I'm Okay

I was not on the bridge in Phnom Penh last night.

Life Happens in the Gutter

It sure isn't happening in this hotel room. It was another TV day.

I watched a rerun of a Comic Con interview on one of the geek channels. A graphic artist explained, "Life happens in the gutter." (If there's a specific person who should receive attribution for that quotation, please let me know. As far as I can tell, it's traditional wisdom of the trade). The gutter is the groove between the facing pages of an opened book, and by extension, the space between the panels of a graphic novel¹. The pictures themselves don't move, so graphic novels depend on the reader's participation in creating what happens from frame to frame. The art of designing them is to facilitate that so that the page looks great, but the reader is never confused about where to look next, and the surprises aren't spoiled.

I mostly read webcomics, not printed comics² so I'd never really thought about that. It's an interesting insight into the trade, but more interesting to me as a metaphor for actual life, along the lines of "life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans," plus the reminder that the static Kodak moments in someone's life aren't their whole life, and that even when you're down and out, living in the gutter, life goes on.

The other movie I watched today was The Life of David Gale. I didn't know anything about it when I turned it on, but very early in the picture I knew what was going to have happened, well before the murder victim was identified. It just so happened that as one of the characters dropped a little clue phrase that was designed to explain the movie in retrospect, I found it interesting enough to ponder how I would approach the issue, and then the rest of the movie fit my solution perfectly. I think the ending was supposed to be a surprise reveal, but the movie was interesting enough that I kept watching. It was remarkably balanced, considering that most of the main characters are anti-capital punishment crusaders. I think in the end that both sides were fairly presented.

The airplane should be back soon, so I can do some work.

1. You can't call them comic books, because a lot of them aren't meant to be funny.

2. I only own two graphic novels: Maus II, which I bought second-hand in New Orleans, and The 9/11 Report: A Graphic Adaptation. Definitely not comic books.

Amazing Little-Known Aircraft

I really should spend some of the energy I expend reading webcomics and watching Law & Order reruns on keeping up with the coolness of experimental aviation. Here are a few I've been collecting to share with you, none of which I found out about as soon as I should have, so don't expect any breaking news.

The Goodyear Inflatoplane was built long before I was born, but really that is the sort of thing that legend should keep alive in everyone's hearts, even though the project is long gone. I love inflatable stuff. Inflatable Christmas decorations, punching bags, air mattresses, pool toys, you name it. And "Inflatoplane" is the best name. They really knew how to name things back then. The airplane I learned to fly in was designed in the same age of naming, and its features includes omnivision, paralift and land-o-matic.

Fortunately the fifties named inventions that were yet to be invented, so that this is still called a rocket pack or a jetpack or a rocket belt. It's a bit like the personal videophone though, into the proof of concept phase, but still not really there. Another model leaves the fuel on the ground, and removes dangerous exhaust from the vicinity of the user, allowing for much more flight time, but restricting the flight path to over relatively calm water.

This experimental miniature airplane uses the same flight techniques as the birds I love to watch, controlling their momentum with such precise timing that they come to a full-stall landing on a single point. It's awesome to watch them adjusting everything to make that landing. They mess up sometimes, but because their wingtips and tail sections are made of feathers, they don't need to report for major repairs or inspections when they do. Birds land on power lines because they are available and away from predators, so it's doubly cool that the MAV is using the power line as a food source, actually poaching the current to recharge its batteries.

And finally, last month the Solar Impulse has completed a flight of over twenty-six hours (yes, through the night and into the next day) entirely on solar power. The team is planning to build an even more efficient solar-powered airplane and do a round the world trip. I'm embarrassed that I didn't know about this the same day it happened, because it's the coolest thing ever. I'd love to fly a solar or human-powered aircraft. I should really get my glider licence. Started it once, but then I moved for a job, to somewhere there weren't gliders.

Feel the LOV

A new aviation abbreviation with an F in it has entered the scene. Okay, it's probably not new to aircraft structural engineers, but I only recently noticed WFD for the first time, in a new FAA rule that requires manufacturers to declare and operators to comply with life limits on airframes. The lifespan of an airframe may be given in hours or cycles, but there is a possibility of having an individual aircraft approved for an extension. The term limit of validity (LOV) refers to the engineering data specified about the airplane. Its an addition to the published limits that certification requires an aircraft to be operated within. The rule applies to existing designs with a takeoff weight of at least 75,000 pounds, and to all transport designs seeking certification in the future.

I think in most North American operations, large aircraft become uneconomical to maintain before they reach their LOV. The rule itself states that there will be only one current airplane affected, at a cost to its operator of $3.8 million dollars, but that the new rule will save the industry $4.8 million. I believe that the savings are from changes in inspection programs, but I'm not certain. I've been sitting on this for a while, intending to do more research, but I've been learning Khmer and getting my taxes in order instead. The link to the rule given in the ASN article is broken, but I found it here.

Usually when an aviation abbreviation contains an F, it doesn't stand for fatigue. A while ago I used some netspeak in an e-mail conversation with another pilot who hasn't spent as great a proportion of his life online as I have, and he wrote back to ask me to clarify ROTFL. He said he could have asked his daughter, "but it had an F in it, so I thought I'd play it safe." In this case, it's "rolling on the floor, laughing," but his caution was well-placed.

First a Safety Lecture, Then Bikinis, And Finally Naked Women

The title above is not a clever play on words. It is a factual description of the following post. The links contain increasingly NSFW material, as described.

I am a pilot. My primary job is the safety of the flight. As the pilot of an aircraft without a flight attendant, my job includes briefing the passengers on the emergency procedures for the aircraft, ensuring they comply with safety regulations, and assisting them in evacuation if necessary. A secondary responsibility is passenger comfort. This involves requesting routing that maximizes calm air conditions, proper operation of pressurization systems, smooth control handling, making reassuring cabin announcements, and sharing my jelly beans.

When an aircraft has flight attendants, it is still the responsibility of the pilot in command to ensure that these things happen, it's just that the P-I-C delegates some tasks to the flight attendants. The flight attendants' primary responsibility is the safety of the flight. If everyone is complying with the safety regulations, that leaves the flight attendants time to work on their secondary duties of catering to passenger comfort. This involves serving drinks and meals, handing out headsets, resetting the entertainment systems, and the like. Way too many passengers mistake the flight attendants' secondary duties for their primary function, and think that when the flight attendant asks them to put their carry-on item all the way under the seat in front of them, that the flight attendant is being a busybody. Respect the FA as a safety professional who will get you a drink if all is well, and you'll have a nice flight. Treat them like an inconvenience who won't get you a fifth drink and who has their head in the way of your carry-on during taxi, and you get Stephen Slater, plus the cops meeting your flight.

Fortunately, flight attendants are not often called upon to go to the limits of their training with respect to ensuring your safety, and most seem to be able to tolerate unreasonable passenger behaviour within the limits of their patience. Some of them go above and beyond in the entertainment department, too: telling jokes, singing songs, and otherwise livening up the flight. The rest of this blog entry is about the "otherwise."

Irish discount airline Ryanair -- I believe I have another blog entry about them in the pipeline for later -- publishes an annual calendar featuring members its cabin crew in bikinis. Some people are outraged. The airline gets lots of free publicity. The women who choose to participate get some exposure. The charity-of-the-year gets some cash. A few passengers are stupid about it and need to have their attention drawn to the second paragraph of this blog entry. The thing is, good looking women in bikinis look good. People are going to look. And the thing about advertising is that you have to get people to look.

This ad from Russian airline Avianova starts off with the words "Few know how airplanes are washed ..." The rest is women in bikinis and soapy water. There are a couple of firefighters, too, but lets just say the same care was not taken in casting and costuming. Avianova. Fares from 250 rubles. "Welcome."

Not to be outdone, competitor Aeroflot is issuing a flight attendant calendar of its own. As I understand it, these images are part of a customer appreciation gift to Aeroflot frequent fliers. The Russian site that published them has several more images, including a number that represent multiple images for the same month, some clothed some not, as if they hadn't yet decided what level of undress the final calendar would represent. That seems a little suspicious. Wouldn't you decide on the images before turning them into calendar pages? But I suppose considering how easy it is to overlay the name of the month and the dates, and that the look of the printed image is going to influence the shots chosen, it makes as much sense as anything. Adme says they found the images on an Aeroflot flight attendant bulletin board, from which they have since been removed. I admit to curiosity about the missing calendar girls for February, March, April, June, July and December. I want to see some photos of the flight deck. And the flaps.

Notice again the red shoes. My red shoes are more like the ones in the Virgin ad. Much nicer. And to think I left those shoes off my hundred items list. I did, at least, remember a bikini.

Sooah-sdey, Kñom moak bpee Kanadah

So this is it. My bags are all packed, including work gloves and pliers (for holding nails, to avoid banged thumbs), and I'm getting ready to leave for the airport. I've read the guidebooks, had my vaccinations, paid my share of the group expenses, and even got ahead on my blogging. You've got a post almost every day I'm away, not quite.

So many thank-yous go out from me to everyone who contributed to this effort. I am inspired and awed by your generosity, and will do my level best to build the best possible homes with the greatest of respect for this community. The project is not so much about bringing Canadians with marginal building skills to a country with lots of unskilled labourers as it is about inspiring Canadians with access to money to bond with the country and fund the project, and to demonstrate to a devastated country that they matter. First, they'll see us there, having travelled from across the sea because of them, and then they'll see that foreign and exotic as we are, we're a bunch of clumsy human beings, not as good at nailing things together as the people from their village who have worked on such projects before. Is not, "The world cares about you, and you're as good as anyone in the world," one of the best messages of hope you could give to anyone? Especially when they get a house out of the deal. Oh and because the group leader used the fantastic response from Cockpit Conversation readers to goad the rest of our group to fundraising efforts, we raised enough to fund a new school as well.

For the next couple of weeks you'll have regular aviation blog entries to read. I'm afraid there's rather an overemphasis on boobs and junk food. I was six weeks in the same location and didn't realize how strange my notes were until I tried to blog them. I'll let you know when I'm back, but will probably take a break through most of December before posting details of my Cambodian adventures.

The post title means "Hello, I am from Canada." I'm afraid my Khmer isn't up to much more.

Old Joke - New Ending

This post started out as me just posting a joke, but then I thought too hard about it.

Passenger: Why was the flight delayed?
CSA: The pilot didn't like the sound of the engine.
Passenger: Did they get another engine?
Old Ending: No, they got another pilot.
New Ending: No, they downloaded new sounds.

They're talking about putting artificial sounds on electric cars so that blind people can hear them. They already have artificial pre-stall warning symptoms (i.e. the stick shaker) on airliner flight decks, to mimic the feeling of the stall buffet in the airplanes most pilots learned to fly in. Perhaps someday there will be a reason to use artificial engine sounds to mimic the sounds pilots are accustomed to in monitoring our engines. Detonation, backfiring, missed cylinders, loose flyweights, or "scary banging sounds."

Usually gauges provide the information we need, but there have certainly been many times when an engine sound has made me look at the gauges. Gauge irregularities make us listen to the engines (make us look at them too, that's actually part of the procedure, to make sure they aren't on fire).

---

There's an unexpected aviation connection to breaking news. Prince William, who is second in line to the throne and will probably become the King of Canada someday, has just announced his engagement to a woman who is the progeny of a flight attendant and a flight dispatcher. Long live the Queen!

No Work Wednesday

My coworker flew a mission today and then took the bird south for maintenance, leaving me with no duties in a town too small to even have a Tim Horton's. So you're expecting a tale of adventure and cultural exploration. Please. This town has basically one street, a kilometre long, and I've been here for a month already. There are woods, but nowhere destination-like within them. Plus I'm alone and unarmed and it's the season when bears are our foraging to fatten up before hibernation. Adventure does not call.

The Aviatrix catalogue of markers of depraved indolence includes such pursuits as eating nutella out of the jar with a spoon, watching shows like Battlestar Galactica and Star Trek on the Space channel for ten hours straight, remaining naked all day, getting drunk at nine in the morning, rocking out to the Cake Song on my iPod, and surfing internet porn.

You think I'm that depraved? ah you know I'm not. I didn't do all that. I don't drink when I'm in the field, and, if you'll recall, the Internet here doesn't work.

Also I totally think Doctor Who should do a gag where they go to England in the 1950s and there are police call boxes every couple of blocks, and they forget which one is theirs. Not the whole plot, just a one-off gag.

I'm really not under the influence of anything chemical today as I write this up, either, but the fact that I posted this is probably a good indication that a really bad head cold is incapacitating for reasons other than pressure change tolerance. My misery is tempered only by my fascination by the millennia-prolonged evolutionary arms race between the things that make us sick and our own immune systems. I like the organisms that live in me without making me sick, better.

Catch-22 Squared

The next scheduled maintenance task to come due will be a longer than usual one, just based on the hours the airplane has flown, not counting anything that may turn up to have gone wrong out of schedule. The flap wiring is due to be changed, for example, and that's a complex task, because once they take it apart it may turn out that some of the parts that don't have to be changed based on age or wear have to be changed because they are no longer compatible with the replacement parts, and so on for the parts they interact with, for a couple of iterations. We can't just take the system apart to check if that will be the case because, (a) it's almost as much work as changing them anyway, and (b) on account of (a) there's a rule that if the system is taken apart and the wear is beyond a certain point--that it's almost certainly beyond, seeing as they're due to be changed and we often operate the flaps in cruise--then they're required to be changed. At least that's my understanding of my remembrance of the explanation. We can't see if they need to be changed because then they'd need to be changed.

None of this is due for a few hours yet, but the unsuitable weather is forecast to persist, so we're possibly going to take the airplane to another airport to get at least some of the scheduled work done early. There there will be additional maintenance personnel available and more sophisticated equipment. Plus we can get the HSI repaired without having to ship it twice.

We don't need two pilots to ferry the airplane, and the other one needs to do some banking that can't be done here. There's no reason for me to go to, so I'll be alone here without an airplane for a few days while she and the aircraft are away. It's a good plan, but it doesn't work out. The morning she is supposed to leave, the weather is too bad to go VFR, but she can't go IFR because the HSI isn't working. So we can't regain the ability to fly in IFR because we can't fly in IFR.

When the weather improves, it has improved so much that the client no longer agrees to release the airplane for maintenance. They want us to stay and try to do some actual work tomorrow morning. So we're together for another night, with the AME. It's Half-Price Pasta Tuesday at Boston Pizza, so that's where we go for dinner. The AME spots an engagement ring on the finger of one of the servers and declares it to be a fake. We tease him for his long-distance gem evaluation skills until he flags another server and grills him on the relationship status of the server with the ring. He's right: it's a fake to keep customers from hitting on her. Too bad she didn't arrange to have her co-workers corroborate the story her finger tells. If I recall correctly, the AME didn't hit on her anyway.

Remembering Sacrifice

The eleventh of November is Remembrance Day in Canada, a day set aside for us to remember those who died in the service of their country. It's not a victory celebration. It's not about pride in ones armed forces. It's not supposed to be a political statement about the nature of war. It's just a day, and specifically a minute of silence, to remember those who died fighting in the name of their countries. In Canada we wear poppies, or nowadays plastic and felt representations of poppies, as a symbol of our remembrance.

I explain this holiday every year, but this year I happened to have an experience that illustrates how I feel about it, and showed to me that I wasn't kidding myself. I was walking along an unfamiliar road and came across a cenotaph to the local war dead. It was of a common format: a square column with the dates 1914-1918 engraved on one face and 1939-1945 engraved on another, accompanied by a list of the men from the local community who had not returned from the corresponding combats. Of course I'm not old enough to have first hand experience of either of those wars, but those dates automatically bring to mind history class images of mud and barbed wire. I stopped and looked at the memorial, read some of the names and wondered what they were like, how bad it had been for them, wondered if their families still lived in the town. Then I walked on. Around the next corner was another war memorial, very similar to, but a hundred years older than the first. It was from a war I'd never heard of.

It was focus-changing. It reminded me that someday an ordinary person will have no specific emotional associations with the first and second world wars, and eventually even with the most recent gulf wars. Someone who paid attention in history class may recall the official causes and some of the combatants, but it will be nerd knowledge and not a topic of political debate. Does anyone today identify personally with one side or the other of the Thirty Years War? Perhaps some people do. I heard someone use the pronoun "we" with reference to the Saxon tribesmen who harassed the Roman soldiers in northern Europe. I don't think that sort of identification with past grievances is a good thing for a society to keep alive. I believe one can remember and honour the fallen without perpetuating the conflict that killed them.

I know I've made that step because it only occurred to me as I typed this up that the names I read on that first memorial were the names of people who may have either killed or died at the hands of people whose names I have read on other cenotaphs. It was in a village in Germany. May they all rest in peace.

Redneck Lottery Winner

I'm the old hand at this town now, and my newly-arrived coworker hasn't spent much time here, so I'm the one who is supposed to know where the choice restaurants are. It's lunch time and we again don't have any flying to do. I suggest we go for a bit of a walk across town to a ma & pa restaurant where I know we can get some tasty soup and maybe some lasagna or a sandwich. It's the muddy season, and road work in town forces us to go the long way around to get from the sidewalk to the door. When we get inside the complex there's a note taped to the window declaring the restaurant closed for a family emergency. Not much I can do about that.

There's another place to eat only half a block away, but we have to cross an unpaved parking lot to get there. I believe I've mentioned that this town has the world's stickiest mud. By the time we reach the restaurant it feels as if we're wearing manhole covers on our feet. We scrape and bang our feet against the sidewalk curb in front of the restaurant, trying to return our footwear to the appearance of shoes. The restaurant owner laughs at us through the window as we manage to get mud everywhere without significantly reducing the amount that is on our shoes. We apologize for tracking mud inside with us, but he knows it is unavoidable. He says his landlord was supposed to pave the parking lot, but he's still waiting.

The menu is various Asian foods. I had coconut curry and teriyaki meatballs, and then, as we had nothing to do but go and walk in the mud somewhere, we had a long chat with the owner. He was wearing an Edmonton Eskimos jersey, but explains that it's on account of losing a bet. He has the common misconception that as pilots we somehow own our airplane, or are allowed to jaunt around in it whenever we want. We explain that no, we can only go where we're paid to, because it's very expensive to operate, then we fantasize about the aircraft (Zeppelin), pets (capybara)and household staff (personal chef) we'd acquire if we were to win one of those big lotteries.

The restaurant owner discloses that a guy from this town once won the SuperMax lottery. He was out in Vancouver collecting his big prize, so of course they asked him what he was going to do with the money. I could see where this sort of story was going so I interjected, "Oh let me guess, he said he was going to buy a new truck!"

"No," replied the restaurant owner, although I'd supplied him with the perfect straight line. "He said he was going to buy a new windshield for his truck.

I just realize as I post this entry that it has the same theme as the 100 Items one, that of being pretty much satisfied with what one has. Life is good.

100 Items

The hip new thing in the world is minimalism, specifically paring your possessions to one hundred items. I'm going to do it now as a mental exercise. I'm doing this without Internet access, so I don't know the accepted "rules" for defining the hundred. I am, therefore, making up my own rules.

I'm going to assume that:

• items that are normally assembled into a single item (e.g. camera, battery, SD card) get to be counted as one item,
• items that are multiple in and of themselves (e.g. a pair of socks) count as one item,
• I have someplace safe to live where I keep this stuff
• plumbed appliances (toilet, sink, shower) are considered part of the home

If I were living out and had to carry everything with me on a bike, it would be a different list. Written in the order I thought of them, influenced by what I can see around me.

1 Camera
2 Charger for camera battery
3 Computer & cord
4 Aviation headset
5 Flashlight
6 Black socks
7 Colourful socks
8 Warm socks
9,10,11 Three pairs of underwear
12 Black pants
13 Jeans
14 Silly t-shirt
15 Pretty t-shirt
16 Plain t-shirt
17 Regular bra
18 Workout bra
19 bicycle
20 bike lock
21 bicycle helmet
22 bicycle repair kit
23 pair of shorts
24 running shoes
25 eyeglasses
26 pen
27 Swiss Army knife (includes scissors & tweezers)
28 toque
29 winter gloves
30 waterproof jacket with zip-out warm lining
31 wallet
32 nail clippers
33 non-electronic address book
34 nice dress
35 stockings
36 dress shoes
37 GPS
38 cooking pot
39 wooden stirring spoon
40 bowl
41 eating utensils
42 sweater
43 compass
44 first aid kit
45 watch
46 pretty earrings
47 knapsack
48 sunglasses
49 swimsuit
50 crayons
51 desk
52 comfortable chair
53 ergonomic chair
53 bed
54 sheets
55 blankets
56 refrigerator
57 stove
58 towel
59 moccasins
60 pepper grinder
61 water bottle
62 iPod
63 mug
64 frying pan
65 razor
66 toothbrush
67 pillow
68 a toaster oven
69 car
70 school textbook I'll never read again but that no one would buy and that I can't bear to throw away velveteen frog
71 sewing machine
72 leather coat
73 baseball cap
74 book I'm reading
75 book I've just read and haven't decided whom to give to yet
76 book I think I ought to read but haven't got around to yet
77 nice boots logbook
78 kayak
79 paddle
80 lifejacket
81 instrument air filters
82 toilet paper
83 moisturizing sunscreen
84 facial cleanser
85 regular person-washing soap
86 lip balm
87 toothpaste
88 shampoo
89 binder full of flight instructor notes pilot licence
90 high quality kitchen knife
91 windbreaker
92 eyeliner
93 vegetable peeler
94 notebook
95 skis
96 ski poles
97 ski boots
98 bike gloves
99 lipstick passport
100 big suitcase that can hold almost everything but the vehicles, furniture and cooking vessels

This exercise required surprisingly less paring and decision making than I expected. I do own a lot more than a hundred things, but most of them are duplicates of (e.g. I have a box at home full of new toothbrushes, toothpaste and soap bought on sale) or variations on (I own four aviation headsets) the items already on the list, or things like #70 and #89: from another phase of my life. I own more clothes than are on the list, mostly because I like to do laundry in a washing machine every ten days, not in the sink every night. I have a lot of books and DVDs and VHS cassettes that could mostly be replaced with electronic versions. I own way more dishes and cooking utensils that are on the list, and that abundance of kitchen supplies is probably what I'd miss the most if I were forced to live with my hundred-item list. I began my culinary independence with a big mug (for measuring, ladling & drinking), a big bowl (for baking, eating & mixing) a cast iron frying pan, and a knife fork and spoon. You can bake cookies in a cast iron frying pan, but they don't turn out as well as when you have a proper baking sheet.

Originally as I made the list, I decided that consumables (e.g. toilet paper and sunblock) did not count towards the total, but when I left them off I started to run out of things I actually own and was starting to put things on the list that I'd like to own. which kinda runs against the concepts of minimalism and anticonsumerism which I assume underlie the meme.

I'm sure I forgot lots of stuff that I want far more than the things on my list. I'm sure this is going to turn into an embarrassing example of how much I take things for granted, so go ahead and remind me, so I can switch it for something I don't need as much. I didn't forget a hairbrush, by the way. Green hair doesn't brush out.

Half a Movie

Okay, let me see if I can return to some semblance of a normal posting schedule around here. I'm going to start with every second day, and if I get far enough ahead to take me through the Cambodia trip, I'll come back and fill some in.

I wake up and there's a text from the a.m. pilot, asking me to call her when I'm up. They didn't fly this morning, because the weather isn't suitable. I call and we meet downstairs for breakfast: first breakfast for me and second breakfast for her. I guess we're being good little hobbitses today. There are zebras loose in the streets of some American suburb on the TV news. The cops are running around trying to catch them,and they keep eluding capture. The zebras are lucky they didn't get tased. I adore zebras. Their stripes are mesmerizing.

The weather is still unsuitable and forecast to remain so all day. We mooch a ride from our maintenance guy out to airplane to pay for last night's fuel and to get the aircraft journey log in order to complete the weekly company paperwork. And that's pretty much it for our official duties today.

I go back to the hotel room and seeing as there is still no Internet I turn on the TV, The Space channel is running all the Star Wars movies in order, so I leave it on that. It's the one with the Ewoks. The top portion of the TV doesn't work at all now, so I see feet and people falling to the ground. but not people being hit. it lends a whole new meaning to "I watched half a movie."

I leave the "do not disturb" sign on the hotel door, because I don't need the room cleaned again, but I attach another note to it "unless you're fixing the TV!" because I don't want the TV repair person to think I'm sleeping and pass me by. As I'm putting it up, the cleaner (I partly want to say "chambermaid" but I'm sure that went out with "stewardess") expresses surprise that it still hasn't been fixed and says she called maintenance again for me.

We go out to lunch. Same restaurant, same waitress. She's coming around, at least looks at us now. It's cheesecake day today. Yum. The service is really really slow here, especially at the end of the meal when it comes to getting a bill and getting payment collected. Usually we just go up to the till, but we don't have anything else to do, so we just wait until the whole transaction is complete, with fifteen to twenty minute gaps between each stage.

Back at my room the "do not disturb" sign looks slightly disturbed. I enter hopefully, but my note is still on the TV. I turn the set on anyway and then realize that it is a new note, on paper torn from the same notepad and taped in the same place, saying that they will bring a new TV.

I'm sure many of you are, so for the record I am aware enough to be embarrassed that here I am complaining about hotel amenities like TV and Internet, while preparing to build someone a home with no TV, Internet, or even electricity. It goes to show how technology can make us miserable. There's a "100 Items" meme where people reduce their possessions to just one hundred items. Hard. I don't think I could become a Buddhist. I love my stuff. I'll have to think about it.

Today I'm spared the introspection, as the maintenance guy brings me a new TV. I blog while Return of the Jedi plays in the background twice in a row. Damn those Ewoks are ugly. Both halves.

And The Winner Is ...

I would be disappointed with your response to the Jet Age book giveaway except that it tells me something amusingly wonderful about the community of people who read this blog. You really do think it's better to give than receive. That is, when I asked you to donate something to help me help Cambodians recover from decades of brutality, so many of you responded, and so fast and so generously that I literally lost count. But when I had an opportunity to give a prize to you, you had some fun telling stories, but there wasn't much enthusiasm in voting or competing for a prize. I guess for the American majority there's been too much talk about voting this week.

What votes there were produced a tie between Chris's story of the downed C172 pilot:

A friend of mine told me a story of his service in the Royal Australian Air Force - it even has a Canadian connection.

He was ferrying the original flight of DHC-4 Caribou aircraft from Canada to Australia which necessitated a number of stops, the Caribou being relatively short legged and not equipped for inflight refuelling. Somewhere over North Africa he picked up a very faint distress signal on 121.5. He diverted to the source of the signal and because it was so faint they had a hard time tracking it down, often losing it entirely. Eventually he found a lone pilot standing under the wing of his wrecked C172. Circling for a bit, the crew dropped some food and all the water they had, then bid the pilot farewell and flew on for their destination, reporting the crash site at the next aerodrome. They flew onward but before reaching their original destination of Australia they were again diverted - this time for South Vietnam. He never learned of the fate of that bloke, stranded in the sea of sand.

Years later, standing in a bar in Laos in a small village in the middle of nowhere. An Air America pilot heard the Australian voices and came over shouting the whole crew a drink. He said bought drinks for any Australian flight crews he met because years earlier he had an engine failure ferrying a C172 across North Africa, crash landed and was on his last legs when a Caribou dropped food and water and sent rescuers to his position...it was the same bloke whose life they had saved.

... and an anonymous reader who e-mailed me before posting to identify himself:

When I was a boy I listened to Tom Rutledge tell a story about when he was a young man. Tom worked for the Wright engine company and was tasked with building J5 engines and “running them in”. A variety of plane and pilot teams were then attempting to be the first to cross the Atlantic non-stop. Since the Wright J5 was the a reliable engine most were choosing it for their planes. Tom’s coworkers with more seniority were allowed first choice of whose engines they would build.

After assembly, the J5 engines would run on a test stand with the valve cove removed so that one could “hit” the valve rocker arms with a rubber mallet when the valves became stuck. The valves would stick sometimes until they had been run for a time. While Tom was working with an especially difficult engine, whacking on it with his mallet, he was introduced to Charles Lindberg, his engine’s owner.

I like both stories. Note that they both were stories the teller had heard someone else tell. Telling each other stories is part of aviation, for sure. Together they illustrate some true things, good and bad about aviation. The risk involved in crossing stretches of water in smaller airplanes. Dependence on our engines and our mechanics. Looking out for one another, and paying it forward. All favours and bribes are paid in beer. And no matter where you are, if there's another pilot there you'll have a connection.

As I have to cast the tie-breaking vote, I'll choose the C172 story. Chris, please send me your mailing address.

Insert Reptile Here on a Plane

I have been on the road for the last couple of weeks and ISP issues kept me mostly without e-mail, so I haven't caught up on comments yet. I'm amused that you're all way better at telling stories than you are at voting on your favourites, so it looks like I'll have to pick a winner myself, probably tomorrow.

For tonight, the first pass through my e-mailbox gives me a much forwarded story about a crocodile bringing down an airplane. It seems that on August 25th of this year a Let-410 turboprop (that's the same type as in the famous lions-under-the-wing photo) was en route from Kinshasa to Bandundu in the Democratic Republic of the Congo. Shortly before landing the aircraft crashed, with no prior reports of difficulty. The single human survivor, a passenger, said that passengers had stampeded to the front of the aircraft to escape a crocodile that escaped from a passenger's luggage.

Initial analyses were skeptical about the crocodile, but later ones confirm this was the testimony at the hearing.

The best comment I've found on the subject is from David Learmount on his blog Learmount, when he says,

"The painfully obvious solution to prevent further accidents like it is to prevent passengers bringing crocodiles - or other dangerous animals - on board. But in the DR Congo, which has had the worst aviation accident record in the world for two decades, this sort of event is, unfortunately, just 'part of life's rich tapestry'."

I'm not guaranteeing a blog entry tomorrow: I've run out of already-written buffered entries and don't have a lot of time, but I have a lot of story notes and will try to transfer them to the blog so you have something to read while I'm away. Meanwhile, if anyone out there speaks Khmer, can you teach me some basics?

Knowledge is not a Democratic Principle

I wanted to write a post about something scary for Hallowe'en, and I think I just found it. I came across this Answers.com question and answer. The asker wants to know if he can use the Archimedes principle to weigh an airplane without a scale. And he knows that Archimedes developed this principle to determine whether a crown purported to be solid gold was indeed solid gold.

Several people tried to answer this question. Two suggested that the way to do this would be to completely submerge the airplane, evacuating all air. One concluded that this would work, assuming one knew the density and composition of the materials from which the airplane was made ("measure the volume of water displaced and multiply it by the mean average density of the plane to get the weight") and the other, citing "I'm a vampire blur" as sources concluded that such calculations were not possible, "so neh." Three suggested floating the aircraft and one didn't read the question properly, so suggested weighing the airplane on scales, using more or less the methodology cited by the asker in the original question.

The Archimedes principle is this:

"When a body is wholly or partially immersed in water, the upthrust, or loss of weight is equal to the weight of the water displaced."

One of the people who gave me my start in science and mathematics had come from an educational tradition where students learned things by rote memorization and demonstrated their knowledge by standing next to their desks and reciting them. A generation or so earlier they probably had to say it in the original Greek. That was never demanded of me, in any language, but when learned snippets of natural philosophy are recited by someone you respect, they stick anyway. I never have to look that up. Rote memorization is obviously not sufficient for understanding and application, but it's an anchor for the knowledge.

An airplane could be weighed by the water displacement method if you put it on a floating platform in a tank of water, and noted the water level in the tank. Then you hoist the airplane off the platform and measure how much water you must pump in to fill the tank back to the identical water level. That is the amount of water the weight of the airplane displaced, and by multiplying its volume (which you measured while pumping) by its density at that temperature, you have the weight of the airplane. That's easier than filling the tank to the brim without the airplane then collecting and weighing the water that spills over the top when you add the airplane, but it's functionally identical.

But because this is the way the world works now, on Answers.com people voted on which was the correct answer. The vampire blur who wanted to sink the airplane "won." I know this is by no means the nadir of stupidity in online question and answer polls. You might tell me not to get too upset about this because he only received two votes and one of the floaters received one, but it's a second risk of the democratization of knowledge: not only has popularity become the definition of truth, but low voter turnout makes it easy to influence "truth."

Once upon a time in some parts of human history, when people didn't know things and they couldn't easily test them for themselves, they went to people who were wise, or powerful or lucky and asked them for the truth. What they said was accepted as the truth, even in the face of meticulous contradictory observations. Then came the scientific revolution. It wasn't about new knowledge. It was about how we know knowledge. We test it in a way that anyone can reproduce, and experience as truth instead of being told. That's the purpose of laboratory science training in schools, to show students that what they are learning is real and discoverable, not rote and on faith. Scientists worked in Latin and Greek not to be obscure and elitist, but to communicate. The Greeks and the Romans had the first literate engineers in the western world, and theirs became the tradition for communication. Newton reported on some of his discoveries in English, and despite a few centuries of language change, it's some of the most clear readable reporting of primary scientific results you'll ever read. It's not laden with jargon, just uses and defines existing terminology for the phenomena.

Since then knowledge has become more esoteric, experiments more expensive, scientific language more obscure, and people have to rely not only on others to do their experiments for them, but on others to read the results and filter them. We've gone back to individuals choosing which wise man they will turn to, and we've lost the distinction between philosophy and experimental knowledge. There's nothing wrong with turning to someone whose experience, subject knowledge and capacity for thought is greater than yours and asking for help understanding the world. There's nothing wrong with taking ones own knowledge of the world and trying to share it with others (at least there had better not be, because I do it all the time). But it results in a breakdown in the distinction between what is empirical fact and what is opinion. There is very little real historical fact. Some bones, some photographs, some rusted swords, are all. We assume that when numerous sources close in time and space to the occurrence agree with each other and with the physical evidence that we have historical fact, but we have to be open to the possibility of collusion by the only people who knew the truth. Wikipedia has rapidly become a major source of information for individuals and for the media we depend on to give us a broader view. Wikipedia is kind of a shoutocracy. When the only version of events that anyone looks at is the one laid down by he who shouts loudest, then did anything else really happen. Ethics have no empirical truth, and all we can do to determine which are right is to consult our wise people, our consciences, and the norms of our society. But some things are either real or not, and when there is a conflict among voices on determinable facts, but the "winner" is determined by volume¹, popularity, tenacity, intimidation, tradition or apathy, that is very scary. Happy Hallowe'en.

1. Not by immersion in water, but that might be nice, in certain cases, incidentally settling the matter of who is a witch, just in time for Hallowe'en.

Other Projects

I was going to write a blog entry today, really I was, but I don't have time. It was going to be about a project reader Townmouse is associated with, a project to rebuild a Link trainer.

Update: Sorry, there's no information on the link trainer there, just about the museum where it is happening. Townmouse says in the comments:

Yay! Thanks for the link to the museum site - there probably won't be anything there about the link trainer project because the whole place is run by old boys in overalls who are much happier with a spanner in their hands than sitting at a computer. My other half (despite not having any overalls and not being that old) is busy taking the Link trainer apart piece by piece and lovingly restoring it. It's a fascinating project because the trainer itself was based on player piano and organ technology so it's all operated by bellows and vacuum pipes and the electronics are 40s technology, if that. Complicated doesn't even begin to describe it. A few people have restored them and there are a few resources around on the internet but mostly it's been a question of looking at the original manual and tinkering. A few weeks ago they managed to get it turning and pitching under power, although there's still a long way to go

If anyone is in SouthWest Scotland and is interested, it's being restored right there in the museum in a polytunnel so go and have a look. In fact, I recommend the museum to anyone in the area who's interested in old planes and world war 2. It's run entirely by volunteers and while not the slickest museum in the world, it's full of interesting stuff and they let you climb into most of the planes and make aeroplane noises if you like.

True, Magnetic and Whatever

I'm up north, and I have a whack of GPS equipment on board that tells me which way is which, so the lowly whiskey compass at the top of the windshield doesn't get much regard. Not that I disregard it. A compass is a very cool device, incredibly low tech, but working all over the planet without power. I can imagine an advanced technological society that had lost the knowledge of compass navigation. They could have built so many structures, electronic devices and power transmission lines that compasses didn't work most places, and have so much signage and technological assistance that no one used them anyway.

The Earth's magnetic field lines, with which a compass aligns, encircle the planet emerging from and disappearing into the poles. My compass is a hemispheric shell suspended by a point in liquid (the "whiskey") and free to rotate and tilt to align with the local magnetic field. I can't use it to roll out on a heading because the turning errors are enormous at this latitude, and even in level unaccelerated flight the tilt of the bowl is such that it's not easy to read.

The HSI is a kind of stabilized compass, as it gets its information from a magnetic compass, but right now mine isn't working. It hasn't been removed from the aircraft, because we're planning to go south to Edmonton soon. There's an avionics shop with an excellent reputation there, and the AME wants them to examine the HSI in situ. That would allow them to spot if it's something simple and removes the risk and cost associated with removing and shipping it, especially as we're still orbiting the black hole of postal and shipping services. In the absence of an HSI, I'm setting the copilot side directional gyro; habit and original training makes me look at the compass to do this, even though I have far more information available from the GPS and INS.

I'm tracking 270 degrees true, and the compass reads 260 degrees, which is obviously a magnetic reading. The chart says the local magnetic variation is 23 degrees east of true. The compass correction card says for 270 degrees steer 272, and is reasonably consistent from south through west, and it's dated last month. The computer says I'm crabbing four degrees to the north. How do I put that together to make any sense?

270 true minus 23E suggests we're tracking 247 degrees magnetic, but we're crabbing four degrees north, which makes a heading of 251 magnetic, for which I should steer 253 magnetic. So there are seven degrees missing. I'm willing to believe it's the result of all the extra kit that wasn't running when the compass was swung, because we stow some of the valuable non-aviation equipment before giving the airplane over for extended maintenance. Either that or the universe is wrong.

Eastbound on the exact reciprocal track of 090 true, the compass reads about 035, but I didn't write all the associated numbers down, so I can't play with them.

All Aboard the Pan Am Clipper Ship

At the beginning of the year, I introduced you to Elizabeth, who spends much of her spare time, energy and money on the Postcard Project, sending postcards to anyone who wants one, especially to those whose lives are improved by the gesture. She's still alive, beating all kinds of odds, and still sending hundreds of personally selected and hand-decorated postcards. I keep telling her not to send them to me because firstly I'm never home to receive them, secondly she really does have limited resources, and thirdly I didn't think she was ever going to beat the very first card she sent me. But just as she defies the expectations of all medical professionals, Elizabeth defies any attempt to get her to stop sending postcards. And I think she may have found a better one.

It's not just a postcard, but an actual card depicting the boarding process on a "Giant 32 Passenger Pan American Flying Clipper Ship." That's a flying boat, a seaplane, with a giant high wing fitted with four Pratt & Whitney engines. I can only see three in the picture, but I assume it's an S-42 and that artistic licence has hidden the edge of the fourth engine in the picture, so they didn't have to depict part of the engine cut off by the frame.

Elizabeth puts a lot of pictures of pictures on her blog, and they don't have big camera flash solarization marks on them. I found out how she does it, too. She waits for a sunny day and photographs them in natural sunlight. Next I'll have to get her to teach me how to make them not be crooked.

I've never flown an airplane of that size, especially not a seaplane. My experience of flying boats is that on account of the hull being down at water level, I don't have a good enough view of the water around me to spot sticks and deadheads and waves. It's nerve-wracking not knowing for sure that your takeoff surface is clear. I see that a number of the clippers were destroyed in take-off accidents so perhaps my caution is justified.

When I told Elizabeth I would be posting this one on my blog she urged me to tell you that she has other classic airplane and car postcards, plus railway, cats, dogs and space. I only ask that if you're going to take advantage of her generosity that you consider getting something for her, from her wishlist.

Rivers and Mountains and Chocolate

I sleep for not long enough, but there's too much noise and light to sleep more, so I get up and make a phone call. I sit on hold for half an hour. I ordered The West Wing complete series earlier but the friend who receives mail for me e-mailed to say he already owned it and I could borrow his any time. So I wait on hold until I get a Return Authorization Number to send mine back, then go for breakfast. I take the Do Not Disturb sign off the door for my weekly room cleaning.

I get back from breakfast (a waffle). The room is cleanish, but the TV is still not fixed. So I nap. Then I go to Boston Pizza. May I go home yet?

The a.m. crew got off to a late start again. Fog, of course. I meet them after landing at four and we discuss a brake that was spongy on the taxi out, and the left inboard fuel gauge showing half full between half and quarter tanks. Neither of these is groundable now, so the AME says he will look at them tonight. That discussion over, I say, "Well, I guess it's time to make airplane noises," and both the other pilot and my mission specialist immediately and simultaneousy make propeller noises with their lips. I love my coworkers. We get in and make airplane noises using the actual airplane.

It's a good flight, out over the mountains and rivers, with the sun slowly creeping past the layers of clouds down to the horizon. The clouds serve as a sunshade from the glare of the sunset. I'm grateful when they do that. Finally the sun does go all the way down, and then darkness follows, about the time that we're almost done anyway. We finish up and head back to the airport. It's harder to track a straight line in darkness, especially without an HSI. I scan across to the right side one, and use the GPS. I might be quite literally lost without them. The compass is not that useful here. The wisdom of the rule stating that I need a heading indicator at night is sound.

The airport is invisible on our first pass, because we're not in the direction of a runway and the trees alongside the airport block the edge lights I might have seen. Or maybe they weren't turned up yet. They are bright enough to find the airport, and on final I have red-blue-green and a light in the mirror. (That's the red mixture levers forward, the blue propeller levers forward, three green lights on the dashboard and the light mounted on the nosewheel reflecting off the mirror on the nacelle, confirming that the nosegear is down and the landing light works.

I'm wired after the night flying. I haven't done a night landing in ages, having been the morning pilot or in the north all summer. It's still legal for me to have done one tonight because there are no passengers on board, just crew. It goes well. I guess I haven't forgotten how. The AME meets airplane as I shut down, here to look at the gauge issues reported by the a.m. pilot. I can't confirm the fuel gauge issue because I landed with half tanks on the inboards, and the brakes worked fine for me. He opens an access panel to confirm the type of fuel sender. He'll order a new one.

The FBO charges $50 for a callout between five and nine pm and $100 for one between nine pm and seven a.m. Fog is not forecast tomorrow, and even if they don't get going before seven, they will want fuel first thing, so we decide to pay the $100 callout fee now, and not risk not being able to get a fueller to come on Sunday a.m. Sometimes you can't buy fuel before noon on a Sunday at all. It's not that they are closed, just that you can't get anyone to come out. Just because there's a callout phone doesn't mean the person who took it home is going to answer it. They answer my night call--I did warn him we might call around midnight. It looks like the fueller's friends have decided to keep him callout company. There are about half a dozen people here, one wearing pajama bottoms. I ask if I may just leave now and come back and pay tomorrow. They okay that, so yay, day over.

I've had the same very slight headache for three days. I self-medicate with chocolate.