play with toddler toys in cabin anymore
P: Electrical governor is broke
S: Paid off governor's debt to Jimmy "The Fish" Galvano
P: Air conditioning motor makes a loud squeal like my mother-in-law.
S: recommend divorce
|Apr 26, 2011, 02:37 PM|
Quite possibly the best aircraft story ever told. It's long, but read all the way through it, it's worth it. (I read through it again even though I already knew it pretty much verbatim).
There were a lot of things we couldn't do in an SR-71 Blackbird (The Air Force/NASA super fast, highest flying reconnaissance jet, nicknamed, "The Sled"), but we were the fastest guys on the block and loved reminding our fellow aviators of this fact. People often asked us if, because of this fact, it was fun to fly the jet. Fun would not be the first word I would use to describe flying this plane - intense, maybe, even cerebral. But there was one day in our Sled experience when we would have to say that it was pure fun to be the fastest guys out there, at least for a moment.
It occurred when Walt and I were flying our final training sortie. We needed 100 hours in the jet to complete our training and attain Mission Ready status. Somewhere over Colorado we had passed the century mark. We had made the turn in Arizona and the jet was performing flawlessly. My gauges were wired in the front seat and we were starting to feel pretty good about ourselves, not only because we would soon be flying real missions but because we had gained a great deal of confidence in the plane in the past ten months. Ripping across the barren deserts 80,000 feet below us, I could already see the coast of California from the Arizona border. I was, finally, after many humbling months of simulators and study, ahead of the jet. I was beginning to feel a bit sorry for Walter in the back seat.
There he was, with no really good view of the incredible sights before us, tasked with monitoring four different radios. This was good practice for him for when we began flying real missions, when a priority transmission from headquarters could be vital. It had been difficult, too, for me to relinquish control of the radios, as during my entire flying career I had controlled my own transmissions. But it was part of the division of duties in this plane and I had adjusted to it. I still insisted on talking on the radio while we were on the ground, however. Walt was so good at many things, but he couldn't match my expertise at sounding smooth on the radios, a skill that had been honed sharply with years in fighter squadrons where the slightest radio miscue was grounds for beheading. He understood that and allowed me that luxury. Just to get a sense of what Walt had to contend with, I pulled the radio toggle switches and monitored the frequencies along with him.
The predominant radio chatter was from Los Angeles Center, far below us, controlling daily traffic in their sector. While they had us on their scope (albeit briefly), we were in uncontrolled airspace and normally would not talk to them unless we needed to descend into their airspace. We listened as the shaky voice of a lone Cessna pilot who asked Center for a read-out of his ground speed. Center replied: “November Charlie 175, I'm showing you at ninety knots on the ground.”
Now the thing to understand about Center controllers was that whether they were talking to a rookie pilot in a Cessna or to Air Force One, they always spoke in the exact same, calm, deep, professional tone that made one feel important. I referred to it as the "Houston Center voice." I have always felt that after years of seeing documentaries on this country's space program and listening to the calm and distinct voice of the Houston controllers, that all other controllers since then wanted to sound like that and that they basically did. And it didn't matter what sector of the country we would be flying in, it always seemed like the same guy was talking. Over the years that tone of voice had become somewhat of a comforting sound to pilots everywhere. Conversely, over the years, pilots always wanted to ensure that, when transmitting, they sounded like Chuck Yeager, or at least like John Wayne. Better to die than sound bad on the radios. Just moments after the Cessna's inquiry, a Twin Beech piped up on frequency, in a rather superior tone, asking for his ground speed in Beech. “I have you at one hundred and twenty-five knots of ground speed.”
Boy, I thought, the Beechcraft really must think he is dazzling his Cessna brethren. Then out of the blue, a navy F-18 pilot out of NAS Lemoore came up on frequency. You knew right away it was a Navy jock because he sounded very cool on the radios. “Center, Dusty 52 ground speed check.” Before Center could reply, I'm thinking to myself, hey, Dusty 52 has a ground speed indicator in that million-dollar cockpit, so why is he asking Center for a read-out? Then I got it, ol' Dusty here is making sure that every bug smasher from Mount Whitney to the Mojave knows what true speed is. He's the fastest dude in the valley today, and he just wants everyone to know how much fun he is having in his new Hornet. And the reply, always with that same, calm, voice, with more distinct alliteration than emotion: “Dusty 52, Center, we have you at 620 on the ground.”
And I thought to myself, is this a ripe situation, or what? As my hand instinctively reached for the mic button, I had to remind myself that Walt was in control of the radios. Still, I thought, it must be done - in mere seconds we'll be out of the sector and the opportunity will be lost. That Hornet must die, and die now. I thought about all of our Sim training and how important it was that we developed well as a crew and knew that to jump in on the radios now would destroy the integrity of all that we had worked toward becoming. I was torn. Somewhere, 13 miles above Arizona, there was a pilot screaming inside his space helmet. Then, I heard it - the click of the mic button from the back seat. That was the very moment that I knew Walter and I had become a crew. Very professionally, and with no emotion, Walter spoke: “Los Angeles Center, Aspen 20, can you give us a ground speed check?” There was no hesitation, and the replay came as if was an everyday request. “Aspen 20, I show you at one thousand eight hundred and forty-two knots, across the ground.”
I think it was the forty-two knots that I liked the best, so accurate and proud was Center to deliver that information without hesitation, and you just knew he was smiling. But the precise point at which I knew that Walt and I were going to be really good friends for a long time was when he keyed the mic once again to say, in his most fighter-pilot-like voice: “Ah, Center, much thanks, we're showing closer to nineteen hundred on the money.” For a moment Walter was a god. And we finally heard a little crack in the armor of the Houston Center voice, when L.A. came back with, “Roger that Aspen. Your equipment is probably more accurate than ours. You boys have a good one.”
It all had lasted for just moments, but in that short, memorable sprint across the southwest, the Navy had been flamed, all mortal airplanes on freq were forced to bow before the King of Speed, and more importantly, Walter and I had crossed the threshold of being a crew. A fine day's work. We never heard another transmission on that frequency all the way to the coast. For just one day, it truly was fun being the fastest guys out there.
|Apr 26, 2011, 02:39 PM|
And of course, the second best aircraft story ever told.
The German controllers at Frankfurt Airport were a short-tempered lot. They not only expected you to know your parking location but how to get there without any assistance from them. So it was with some amusement that we (PanAm 747) listened to the following exchange between Frankfurt ground and a British Airways 747 (radio call Speedbird 206) after landing.
Speedbird 206: "Good morning Frankfurt, Speedbird 206 clear of the active."
Ground: "Good Morning, taxi to your gate." The British Airways 747 pulls onto the main taxiway and stops.
Ground: "Speedbird, do you not know where you are going?"
Speedbird 206: "Stand by, ground, I'm looking up the gate location now."
Ground (impatiently): "Speedbird 206, have you never flown to Frankfurt before?"
Speedbird 206 (coolly): "Yes, in 1944. But I didn't stop".
|Apr 26, 2011, 02:42 PM|
Man! I'm Mowing the lawn right now, and it SUCKS! Our Riding Lawn Mower finally busted after 8 years, and we are back to our trusty PUSH Lawn Mower! I gotta say, its a great work out, but mowing almost 2 acres with a push mower sucks after getting used to sitting down and just moving your arms every now and them!
|Apr 26, 2011, 02:44 PM|
Man, when I was 13/14/15 I mowed grass in the Summer in Florida. No riding mower, no self-propelled crap. Good old Snapper push mower with side bagger.
Ah, the good 'ol days!
|Apr 26, 2011, 02:53 PM|
Yeah, it's no wonder I only weighed 126 when I joined the Air Force at age 18. Been as high as 200 recently, but back down to 185 now.
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|Discussion||Off topic and Humor||greenseaships||Gilbert Quiet Flyers (Arizona)||1556||Jan 19, 2012 09:26 AM|