When us airline types are asked, “when and where did you first begin training?” we usually respond with day one of company basic indoctrination at our respective training centers. But in retrospect we forget that training began much before our airline employment, with many of us experiencing the gamut from casual to highly structured.
For me, training began with the Private Pilot’s Handbook of Aeronautical Knowledge, at age 15, which was about the time I committed to becoming an airline pilot, specifically for American Airlines. Lacking any firm strategy on just how to finance my budding addiction, I determined it was best to start reading the handbook from cover to cover despite minimal comprehension.
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Although still hopeful that their son’s career plans in a potentially “dangerous” occupation might dissipate, mom and dad acknowledged my addiction with the gift of Charles Lindbergh’s 1927 book, We, an accounting of the iconic aviator’s bond with airplanes and his historic flight across the Atlantic. I read the book as though it was a training manual.
Just before writing this column I recalled that We was tucked away on a bookshelf. I opened the book. A lump formed in my throat. My parents had collectively written a message on the first page over 50 years ago: “…as a pilot you will discover and share many insights about yourself and about flying that Lindbergh writes about.” I smiled and quietly closed it.
Just before high school graduation, Dad also gifted me Richard Taylor’s 1972 Instrument Flying, a lively, well-written, real-world reference manual. Much of the book is still relevant. It contains the infamous excerpt, “Instrument flying for animal lovers,” recommending a cat and a duck as prime IFR tools. That small part of the book alone was worth the purchase price.
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Realizing that the kid he was buckling in behind a Cessna 150 control yoke was truly motivated, an instructor, who eventually became my friend, mentor, and therapist for my parents, conducted a 30-minute introductory flight almost as though it was the first lesson. I happily drank through a fire hose.
The Jeppesen/Sanderson boxed training manuals were my other instructors, acting as the structure to my FAA Part 61 ad hoc flight training. (John and Martha King weren’t in the business just yet.) The Acme guide, containing magical content of questions that closely resembled the FAA test down to the last comma, nudged me through passing the private pilot written exam.
With a license in my pocket, financed by my line boy salary at the local airport of $1.85 an hour, I committed to a search for colleges with professional pilot training programs. Purdue University was the final choice, a decision I’ll never regret despite the years paying off student loans. Notwithstanding Purdue’s academics, FAA Part 141 provided the first introduction to structured pilot training, a factor that would become an integral part of my future employment.
A trip to the American Airlines flight academy to fulfill the remaining requirements of a flight engineer certificate using an actual B-707 provided a taste of the future. Purdue’s instruction was limited to only a static B-707 simulator. The university contracted with American for students to complete their training in the actual airplane, an incredible experience I’ve never forgotten.
Opportunities to participate as a copilot in an occasional charter operation while working as a flight instructor was part of my early employment. Training consisted of simply studying the airplane flight manual and flying with a qualified pilot—on-the-job training at its finest. It didn’t matter at the time. An Aztec or a Navajo might as well have been a B-747.
My first employment with a commuter airline began as a blur. Less than a week of ground school and my class was off to the races, flying ILS approaches in the real airplane—a Beech 99. I’m still not certain where IOE (initial operating experience) ended and the real passenger flying began. It seemed that every trip and every leg was a learning experience. I applaud the captains that tolerated my new-guy, fresh-out-of-college awkwardness.
After serendipitously being hired by a contract freight carrier operating for UPS, the training became more sophisticated. A five-day basic indoctrination class began the process, followed by airplane ground school and simulator training. I was hired directly into the right seat of a B-727, my first jet experience.
Having a little difficulty transitioning from an airplane (Twin Otter) that cruised at the same speed that the B-727 landed, I discovered the art of chair flying. I closed my eyes and imagined maneuvering the airplane through engine failures, flight control malfunctions, etc. If hotel housekeeping had barged into the room, they would have found a lunatic attempting to fly a swivel chair. But that training technique and a sympathetic check airman to whom I am grateful helped save the day.
My next employment as a B-727 flight engineer with a long-defunct, Alaskan-based airline presented a slightly different training experience. My selection for an interview and the interview itself was unorthodox. At one point, I was required to consume freshly caught, marinated salmon on a saltine cracker. That said, basic indoctrination with my classmates was thorough but relaxed.
Much to my chagrin, ground school with the Alaskan airline was somewhat abbreviated because of my prior B-727 experience, but I soldiered on. Ironically, the carrier contracted with American Airlines in Dallas for simulator time, all accomplished in the middle of the night, of course. My flight engineer check airman took it upon herself to Scotch tape the hotel room windows with oil skins—high-quality, poster-size color photos of the cockpit. To her credit, the practical instruction she provided was invaluable. I survived the check ride.
When I finally stepped into the flight academy as a real employee of American Airlines, my grin overshadowed my nerves. It took a few moments to assimilate the reality of a dedicated training facility. A reception counter. Classrooms with comfortable chairs and audio/visual aids. Cockpit mock-ups. Cabin mock-ups. Rows of simulator bays. A cafeteria. An airline store. Scheduled hotel transportation. An endless flow of pilots marching down the hallways.
Although the pilot training structure was palatable, it wasn’t until the first day of basic indoctrination class that I uncomfortably learned about conforming to the company culture. Having shown up in my only three-piece suit and pointed dress cowboy boots, I thought to be the epitome of an American Airlines pilot. Unfortunately, the walrus moustache on my face that drooped Sam Elliot-style didn’t cut it.
In front of my classmates, an instructor read verbatim from the company manual. My mustache had to be trimmed. I was mortified, certain my employment was over before it began. But it was only a problem for the ID photo. That picture with the white spots at the corners of my mouth after shaving remains in my possession till this day.
Hard to believe that reading the Private Pilot’s Handbook of Aeronautical Knowledge pushed me to become an airline pilot. In the end, that’s all that mattered.
This column first appeared in the August Issue 973 of the FLYING print edition.