Tool of the day
11-03-2013, 05:34 AM
#4571
Gets Weekends Off
Joined APC: Jul 2012
Posts: 737
Originally Posted by Timbo
Classic! You know what's more fun than screaming, "You're ON GUARD!"?
Just say, "Please say again..." If once was funny, twice is funnier!
I once had a guy repeat his position 3 times before some other tool told him he was on Guard.
Damn you Guard Nazis!
Just say, "Please say again..." If once was funny, twice is funnier!
I once had a guy repeat his position 3 times before some other tool told him he was on Guard.
Damn you Guard Nazis!
11-03-2013, 06:58 AM
#4572
Gets Weekends Off
Joined APC: Feb 2006
Position: B-737NG preferably in first class with a glass of champagne and caviar
Posts: 5,902
Originally Posted by ForeverFO
What else is there to do at 62N for hours on end than mess with people on guard?
11-03-2013, 08:37 PM
#4573
Gets Weekends Off
Joined APC: May 2012
Posts: 1,154
Alright Alright, here's another gem of Henri's (182driver on avcanada). This is my personal favorite:
The figure in front of me was speaking, but I wasn’t really listening. She had been the lucky recipient of a wink and some finger-gun shots, of course, but had appeared indifferent, so the radar had been deployed elsewhere for more receptive targets. Despite my best efforts at refocusing on the other ladies in the terminal building, that voice kept resonating in my head.
“…..going to Montreal with you…….laying over in Ottawa……..which leg do you want……..”
Just like the laws of the wild, chaps. When the other potential mates think you are paired up already, they will flock to the more available looking partners. With this hanger-on stationed in front of me, there was no way I was going to get any action! I struggled to keep the look of desperation out of my face as I nearly pulled an ocular muscle trying to obtain eye contact with a passing blonde. No joy. Quick pelvic thrusts directed at a nearby seated brunette yielded nothing. Blazing finger gun shots and rapid clicking from the side of my mouth failed to draw in more than a single look of adoration from the clerk at the Hudson News adjacent to the gate. Zut Alors!
Exasperated now, I turned to look at the constant source of chatter before me. Pleased that she had my attention, she actually stopped talking and took in the sight in front of her. Take your time, Cherie. Starting at the recently polished cowboy boots, she clucked her tongue—in awe— as she drank in the snug polyester dress pants held firmly in place by the powerful lower body of a French-Canadian not afraid of a little gym time for his hammys and glutes. The Fleur de lis emblem on the belt buckle gleamed and winked at my new fan as her eyes ran over the gentle convex curve of my ab before taking in the pencil thin mustache adorning my upper lip. An impressive coating of stubble on my cheeks (about the consistency of 80 grit sandpaper) scored me huge points for ruggedness. Why shave, gents? Show them you mean business and have the testosterone to back it up!
The diameter of her eyes noticeably changed as the piece du resistance flowed into her view. The mullet up until now had been waiting patiently, crouched on my neckline before being called into action to seal a potential mate. Other than the odd curious curl peeking out to survey the crowded airport, it had been largely dormant. Now, however, it caught the scent of pursuit, and with a quick whip of my neck it sprang forth like an excited child at Christmas. My standard issue airline hat groaned under the pressure, and then conceded as it was pushed north, making my already impressive 5’6” frame seem positively enormous in the perfect backlit effect I had positioned myself in. Allowing my audience time to absorb it all, I studied my nails as one of my immaculate boots rose from the floor and came to rest on my flight bag. Taking a page from the cool pilot book, my case was covered with every kind of sticker you can imagined, from Celine Dion to Rocky Balboa.
Rotate that bag, fellows, and study all the aircraft stickers. The entire family of Cessna singles are represented, the 182 encircled with gold stars. The Mighty DHC-8 lives on top, just near the handle on which I fasten my steely grip. Message? I have flown lots of airplanes. Impressive? You bet!
I had been politely waiting for her inspection to be complete before opening my eyes and nodding slowly and removing my elevated boot from my bag. Beaming. Spreading my arms. Waiting for the praise to be heaped upon me.
I waited. And waited.
The praise was taking some time to get to me.
The source of the voice was now standing quietly, and had folded her arms while my eyes had been closed. “Did you hear me?” she said. Was that a tapping foot? What was going on here?
“Of course not, Cherie. Please say again.” I responded. On the outside I was exuding pure calm, but on the inside I was starting to feel confused. Nervous. A brief wave of fear bubbled up. It quickly passed through my Louis Vittons and the polyester. It sounded like a far-off Vuvuzela and smelt like camenbert. A nostril twitched in an act of betrayal.
She sighed. It sounded like….exasperation. How could this be? Did she not see the epaulettes? The hair? The barndoor lats? How could she resist?
“We are flying together….” She began slowly.
Aha! That’s who this little vixen was! A flight attendant! Of course. I casually wafted a masculine hand to push the scent of the Axe body spray her way. ‘Phoenix’ is my odor of choice, men. Never fails. Line in the water! I waited for her to bite.
“…and I am Captain Wilson.” The sentence was finished, but I couldn’t comprehend it. This……..female creature was claiming to warm the left seat of the Mighty 8? I had her pegged for a cookie tosser, but now I saw the folly in my assumption. I had seen what had looked like four bars when she sauntered in, but just assumed we were getting a really qualified in-charge. It was only now that I noticed the telltale signs of the professional pilot—the same ones I “accidently” forget to take off before hitting le discotheque: the hat, the pen-in-pocket, the glinting wings….Ray Bans swinging from the lanyard, flight crew ID clipped to the shirt. Could this be true? I had heard about lady pilots before, but kind of assumed they were a mystical creature—like a unicorn—and didn’t really exist.
Could she resist me? Not likely. Time for the secret weapon. Impromptu Dancing with the Stars audition coming up!
The only foreshadowing of the treat about to be bestowed was a slight bend in the knees before I sprung skyward into a tight double axel. The mullet bowed to the laws of centrifugal force and obediently arced out in a graceful semi-circle of golden happiness. I caught sight of myself in the window at the top of climb; with my clenched buns and pirouetted toes I looked like Swayze in Dirty Dancing. Sweet!
The landing was classic two point, and I quickly unfolded my arms from my chest, my breathing noticeably quicker now. She opened her mouth to say something but was interrupted by the nasally roar of the loudspeaker: “Gate change, flight 347 to Ottawa will now be departing from Gate 56.”
I looked at her.
“That’s us.”
My eyes narrowed to slits and the signature toothpick appeared out of nowhere to set up camp on my lower lip. My hand flexed on the handle of the rolly bag.
She stared back.
“Yes. It is.”
Her eyes also narrowed, and she put a stick of gum into her mouth. Slowly. Her jaw started to move as she stared at me like a fighter in the ring. Yikes!
We stood there for a long four seconds before exploding into action. My quads pumped furiously with the pedigree of a sprinter as I departed for Gate 56. The Lady Captain had pulled out in front, and I lost precious seconds trying to sabotage her start efforts by trying to kick her one foot behind the other. (It worked like a charm in Grade 9, chaps. I did that to that bully Pascal St. Jermaine-de-Mer back in the day, and he went down like a ton of bricks in the cafeteria as the roar of approval from my peers rang loud in my ears. I did some time with le Principal after that little episode, but the damage was done and old Pascal never pulled on the mullet again. Prenez votre medicine, Pascal!)
My technique did not work this time though, folks. Lady Captain had a boat-length on me now. She was freakishly fast. I desperately searched for something to throw at her, but nothing presented itself. The Tim Horton’s double-double sloshed painfully behind the muscular wall of my ab as I forced the rolly-bag’s wheels to spool far in excess of their certified design speed. I could smell the burning of the bearings as we rounded the first corner. My calves and glutes squealed in protest—after all, they were accustomed to moving staggering amounts of weight in the gym in Trois Rivieries, not support an all-out cardio effort like this. In contrast, the Lady Captain looked like she could bang off 10k any day of the week, and barely looked like she was breathing heavy. That wasn’t the case in my camp, chappies. Without warning, the #2 wheel packed it in, and smoke started to pour freely from beneath the rolly. The toothpick fell from my mouth in a receeding trail of drool, and the Balboa sticker bobbed and weaved in encouragement as my flight bag bounced over the terrain of the lounge. Gate 56 was now in view, but all I was focused on was the retreating head of the Lady Captain as she pulled further away. She had a smooth motion to her running, almost gliding back and forth like a speed skater. This was unfolding like a Road Runner cartoon, and I was playing the hapless coyote!
The Lady Captain was at the gate now, reviewing the flight plan and sipping an Americano when the growling wheeze of a desperate anaerobic effort caused all of the waiting passengers to turn in their seats and view the scene unfolding before them. Squinting in the fluorescent lights, it must have been one of the top-10 most impressive things they have ever seen: a rugged French-Canadian in full flight approached them now, mullet fully coiled and whipping my sides like an angered jockey, chest heaving and producing a primal guttural roar as the cowboy boots made an authoritative tock-tock-tock-tock on the terminal floor. The Celine sticker on my flight bag snarled with disgust at the defeat developing in front of her. “Rene would have done better” she seemed to be saying. No, Celine! Do not say such things! Man-Tears of embarrassment stung my eyes, made worse by the acrid smoke of my melted rolly bag wheels.
To simply say the emotion that day was impressive would be like saying the Titanic was just any old ship, mates. The gate agent picked me up off the floor and we sat there rocking for a minute as I caught my breath. My shirt clung to my back, soaked through with sweat to the point you could see my 182 tattoo through the clingy fabric. Despite the awkwardness, it was a nice opportunity to show my lats, chaps. I think the redhead in the Starbucks line took note.
20 minutes was all I needed: it was time to rise and compose myself. The Lady Captain was nowhere to be seen. She was down at the airplane, the gate agent said.
“You let her go down there, alone?” I was incredulous. Mon dieu! Something had to be done. I had seen the way these people drive, and the Mighty 8 was a lot harder to tame than a Toyota.
I pulled myself up to my full height. There was 5’6” of manhood standing within view of my passengers—my people—and they were all waiting for me to rectify the situation. The square, molten wheels of the rolly bag made a solemn kachunk-kachunk as the smoke cleared and I disappeared into the jetway. Go time! The lyrics of Celine rang loudly in my ears as I mentally prepared myself for round two of my encounter with the curious creature waiting for me in the massive Dash parked on the tarmac:
We're heading for something
Somewhere I've never been
Sometimes I am frightened
But I'm ready to learn
Of the power of love.
-Celine Dion, The Power of Love
I plunked myself down hard in my seat and grunted with relief. The springs strained, flexed and held fast as they propped up 158 pounds of lean French Canadian beef. Ripped and cut—that’s my mantra, lads! I tilted my head back and let out a little snort of laughter, but was quickly cut short by a burst of interrogation from the left side of the massive flight deck.
“Want something to drink?” The gum snapped and popped as the Lady Captain was asking. Her eyes were hidden by mirrored RayBans, but I could see her eyebrows inquisitively rising above the frames. Now this was more like it! Service was being offered. Finally! I pulled out my notepad to write down my order.
Impatiently, she continued: “I’m havin a coffee—black.” She leaned into the back and hollered; a surprisingly deep and authoritative voice poured out of her.
“Hey, TOOTS! Coffee for me. And bring one for my fleet-footed friend as well!”
She sat there, drumming furiously on her knee and humming “Wildside” by Motley Crue. As I joined in, I assessed my own confusion as to what I was dealing with. Who was this creature? All I could do was stare in disbelief as she hung a hand over the yoke, and tore at her Wrigley’s like a wild animal as she waited for the coffee to arrive. Who would have thought Spearmint could become a meal?
A minute later, I was still staring at her when the male flight attendant—(straight as can be, was I in the twilight zone here?)—delivered our coffee. The Lady Captain sweetly deposited her gum into the garbage bag and gracefully plucked her cup from the tray. Placing it in the cup holder, she dismissed the manly trolley dolly with a manicured wave, and leered at his retreating form with interest.
“Look at the buns on that thing. He must work out, eh?” An eye winked at me behind the Raybans. I sipped my coffee in stunned silence. Had she not noticed my own polished posterior? Was she really that blind to perfection? In self defence, I leaned over momentarily to show a toned cheek, but a quick puff of unease escaped, and I quickly rolled buttocks-level to clamp it off before the air quality lowered too noticeably. I swear I felt the sheepskin wilt below me.
The Lady Captain drained her coffee. I only sipped mine as it was quite hot and I was scared of burning my lips. What was happening to me? Where was the signature manhood?
She was talking now. “……so I’ll take the first leg, and you can fly up to Montreal. Sound good to you?”
I mumbled my acknowledgement in misery. The coffee cup was red hot, and burning my hand. Oww!
A half-hour later the massive P-dubs were spooled to taxi power, and the Lady Captain pushed up the levers. The Dash rolled forward cautiously. Well, this should be good for a laugh, I thought. I began to coach her through the tricky nuances of taxiing such a large aircraft, when she suddenly held up a delicate finger to my lips.
“Shhhhh little one. I got this. Are you buckled in?”
I tasted moisturizer, and then the finger was gone, joining its friends on the power quadrant. She cackled like a goblin as she pushed them forward. The Dash leapt like it had been spanked, and I could clearly hear the straight flight attendant shrieking through the flight deck door as he was no doubt thrown firmly into the last few rows as he wrapped up his demo. Taxiway signs flew by in a sickening blur as we danced and weaved down hi-speeds, across runways, and along access roads as the Lady Captain spun the tiller in response to the progressive taxi clearances. The airspeed needle came alive momentarily and the tires squealed their warning to an approaching Airbus as we gained pole position for takeoff. I rattled off checklist after checklist to prepare the mighty Dash for flight as the LC alternately firewalled and idled the engines to fit in with the heavy morning traffic flow. We participated in no less than three separate games of chicken—all victorious—as we deked our way out to the runway. I looked up from the Before Takeoff Checklist and saw the hold line approaching rapidly. The LC was looking out the side window, humming a tune. Suddenly, without any warning, the engines went into full reverse. The brakes locked, and smoke poured from the tires as we screeched to a stop as the intercom chime binged from the back. The Dash sat there enveloped in a puddle of reverted rubber, heaving and shaking like a wild thing, the nose wheel six inches back from the hold line. The LC was applying lipstick. She looked down at the intercom phone. “Aren’t you going to get that?”
****
The sound of the PW’s strummed their solemn tune on either side of us as the Dash lumbered her way to Ottawa. Cruise had been largely uneventful, giving me ample time to stare at the LC as I munched on a Jos Louis. Delicious. I had never seen such a phenomena up close before, but there she was, doing things just like the other Taxi Specialists I had flown with. Not only, that, but if I squinted and held my head just so, she could pass for a younger version of Celine herself! Her hair was secured into a long flowing black ponytail, and the RayBans stood guard up front, balanced on her small nose. The jaw was in constant motion as it smashed the Wrigley’s into oblivion. I watched transfixed as her chin weaved back and forth with the motion. Suddenly it stopped in mid-chew. I froze. I had been detected! Quick, look away! But it was too late. The ponytail rotated out of sight as she turned her head to face me.
“We’re going to need 10 left for weather, Henri,” she purred, and jerked her head in the direction of a large series of cumulus clouds. The weather radar told the whole story, chaps. Solid yellow, dead ahead. Time to leap into action! The toothpick on my lower lip seemed to stand at attention as I screamed at her: “No need to panic!” Always be supportive and reassuring for your teammates in a crew environment, kids. In a flurry of activity, I finished my Sudoku, told the straight-male-flight-attendant guy to grab some cushion, tightened my belts to the point of whimpering and closed all of my window shades. Then, it was time to talk to my listeners. My people. With a huge grin, I majestically reached for the interphone. I flicked a bouncy, conditioned mullet curl behind me with a graceful whip of my head. Listen up, peeps. News from the front office!
When giving a PA chaps, always give more detail then you think the layman can absorb. Don’t worry, they’ll suss out the info they seek. On the day in question, I started with the required weather theory about to be witnessed over the next few minutes. Crucial background info about tornados, hail, thunderstorms and windshear were all given their due. I then recounted some of the mistakes others have made around these lethal “timebombs of mother nature”, and assured them we have learned a lot from these mishaps. Thanking them for their business, I wished them all good luck in both official languages before returning to the task at hand. Show time! I rubbed my hands together with anticipation, causing a little avalanche of Jos Louis crumbs.
Similar to the PA, I was sure to vividly describe to ATC the fury that lay before us. He really had no choice but to approve our request to swerve the mighty 8 out of the path of sure destruction. The LC had been taking this all in, and she turned to face me now. I gulped. She smiled briefly, a quick flash of emotion, and then it was gone.
“Ready?” was all she said.
There was no movement from the chin now. The ponytail hung behind her like a limp windsock. The PW’s maintained their steady rhythm. It was as if everything was waiting for my word. I set my jaw firmly, and nodded curtly—just once. Military style, chaps. Turning forward, we joined hands as we faced the tempest. A little ‘Thelma and Louise’ time for the logbook!
The deviations began, and it was like the Dash had fastened itself to the rails of the Behemoth at Canada’s Wonderland. I remember my cousin Serge and I had ridden the famous coaster for his 4th bachelor party, along with Jean Luc, Pierre St. Jacques and Pascal Marteville. Full of poutine and Labatts 50, Serge had gone from emitting whoops of joy to upchucking vividly all over a bunch of high-powered Toronto execs on a corporate team-building exercise. I giggled like a schoolgirl until finally succumbing to the g-forces and joining him. The inevitable fistfight that followed only served to add to the hilarity, and Serge, Jean-Luc, Pascal and I were all escorted to the park gates by security. But the Behemoth had nothing on the moves the LC was pulling. The Dash keenly skirted the impending danger, her nose diving, climbing and weaving like Balboa going up against that big Russian in Rocky 3. I spent most of the time pasted firmly to the side window as the Lady Captain alternately hauled and pushed the control column like a Nautilus machine. Full spoiler deflection was the order of the day chaps, as we rolled up onto a sharp knife-edge to deke the rain showers. The Wrigley’s snapped and popped like a hailstorm as the LC leaned a hand over the yoke, tilted her head back, and.....roared with laughter!
I screamed in terror and sat bolt upright in bed. The mullet was not far behind, and cascaded sleepily over my shoulders. I looked at the clock: 2:58. Mr. Stitches was snoring loudly beside me, stretched out like a rug. I considered waking him up to tell him about my horrific nightmare, and then decided against it. I patted his huge belly. Sleep, my furry friend. He had a small puddle of cat drool collecting under his whiskers. Cute.
Still dry-heaving gently, I laid back on my Motley Crue designer pillow and pushed the frightening images from my head. “Unicorns do not exist....” I mumbled, over and over before finally drifting back to sleep.
The figure in front of me was speaking, but I wasn’t really listening. She had been the lucky recipient of a wink and some finger-gun shots, of course, but had appeared indifferent, so the radar had been deployed elsewhere for more receptive targets. Despite my best efforts at refocusing on the other ladies in the terminal building, that voice kept resonating in my head.
“…..going to Montreal with you…….laying over in Ottawa……..which leg do you want……..”
Just like the laws of the wild, chaps. When the other potential mates think you are paired up already, they will flock to the more available looking partners. With this hanger-on stationed in front of me, there was no way I was going to get any action! I struggled to keep the look of desperation out of my face as I nearly pulled an ocular muscle trying to obtain eye contact with a passing blonde. No joy. Quick pelvic thrusts directed at a nearby seated brunette yielded nothing. Blazing finger gun shots and rapid clicking from the side of my mouth failed to draw in more than a single look of adoration from the clerk at the Hudson News adjacent to the gate. Zut Alors!
Exasperated now, I turned to look at the constant source of chatter before me. Pleased that she had my attention, she actually stopped talking and took in the sight in front of her. Take your time, Cherie. Starting at the recently polished cowboy boots, she clucked her tongue—in awe— as she drank in the snug polyester dress pants held firmly in place by the powerful lower body of a French-Canadian not afraid of a little gym time for his hammys and glutes. The Fleur de lis emblem on the belt buckle gleamed and winked at my new fan as her eyes ran over the gentle convex curve of my ab before taking in the pencil thin mustache adorning my upper lip. An impressive coating of stubble on my cheeks (about the consistency of 80 grit sandpaper) scored me huge points for ruggedness. Why shave, gents? Show them you mean business and have the testosterone to back it up!
The diameter of her eyes noticeably changed as the piece du resistance flowed into her view. The mullet up until now had been waiting patiently, crouched on my neckline before being called into action to seal a potential mate. Other than the odd curious curl peeking out to survey the crowded airport, it had been largely dormant. Now, however, it caught the scent of pursuit, and with a quick whip of my neck it sprang forth like an excited child at Christmas. My standard issue airline hat groaned under the pressure, and then conceded as it was pushed north, making my already impressive 5’6” frame seem positively enormous in the perfect backlit effect I had positioned myself in. Allowing my audience time to absorb it all, I studied my nails as one of my immaculate boots rose from the floor and came to rest on my flight bag. Taking a page from the cool pilot book, my case was covered with every kind of sticker you can imagined, from Celine Dion to Rocky Balboa.
Rotate that bag, fellows, and study all the aircraft stickers. The entire family of Cessna singles are represented, the 182 encircled with gold stars. The Mighty DHC-8 lives on top, just near the handle on which I fasten my steely grip. Message? I have flown lots of airplanes. Impressive? You bet!
I had been politely waiting for her inspection to be complete before opening my eyes and nodding slowly and removing my elevated boot from my bag. Beaming. Spreading my arms. Waiting for the praise to be heaped upon me.
I waited. And waited.
The praise was taking some time to get to me.
The source of the voice was now standing quietly, and had folded her arms while my eyes had been closed. “Did you hear me?” she said. Was that a tapping foot? What was going on here?
“Of course not, Cherie. Please say again.” I responded. On the outside I was exuding pure calm, but on the inside I was starting to feel confused. Nervous. A brief wave of fear bubbled up. It quickly passed through my Louis Vittons and the polyester. It sounded like a far-off Vuvuzela and smelt like camenbert. A nostril twitched in an act of betrayal.
She sighed. It sounded like….exasperation. How could this be? Did she not see the epaulettes? The hair? The barndoor lats? How could she resist?
“We are flying together….” She began slowly.
Aha! That’s who this little vixen was! A flight attendant! Of course. I casually wafted a masculine hand to push the scent of the Axe body spray her way. ‘Phoenix’ is my odor of choice, men. Never fails. Line in the water! I waited for her to bite.
“…and I am Captain Wilson.” The sentence was finished, but I couldn’t comprehend it. This……..female creature was claiming to warm the left seat of the Mighty 8? I had her pegged for a cookie tosser, but now I saw the folly in my assumption. I had seen what had looked like four bars when she sauntered in, but just assumed we were getting a really qualified in-charge. It was only now that I noticed the telltale signs of the professional pilot—the same ones I “accidently” forget to take off before hitting le discotheque: the hat, the pen-in-pocket, the glinting wings….Ray Bans swinging from the lanyard, flight crew ID clipped to the shirt. Could this be true? I had heard about lady pilots before, but kind of assumed they were a mystical creature—like a unicorn—and didn’t really exist.
Could she resist me? Not likely. Time for the secret weapon. Impromptu Dancing with the Stars audition coming up!
The only foreshadowing of the treat about to be bestowed was a slight bend in the knees before I sprung skyward into a tight double axel. The mullet bowed to the laws of centrifugal force and obediently arced out in a graceful semi-circle of golden happiness. I caught sight of myself in the window at the top of climb; with my clenched buns and pirouetted toes I looked like Swayze in Dirty Dancing. Sweet!
The landing was classic two point, and I quickly unfolded my arms from my chest, my breathing noticeably quicker now. She opened her mouth to say something but was interrupted by the nasally roar of the loudspeaker: “Gate change, flight 347 to Ottawa will now be departing from Gate 56.”
I looked at her.
“That’s us.”
My eyes narrowed to slits and the signature toothpick appeared out of nowhere to set up camp on my lower lip. My hand flexed on the handle of the rolly bag.
She stared back.
“Yes. It is.”
Her eyes also narrowed, and she put a stick of gum into her mouth. Slowly. Her jaw started to move as she stared at me like a fighter in the ring. Yikes!
We stood there for a long four seconds before exploding into action. My quads pumped furiously with the pedigree of a sprinter as I departed for Gate 56. The Lady Captain had pulled out in front, and I lost precious seconds trying to sabotage her start efforts by trying to kick her one foot behind the other. (It worked like a charm in Grade 9, chaps. I did that to that bully Pascal St. Jermaine-de-Mer back in the day, and he went down like a ton of bricks in the cafeteria as the roar of approval from my peers rang loud in my ears. I did some time with le Principal after that little episode, but the damage was done and old Pascal never pulled on the mullet again. Prenez votre medicine, Pascal!)
My technique did not work this time though, folks. Lady Captain had a boat-length on me now. She was freakishly fast. I desperately searched for something to throw at her, but nothing presented itself. The Tim Horton’s double-double sloshed painfully behind the muscular wall of my ab as I forced the rolly-bag’s wheels to spool far in excess of their certified design speed. I could smell the burning of the bearings as we rounded the first corner. My calves and glutes squealed in protest—after all, they were accustomed to moving staggering amounts of weight in the gym in Trois Rivieries, not support an all-out cardio effort like this. In contrast, the Lady Captain looked like she could bang off 10k any day of the week, and barely looked like she was breathing heavy. That wasn’t the case in my camp, chappies. Without warning, the #2 wheel packed it in, and smoke started to pour freely from beneath the rolly. The toothpick fell from my mouth in a receeding trail of drool, and the Balboa sticker bobbed and weaved in encouragement as my flight bag bounced over the terrain of the lounge. Gate 56 was now in view, but all I was focused on was the retreating head of the Lady Captain as she pulled further away. She had a smooth motion to her running, almost gliding back and forth like a speed skater. This was unfolding like a Road Runner cartoon, and I was playing the hapless coyote!
The Lady Captain was at the gate now, reviewing the flight plan and sipping an Americano when the growling wheeze of a desperate anaerobic effort caused all of the waiting passengers to turn in their seats and view the scene unfolding before them. Squinting in the fluorescent lights, it must have been one of the top-10 most impressive things they have ever seen: a rugged French-Canadian in full flight approached them now, mullet fully coiled and whipping my sides like an angered jockey, chest heaving and producing a primal guttural roar as the cowboy boots made an authoritative tock-tock-tock-tock on the terminal floor. The Celine sticker on my flight bag snarled with disgust at the defeat developing in front of her. “Rene would have done better” she seemed to be saying. No, Celine! Do not say such things! Man-Tears of embarrassment stung my eyes, made worse by the acrid smoke of my melted rolly bag wheels.
To simply say the emotion that day was impressive would be like saying the Titanic was just any old ship, mates. The gate agent picked me up off the floor and we sat there rocking for a minute as I caught my breath. My shirt clung to my back, soaked through with sweat to the point you could see my 182 tattoo through the clingy fabric. Despite the awkwardness, it was a nice opportunity to show my lats, chaps. I think the redhead in the Starbucks line took note.
20 minutes was all I needed: it was time to rise and compose myself. The Lady Captain was nowhere to be seen. She was down at the airplane, the gate agent said.
“You let her go down there, alone?” I was incredulous. Mon dieu! Something had to be done. I had seen the way these people drive, and the Mighty 8 was a lot harder to tame than a Toyota.
I pulled myself up to my full height. There was 5’6” of manhood standing within view of my passengers—my people—and they were all waiting for me to rectify the situation. The square, molten wheels of the rolly bag made a solemn kachunk-kachunk as the smoke cleared and I disappeared into the jetway. Go time! The lyrics of Celine rang loudly in my ears as I mentally prepared myself for round two of my encounter with the curious creature waiting for me in the massive Dash parked on the tarmac:
We're heading for something
Somewhere I've never been
Sometimes I am frightened
But I'm ready to learn
Of the power of love.
-Celine Dion, The Power of Love
I plunked myself down hard in my seat and grunted with relief. The springs strained, flexed and held fast as they propped up 158 pounds of lean French Canadian beef. Ripped and cut—that’s my mantra, lads! I tilted my head back and let out a little snort of laughter, but was quickly cut short by a burst of interrogation from the left side of the massive flight deck.
“Want something to drink?” The gum snapped and popped as the Lady Captain was asking. Her eyes were hidden by mirrored RayBans, but I could see her eyebrows inquisitively rising above the frames. Now this was more like it! Service was being offered. Finally! I pulled out my notepad to write down my order.
Impatiently, she continued: “I’m havin a coffee—black.” She leaned into the back and hollered; a surprisingly deep and authoritative voice poured out of her.
“Hey, TOOTS! Coffee for me. And bring one for my fleet-footed friend as well!”
She sat there, drumming furiously on her knee and humming “Wildside” by Motley Crue. As I joined in, I assessed my own confusion as to what I was dealing with. Who was this creature? All I could do was stare in disbelief as she hung a hand over the yoke, and tore at her Wrigley’s like a wild animal as she waited for the coffee to arrive. Who would have thought Spearmint could become a meal?
A minute later, I was still staring at her when the male flight attendant—(straight as can be, was I in the twilight zone here?)—delivered our coffee. The Lady Captain sweetly deposited her gum into the garbage bag and gracefully plucked her cup from the tray. Placing it in the cup holder, she dismissed the manly trolley dolly with a manicured wave, and leered at his retreating form with interest.
“Look at the buns on that thing. He must work out, eh?” An eye winked at me behind the Raybans. I sipped my coffee in stunned silence. Had she not noticed my own polished posterior? Was she really that blind to perfection? In self defence, I leaned over momentarily to show a toned cheek, but a quick puff of unease escaped, and I quickly rolled buttocks-level to clamp it off before the air quality lowered too noticeably. I swear I felt the sheepskin wilt below me.
The Lady Captain drained her coffee. I only sipped mine as it was quite hot and I was scared of burning my lips. What was happening to me? Where was the signature manhood?
She was talking now. “……so I’ll take the first leg, and you can fly up to Montreal. Sound good to you?”
I mumbled my acknowledgement in misery. The coffee cup was red hot, and burning my hand. Oww!
A half-hour later the massive P-dubs were spooled to taxi power, and the Lady Captain pushed up the levers. The Dash rolled forward cautiously. Well, this should be good for a laugh, I thought. I began to coach her through the tricky nuances of taxiing such a large aircraft, when she suddenly held up a delicate finger to my lips.
“Shhhhh little one. I got this. Are you buckled in?”
I tasted moisturizer, and then the finger was gone, joining its friends on the power quadrant. She cackled like a goblin as she pushed them forward. The Dash leapt like it had been spanked, and I could clearly hear the straight flight attendant shrieking through the flight deck door as he was no doubt thrown firmly into the last few rows as he wrapped up his demo. Taxiway signs flew by in a sickening blur as we danced and weaved down hi-speeds, across runways, and along access roads as the Lady Captain spun the tiller in response to the progressive taxi clearances. The airspeed needle came alive momentarily and the tires squealed their warning to an approaching Airbus as we gained pole position for takeoff. I rattled off checklist after checklist to prepare the mighty Dash for flight as the LC alternately firewalled and idled the engines to fit in with the heavy morning traffic flow. We participated in no less than three separate games of chicken—all victorious—as we deked our way out to the runway. I looked up from the Before Takeoff Checklist and saw the hold line approaching rapidly. The LC was looking out the side window, humming a tune. Suddenly, without any warning, the engines went into full reverse. The brakes locked, and smoke poured from the tires as we screeched to a stop as the intercom chime binged from the back. The Dash sat there enveloped in a puddle of reverted rubber, heaving and shaking like a wild thing, the nose wheel six inches back from the hold line. The LC was applying lipstick. She looked down at the intercom phone. “Aren’t you going to get that?”
****
The sound of the PW’s strummed their solemn tune on either side of us as the Dash lumbered her way to Ottawa. Cruise had been largely uneventful, giving me ample time to stare at the LC as I munched on a Jos Louis. Delicious. I had never seen such a phenomena up close before, but there she was, doing things just like the other Taxi Specialists I had flown with. Not only, that, but if I squinted and held my head just so, she could pass for a younger version of Celine herself! Her hair was secured into a long flowing black ponytail, and the RayBans stood guard up front, balanced on her small nose. The jaw was in constant motion as it smashed the Wrigley’s into oblivion. I watched transfixed as her chin weaved back and forth with the motion. Suddenly it stopped in mid-chew. I froze. I had been detected! Quick, look away! But it was too late. The ponytail rotated out of sight as she turned her head to face me.
“We’re going to need 10 left for weather, Henri,” she purred, and jerked her head in the direction of a large series of cumulus clouds. The weather radar told the whole story, chaps. Solid yellow, dead ahead. Time to leap into action! The toothpick on my lower lip seemed to stand at attention as I screamed at her: “No need to panic!” Always be supportive and reassuring for your teammates in a crew environment, kids. In a flurry of activity, I finished my Sudoku, told the straight-male-flight-attendant guy to grab some cushion, tightened my belts to the point of whimpering and closed all of my window shades. Then, it was time to talk to my listeners. My people. With a huge grin, I majestically reached for the interphone. I flicked a bouncy, conditioned mullet curl behind me with a graceful whip of my head. Listen up, peeps. News from the front office!
When giving a PA chaps, always give more detail then you think the layman can absorb. Don’t worry, they’ll suss out the info they seek. On the day in question, I started with the required weather theory about to be witnessed over the next few minutes. Crucial background info about tornados, hail, thunderstorms and windshear were all given their due. I then recounted some of the mistakes others have made around these lethal “timebombs of mother nature”, and assured them we have learned a lot from these mishaps. Thanking them for their business, I wished them all good luck in both official languages before returning to the task at hand. Show time! I rubbed my hands together with anticipation, causing a little avalanche of Jos Louis crumbs.
Similar to the PA, I was sure to vividly describe to ATC the fury that lay before us. He really had no choice but to approve our request to swerve the mighty 8 out of the path of sure destruction. The LC had been taking this all in, and she turned to face me now. I gulped. She smiled briefly, a quick flash of emotion, and then it was gone.
“Ready?” was all she said.
There was no movement from the chin now. The ponytail hung behind her like a limp windsock. The PW’s maintained their steady rhythm. It was as if everything was waiting for my word. I set my jaw firmly, and nodded curtly—just once. Military style, chaps. Turning forward, we joined hands as we faced the tempest. A little ‘Thelma and Louise’ time for the logbook!
The deviations began, and it was like the Dash had fastened itself to the rails of the Behemoth at Canada’s Wonderland. I remember my cousin Serge and I had ridden the famous coaster for his 4th bachelor party, along with Jean Luc, Pierre St. Jacques and Pascal Marteville. Full of poutine and Labatts 50, Serge had gone from emitting whoops of joy to upchucking vividly all over a bunch of high-powered Toronto execs on a corporate team-building exercise. I giggled like a schoolgirl until finally succumbing to the g-forces and joining him. The inevitable fistfight that followed only served to add to the hilarity, and Serge, Jean-Luc, Pascal and I were all escorted to the park gates by security. But the Behemoth had nothing on the moves the LC was pulling. The Dash keenly skirted the impending danger, her nose diving, climbing and weaving like Balboa going up against that big Russian in Rocky 3. I spent most of the time pasted firmly to the side window as the Lady Captain alternately hauled and pushed the control column like a Nautilus machine. Full spoiler deflection was the order of the day chaps, as we rolled up onto a sharp knife-edge to deke the rain showers. The Wrigley’s snapped and popped like a hailstorm as the LC leaned a hand over the yoke, tilted her head back, and.....roared with laughter!
I screamed in terror and sat bolt upright in bed. The mullet was not far behind, and cascaded sleepily over my shoulders. I looked at the clock: 2:58. Mr. Stitches was snoring loudly beside me, stretched out like a rug. I considered waking him up to tell him about my horrific nightmare, and then decided against it. I patted his huge belly. Sleep, my furry friend. He had a small puddle of cat drool collecting under his whiskers. Cute.
Still dry-heaving gently, I laid back on my Motley Crue designer pillow and pushed the frightening images from my head. “Unicorns do not exist....” I mumbled, over and over before finally drifting back to sleep.
11-03-2013, 08:38 PM
#4574
Gets Weekends Off
Joined APC: May 2012
Posts: 1,154
thread credits:
AVCANADA ? View topic - Henri and the Lady Captain, (Part 1)
AVCANADA ? View topic - Henri and the Lady Captain, (Part 2)
Again, these are not my posts. Credit to 182driver of Avcanada!
AVCANADA ? View topic - Henri and the Lady Captain, (Part 1)
AVCANADA ? View topic - Henri and the Lady Captain, (Part 2)
Again, these are not my posts. Credit to 182driver of Avcanada!
11-12-2013, 06:25 AM
#4577
Gets Weekends Off
Joined APC: Jul 2012
Position: A350
Posts: 629
I met an E Riddle tool last night. He's a passenger who comes to the cockpit as I'm waiting to run a Secure Checklist at the end of my work day. He asks to see the 717 and identifies himself as a Riddle student. No problem. Then he drops the F bomb half a dozen times as he proceeds to tell me how crazy and unfair the new 1000 hr 121 rules are. He tells me he is thinking of going to another profession because these rules are so effing stupid. I smile and wish him luck while think what a fine example of the Riddle product.
11-12-2013, 04:35 PM
#4578
Gets Weekends Off
Joined APC: Apr 2008
Position: B787. Left seat.
Posts: 270
If you had a TA in a non radar environment and were discussing the event with the other aircraft on guard and somebody jumped in "You're On Guard" that somebody is the Tool of the Day.
" We just had a near miss, shut the ****** up, we are discussing this".
Kudos to the Gulf Air pilot who told off the guard nazi over the Indian Ocean.
" We just had a near miss, shut the ****** up, we are discussing this".
Kudos to the Gulf Air pilot who told off the guard nazi over the Indian Ocean.
11-12-2013, 05:29 PM
#4579
Bracing for Fallacies
Joined APC: Jul 2007
Position: In favor of good things, not in favor of bad things
Posts: 3,543
Originally Posted by EYBusdriver
If you had a TA in a non radar environment and were discussing the event with the other aircraft on guard and somebody jumped in "You're On Guard" that somebody is the Tool of the Day.
" We just had a near miss, shut the ****** up, we are discussing this".
Kudos to the Gulf Air pilot who told off the guard nazi over the Indian Ocean.
" We just had a near miss, shut the ****** up, we are discussing this".
Kudos to the Gulf Air pilot who told off the guard nazi over the Indian Ocean.
I also heard an aircraft get intercepted for busting a TFR over JFK a few months back.
11-24-2013, 04:13 PM
#4580
Gets Weekends Off
Joined APC: Sep 2006
Position: Starboard Side, weekends & holidays.
Posts: 845
The Delta Captain at B-23 in ATL who just now gave a full briefing to the passengers in the gate house detailing the proper way to most
efficiently board the aircraft. Special props for the line, "It only takes a few bad passengers to ruin the entire boarding process."
Congratulations sir.
efficiently board the aircraft. Special props for the line, "It only takes a few bad passengers to ruin the entire boarding process."
Congratulations sir.
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