Good evening. With great misfortune I have found myself in the Pacific Northwest, Spokane to be exact. The Air Force has deemed it necessary that I learn how to survive, evade, resist, and escape from whatever gets thrown at me. Consequentially, it has also deemed it necessary to make completely sure I learned a thing or two and am actually be able to survive. How do they test that, you ask? BY DUMPING YOU IN THE FUCKING WOODS FOR FIVE DAYS WITH THREE MEALS.
I'm sorry. I shouldn't explode like that. It's not that I don't like being tested, especially mentally, it's just I'm not a fan of the cold. And it's fucking January...in the Colville National Forest. It is far too cold outside and cold is not for me.
So there I was [no shit!], snowshoes bound to my boots, 50-some-odd-fucking-pounds of survival shit in our little backpacks (HALF OF WHICH WE NEVER USED, AIRMEN MOORE [excuse me again]), and miles upon miles upon miles of walking. Walking in 10ft of snow I might add, in snowshoes (ahem, that makes walking harder).
When the temperature never gets above -5°C, you simply never get warm; until you have to climb some dumb fucking ridgeline, which makes you sweat through all your layers, and then within a few moments you're back to being frigid. The sweat will freeze. The warmth will never come; your food, your water, your clothes in the morning and a night, it's always cold. The only thing that isn't cold, is fire. But it's so cold beyond the fire, you tend to want to get up close to the fire, and that melts your glove. Your situation is now worse.
Or maybe it's at night, and you're sleeping on the snow in some mil-grade arctic sleeping bag. You think, "oy! Handwarmers will do the trick, warm up my core eh?" So you grab them, open them up, shake them out, and throw them to your chest. Then you think, "well, I'm up and moving and likely dehydrated, I should drink some colder-than-ice-water." You roll over, take a swig, roll back, and the handwarmers are gone. Where did they go? They must be in the sleeping bag, they couldnt' have gotten out, right? But you're feeling around and can't find them! Maybe they did slip out; now you're feeling around the snow, hands going numb, desperate to find those fucking handwarmers that you just opened up because you're already hypothermic. But alas, they are gone. You give up looking for them. You just burned two handwarmers, a ton of energy, and now your hands are wet and numb. Your situation is now worse.
Or maybe the sun has just set, and the group is around the fire drying all their shit. All you've had to eat was a fucking chicken pot pie MRE entree at 7:00 that morning. It is now 5:00 in the evening. You've spent the past 8 hours walking through the snowy peaks. You are hungry. But not the type of hunger that sets in a half hour before lunch. This is the type of hunger that sailors in the 1600s would experience when they drifted too far off the Cape of Good Hope. You can't focus. You're stomach is in pain. You're fantasizing about the simplest forms of food: a banana—oooh, a sandwich—oh man, a slice of cheese—even that would cut it. You're joking around with the guys in your group, maybe fifteen minutes goes by, and BOOM: hunger pang. You feel it, cramping, pissing itself, you feel it all the way up in your lungs. You remember reading once that nicotine is an appetite suppressant. Wait, we have cigarettes! You light it up and suck it down and all is well for the moment. Your feet and hands go numb from the carbon monoxide, and you cough a bit. Your situation now? Arguably worse, but you are no longer hungry. Strike it up as a W... for another 45 minutes.
When you're not sitting still thinking about how cold you are, you're walking with 50lbs on your back thinking about how cold you are. Every step is laborious. Two steps go by, "are we there yet?" No. Of course not. It's only 8:15. Ten steps go by, "now?". Nope, still 8:15. Twelve steps go by and as you attempt to let your mind wander your snowshoe gets caught in a branch. "FUCK!" Face-plant. Buried in the snow to your hips. Are you able to get up? Let's find out. You push forward to propel yourself up. Your hands just fall through the deep, deep snow. Now you're even deeper. You try to roll over, but your pack won't let you. You think for a second, then use every muscle in your back and abdomen to snake yourself upright. You're out. You assess the damage. The obvious: snow inside your layers, that'll be a problem. And uh, oh... blood. Fucking branch. Where's it coming from? Who cares. Keep walking. Thirteen steps. 8:16.
But the beautiful thing I found, is from where motivations stems: the end. Survival is paramount on the end. Whether it's a steep hill, a long day, a five day exercise in the woods, a month of training, or any misery for any amount of time; and ending to each exists. It is over at a certain point. It may not be twelve steps, it may be 5,300 steps. Each day I had a central idea to focus on: after 5,300 or however many steps, we will arrive at our camp. The end of a days walk. We will set up our shitty little poncho tents while Airmen Moore builds us a fire. Then we'll debrief for a bit as the sun sets and by nightfall we'll be on our own to dry our clothes, relax, and go to bed.
This three hour period became a ritual of enjoyment. I can be warm. My clothes can be dry. We can all have a cigarette or two and not feel hungry. We can joke. We can sing. We can get to know each other. I'm an element leader, being a senior ranking officer and all (rank = privilege + responsibility + a hotel room - sleep). I tried to keep morale up, especially around the fire. "Boys, I think we're in Narnia.... and upon initial observation, Narnia's pretty shitty." Some call it 'embracing the suck'. I call it being honest about a situation with a dash of humor (WE'RE IN THE SHIT NOW BOYS, SMOKE 'EM IF YA GOT 'EM!) But to think that three hours out of every 24 being the only semblance of enjoyment... well, it's bleak. As is survival.
So I'm done now. I got my boys out of there successfully without capture. I'm back at Fairchild enjoying a bourbon and a warm hotel room. I survived in the winter woods for 5 days. I woke up this morning and my piss was still brown, my knuckles still bloody, and I still get hungry if I don't eat a slice of pizza every hour. But I'm now where we talked about, the core of all motivation. I am there, existing, right now:
The End.
Thursday, January 17, 2019
Wednesday, August 22, 2018
My New Favorite Joke
In 1703 the worse storm to ever hit England destroyed most of the country. It was called the Great Storm and pretty much destroyed all of London, Bristol, Cambridge, etc. The Bishop of Bath and Wells, Bishop Richard Kidder, who was a very religious man, claims to have predicted the storm based off of God's hatred and wrath against sin.
It wasn't THAT bad of a storm though, it was only as strong as a category 2 hurricane, but it was extremely destructive and deadly because England's infrastructure was built around calm winds and light weather. Most of the buildings were built out of wood and straw with thin roofs, and were easily blown away by the wind and floods. The only structures built out of stone were typically chimneys, and they were poorly mortared so they toppled easily in the storm and crashed into the houses below, killing anyone taking trying to take shelter.
Approximately 2,000 chimneys toppled, killing thousands of bystanders. Ironically, Bishop Richard Kidder was killed by a falling chimney. This was such a concern, that The Queen feared for her life and was rushed away to the basement of the Royal Palace, far away from any chimneys.
Despite several chimneys falling in the palace, the queen made it to the basement and ultimately survived, probably because a queen can move in all directions while a bishop can only move diagonally.
Divert Adventure that wasn't my fault
Good evening. I had what was supposed to be a relatively uneventful night flight on Tuesday that turned into an extremely eventful divert-adventure that lasted into Thursday morning.
The plan was to takeoff around 8pm, let Calvin beat up the pattern a bit while the sun set, then head off to AR197L (the classic Mexican-border-straddling horseshoe track) for a double AR to hit two 17s. Then I could hop in the seat and tear it up at KAMA (the last city in Texas that I still haven't been to) and get back on the ground at Altus around 0130. Storms were in the MEF and TAF but it should've only been an issue while we were on the track and at Amarillo. But that proved not to be the case, evidence being a SATCOM call while I was doing my A/P off AR. I quickly punched the SAT1 button on my interphone panel to discreetly listen in. I only listened for a few moments (because I was fucking busy at the moment) but I heard a lot of technical terms like "bigass storm" and "damaging winds" which to me was an initial indication of us having an interesting night. I got a little excited, I mean I was in the left seat and I've written in substantial detail about how much I love the chaos of flying in sporadic weather.
Anyway, we finished up the second AR and ended up present position holding to see if the storms would pass—and they didn't, in fact they intensified. The IB (instructor boom) really didn't want to divert because it was her daughters first day of school the next morning, so the IP and I said if there was a hole we'd at least attempt to get into Altus. Altus weather was telling us a hole was developing if we accepted a tailwind but we'd have to hurry, so we booked it out of holding to give it a try. It didn't go well. We almost got struck by lightning, indicated by all of our glass instruments glitching and glittering. Then a long series of lightning lit up the clouds in front of us and it was just a wall of shit and the IP and I simultaneously said "NOPE!" and peeled off.
At that point we were down to 27k of fuel left and we started looking at divert options. McConnell appeared to be the best option, so the next step is seeing how much fuel it would take to get there... which was also 27k so we thought "hmmm... we should probably get going in that direction." So we did and touched down in beautiful Wichita. And that's how I added Kansas to my list of states!
I was in the left seat (for the very first time in a heavy), so even though the IP landed it I got to do the speedbrakes and rollout braking and then taxi us in. I was expecting the first time taxiing a heavy to be under very controlled and favorable circumstances. As opposed to, ya know, IMC at night with wet surfaces on an unfamiliar field.
Then we spent the night in Kansas, with no change of clothes or any of those luxuries. So I'm becoming more seasoned at being miserable in between flights, just like my college summer days flying to Asia with Karen. Then when we went back to the flightline twelve hours later we discovered the brakes were cracked (I SWEAR TO GOD IT WASN'T MY FAULT, even though I did the landing and taxi braking. Seriously.) So we had to wait another 8 hours which was spent bowling, playing crud, going to the movies, etc. all in dirty flight suits. Then we flew home.
On a side note, I was extremely excited to taxi a heavy for my first time. The reason, other than the amazing feeling of those gentle bumps and sways from the wings flexing that I've always wanted to be at the helm of, goes back to my early days as a pilot. I was in one of my first lessons with Jody in little Piper 2866W. I had never used my feet to steer before and my coarse motor skills weren't yet developed. So taxiing out I was a little squirrelly, you know a few zig zags and a little sensitivity issues with the differential brakes, but hey it's not like I was in a Formula 1 race. I apologized for being a fuckup, especially since I wanted to one day be taxiing giants, and Jody responded by talking out of his ass, "hey those big planes are EASY to taxi. They have hydraulic steering and tillers and everything. It's these little planes that are the most difficult to taxi."
That caught me by surprise, considering...
The plan was to takeoff around 8pm, let Calvin beat up the pattern a bit while the sun set, then head off to AR197L (the classic Mexican-border-straddling horseshoe track) for a double AR to hit two 17s. Then I could hop in the seat and tear it up at KAMA (the last city in Texas that I still haven't been to) and get back on the ground at Altus around 0130. Storms were in the MEF and TAF but it should've only been an issue while we were on the track and at Amarillo. But that proved not to be the case, evidence being a SATCOM call while I was doing my A/P off AR. I quickly punched the SAT1 button on my interphone panel to discreetly listen in. I only listened for a few moments (because I was fucking busy at the moment) but I heard a lot of technical terms like "bigass storm" and "damaging winds" which to me was an initial indication of us having an interesting night. I got a little excited, I mean I was in the left seat and I've written in substantial detail about how much I love the chaos of flying in sporadic weather.
Anyway, we finished up the second AR and ended up present position holding to see if the storms would pass—and they didn't, in fact they intensified. The IB (instructor boom) really didn't want to divert because it was her daughters first day of school the next morning, so the IP and I said if there was a hole we'd at least attempt to get into Altus. Altus weather was telling us a hole was developing if we accepted a tailwind but we'd have to hurry, so we booked it out of holding to give it a try. It didn't go well. We almost got struck by lightning, indicated by all of our glass instruments glitching and glittering. Then a long series of lightning lit up the clouds in front of us and it was just a wall of shit and the IP and I simultaneously said "NOPE!" and peeled off.
At that point we were down to 27k of fuel left and we started looking at divert options. McConnell appeared to be the best option, so the next step is seeing how much fuel it would take to get there... which was also 27k so we thought "hmmm... we should probably get going in that direction." So we did and touched down in beautiful Wichita. And that's how I added Kansas to my list of states!
I was in the left seat (for the very first time in a heavy), so even though the IP landed it I got to do the speedbrakes and rollout braking and then taxi us in. I was expecting the first time taxiing a heavy to be under very controlled and favorable circumstances. As opposed to, ya know, IMC at night with wet surfaces on an unfamiliar field.
Then we spent the night in Kansas, with no change of clothes or any of those luxuries. So I'm becoming more seasoned at being miserable in between flights, just like my college summer days flying to Asia with Karen. Then when we went back to the flightline twelve hours later we discovered the brakes were cracked (I SWEAR TO GOD IT WASN'T MY FAULT, even though I did the landing and taxi braking. Seriously.) So we had to wait another 8 hours which was spent bowling, playing crud, going to the movies, etc. all in dirty flight suits. Then we flew home.
On a side note, I was extremely excited to taxi a heavy for my first time. The reason, other than the amazing feeling of those gentle bumps and sways from the wings flexing that I've always wanted to be at the helm of, goes back to my early days as a pilot. I was in one of my first lessons with Jody in little Piper 2866W. I had never used my feet to steer before and my coarse motor skills weren't yet developed. So taxiing out I was a little squirrelly, you know a few zig zags and a little sensitivity issues with the differential brakes, but hey it's not like I was in a Formula 1 race. I apologized for being a fuckup, especially since I wanted to one day be taxiing giants, and Jody responded by talking out of his ass, "hey those big planes are EASY to taxi. They have hydraulic steering and tillers and everything. It's these little planes that are the most difficult to taxi."
That caught me by surprise, considering...
Tuesday, August 7, 2018
N6627X/H
Good afternoon. Evening? Nope, 13 minutes left. So good afternoon. Well it finally happened yesterday. I strapped into the right seat of a 185,000 pound aircraft and got to use the "heavy" suffix when I called up Altus Ground. That's something I've wanted to do since I learned that was a thing, which was a while ago. In fact, I forgot about it since I was accustomed to the un-realism of the sim where we left it off the callsign for some reason. So I punched ground into com2, "Oiler 15, spot 65, ready to taxi with alpha." They came back with "Oiler 15 heavy taxi hold short runway 17R via charlie bravo kilo-1." And it hit me with a rush of joy and responded proudly, "17R charlie bravo kilo-1 Oiler 15 HEAVY." It seems they don't really use "heavy" that much locally since everyone knows at Altus that you're in a big plane, but goddamnit I earned it! So I'm gonna use it!
I remember sitting in the warrior, getting through my long ground ops checklist of ten items before taxiing. Then I'd call up ground to get cleared out of the non-movement area and onto the fast and busy taxiways of Bowman Field but was stuck with using not only a tail number as my callsign (gross, never again), but also leaving off the "heavy" addendum. But the dream was alive for that one day I'd be using a badass military callsign (e.g. Devil 31) and, if it all fell into place, it would eventually end with "heavy".
Callsigns are an interesting convention, not even including the Air Force tradition of naming. I've always felt a status associated with the callsigns used over the aviation network. Air Force One and maybe to a lesser extent Thunderbird One (through Seven) have the most powerful callsign in the US airspace; you'll probably never hear them as a civilian though since they'd almost certainly be talking on Uniform, but it's still satisfying to hear ATC (who transmits on all of the frequencies they're listening to) give them a clearance or acknowledgement. I overheard Air Force One over Chattanooga while flying with my dad home from Charleston and got excited, I mean it's like spotting a celebrity in a coffee shop—except it's the president, and he's flying in the same airspace as you. Military callsigns are typically significantly cooler than pretty much all others, for instance: "Dark 5 check - two! - three! - four!" versus "Southwest 1454" or the unfortunate "Cessna 7562 Sierra". And that goes without saying since the military typically is cooler than most other traffic.
However disregarding the badassery of the Air Force for a moment, there's also the "heavy" connotation, which in my opinion supersedes a lot in the coolness of callsigns. Whether you're "Emirates 1 Heavy" or "Delta 1 Heavy" or cargo-something-heavy or something-Russian-heavy, you just can't say "heavy" on the radio unless you're in a flying neighborhood—something so big it will literally destroy all of the 62-Sierras behind it, simply by how much air it fucks with in it's path. I don't know why I'm so drawn to big planes, but it's nothing new and probably just how I'm wired. You know what? Pause analysis. I'm gonna read something I wrote on the tarmac of LAX in a 757 waiting to push circa 2010.
Disregard. I thought there was something in there about being jealous of a United 747 (RIP) taxing out while I'm in a measly domestic 75. I was right, there is a sentence alluding to that, but I mean it's literally one sentence at the end of four pages discussing how great I am. Anyway, resume analysis.
Yet still, even as a high schooler playing on flight simulator the flights in a sub-100,000lbs-er just didn't have the satisfaction on being in a large plane that's a pain in the ass to taxi and who everyone has to wait on after taking off or landing. And even hearing the ridiculously-obviously-computer-generated ATC call me "heavy" made me happy. But now it's not the sim and it's not ridiculously-obviously-computer-generated ATC calling me "heavy", and thus I can let the satisfaction of both hearing and saying it carry me through the next handful of years. I can get impulsively accustomed to it and then over Christmas when I fly with my dad, I can finally make my favorite mistake of calling Bowman ground as "Duchess 6627X-ray heavy" and all laughs will be had and life will be good.
So, here's to life as "whoever-the-fuck heavy", and perhaps one day "27X-ray heavy" for a radio call or two. Until then...
I remember sitting in the warrior, getting through my long ground ops checklist of ten items before taxiing. Then I'd call up ground to get cleared out of the non-movement area and onto the fast and busy taxiways of Bowman Field but was stuck with using not only a tail number as my callsign (gross, never again), but also leaving off the "heavy" addendum. But the dream was alive for that one day I'd be using a badass military callsign (e.g. Devil 31) and, if it all fell into place, it would eventually end with "heavy".
Callsigns are an interesting convention, not even including the Air Force tradition of naming. I've always felt a status associated with the callsigns used over the aviation network. Air Force One and maybe to a lesser extent Thunderbird One (through Seven) have the most powerful callsign in the US airspace; you'll probably never hear them as a civilian though since they'd almost certainly be talking on Uniform, but it's still satisfying to hear ATC (who transmits on all of the frequencies they're listening to) give them a clearance or acknowledgement. I overheard Air Force One over Chattanooga while flying with my dad home from Charleston and got excited, I mean it's like spotting a celebrity in a coffee shop—except it's the president, and he's flying in the same airspace as you. Military callsigns are typically significantly cooler than pretty much all others, for instance: "Dark 5 check - two! - three! - four!" versus "Southwest 1454" or the unfortunate "Cessna 7562 Sierra". And that goes without saying since the military typically is cooler than most other traffic.
However disregarding the badassery of the Air Force for a moment, there's also the "heavy" connotation, which in my opinion supersedes a lot in the coolness of callsigns. Whether you're "Emirates 1 Heavy" or "Delta 1 Heavy" or cargo-something-heavy or something-Russian-heavy, you just can't say "heavy" on the radio unless you're in a flying neighborhood—something so big it will literally destroy all of the 62-Sierras behind it, simply by how much air it fucks with in it's path. I don't know why I'm so drawn to big planes, but it's nothing new and probably just how I'm wired. You know what? Pause analysis. I'm gonna read something I wrote on the tarmac of LAX in a 757 waiting to push circa 2010.
Disregard. I thought there was something in there about being jealous of a United 747 (RIP) taxing out while I'm in a measly domestic 75. I was right, there is a sentence alluding to that, but I mean it's literally one sentence at the end of four pages discussing how great I am. Anyway, resume analysis.
Yet still, even as a high schooler playing on flight simulator the flights in a sub-100,000lbs-er just didn't have the satisfaction on being in a large plane that's a pain in the ass to taxi and who everyone has to wait on after taking off or landing. And even hearing the ridiculously-obviously-computer-generated ATC call me "heavy" made me happy. But now it's not the sim and it's not ridiculously-obviously-computer-generated ATC calling me "heavy", and thus I can let the satisfaction of both hearing and saying it carry me through the next handful of years. I can get impulsively accustomed to it and then over Christmas when I fly with my dad, I can finally make my favorite mistake of calling Bowman ground as "Duchess 6627X-ray heavy" and all laughs will be had and life will be good.
So, here's to life as "whoever-the-fuck heavy", and perhaps one day "27X-ray heavy" for a radio call or two. Until then...
Wednesday, July 18, 2018
"Contact ya boy at 121.1 CYA"
Good evening. I don't have a super-well-thought out post for you tonight. Tonight we get to test our skills of spontaneity, just like to good old days. So... I guess we'll just get started.
I had the day off today—well, almost. My sim check is coming up so I have to get a few exams done before I'm opted. Today I knocked out my first closed book test, the dreaded (not really) EP test. I missed one. "Do not operate the __________ and the landing gear at the same time." I was going too fast and answered "aft A/R pumps". Fucking idiot. It's the forward A/R pumps because they're both on the left hydraulic system. I also had to take a boldface test. It cracked me up, because A) it was just boldface, didn't even have to worry about the ops limits because, I guess, well that would be far too stressful; and B) at the top of the handout it said "spelling mistakes will be accepted as long as the procedure/order are correct etc."
That is a stark contrast to pilot training. I remember sitting in a windowless room sometime before T-6's trying to fill out a boldface in ten minutes using a manila folder as a clipboard. I got one wrong because a "10" looked like a "70" or something. Later on in T-1's I remember somebody getting a boldface wrong on like week 14 so he had to turn in 14 correct boldfaces the next day. Sometimes I wonder if all that was necessary, but then I also remember when my parents came for graduation and my dad tried to fly a closed pattern in the T-1 sim and was so hopelessly behind due to not having gone through pilot training. Poor guy.
Anyway I guess the gauntlet is behind me now (can't say the same for fighter pilots) because KC-135 training is really not that difficult.
It feels weird being a "professional". Like my dad is a professional actuary, but it's not like there are amateur actuaries out there taking it up as a hobby. There's just a ton of shit I know now. Way earlier on in my documenting I mention being hot fucking shit because I taught myself how to start the engines in the 767 in flight sim. I think it's the same post where I mention getting delayed on a turn because I killed external power before powering up the APU or something to that effect. So of course I lost all power and was sitting there like "what the fuck!" Come on high-school-Decker that's rookie shit! If you unplug a lamp while it's turned on the lights gonna go out; that's why you fucking check it. But at the time I was all "ahh yeah the bleed valves on the carpet converter are set to dilate, that's probably what happened." I think you just unplugged it, I think that's probably what happened.
Anyway, here I am. Actually knowing what I'm doing when I hop on FSX for a quick flight. You know what I wanna do? I wanna be friends with a controller in like the next town over, so that whenever I'm flying home and go through their airspace I can be all like "Oh hey Barbara! How are the kids? Still living in Orlando?" That probably sounds very strange. But... you know what? Storytime.
I remember on my first T-1 checkride Josh Harold and I flew to Mafghanistan (Midland, KMAF, cute right?) It was windy as shit with the typical blowing dust and handful of Southwest flights, but it wasn't anything crazy, we did fine. Anyway I was in the seat second so handled the departure out of MAF and arrival into DLF with a stop in the MOA. We got our departure clearance in the pattern from tower, probably runway heading to 4,000 like it is everywhere in the entire fucking country when there's no SID. So we're climbing out, passing 2,000 or so and get switched to Midland Departure. Cool, the check IP checks in with his personal call sign and we get an immediate "Rake 21 Midland Departure good morning, turn left heading 147.5, maintain at or below 3,211 feet until 2.67 kilometers, passing 4,012 feet cleared direct 31 degrees 36.18 minutes north, 101, 26 minutes west."
Without ANY hesitation the IP quickly read it back, I mean, impressively, "left 147.5, at or below 3,211 until 2.67 kilometers, passing 4,012 cleared direct 31-36-18 north 101-26 west Rake 21." I started my slight left turn and looked at him uncomfortably, "I'm gonna need you to read that back to me Sir."
He laughed and told me to just fly straight ahead. "Mike I'm flying a checkride." Midland Departure responded, "oh sorry, climb and maintain seven thousand cleared direct TAELR, how's Abby?"
"Seven thousand direct TAELR Rake 21, she's good, we're going to the biergarten downtown tonight."
"Nice man, well come back and see us soon, contact Ft Worth Center 132.075"
"Yeah good talking to ya, Ft Worth 32-07 CYA!"
I want a bro like that in the next airspace over from mine! I could see some people thinking that whole conversation is unprofessional and clogging the radio but come on it's Midland fucking Departure. I'm sure they don't have time for loose friendships and shit shooting in the TRACON at Heathrow but I mean maybe if I'm flying to Ft Myers a lot I wouldn't mind having a buddy to catch up with between approaches. That's all I'm asking. This sounds vaguely familiar, like I've written about this before. Maybe it's the "Welcome to Dade" post.
Speaking of which... I was looking at the high and low charts near TPA for the factual integrity of this post and noticed something. Well, first of all KTPA is a Class B which I didn't know but that's not the good part. The good part is that MacDill is actually in Miami Center's airspace! I thought it was in Jacksonville's but the cutoff between the two goes right over KTPA and everything south belongs to Miami. Hence meaning, anytime I fly east or south I'll be checking in to Miami Center! That's great news. Fuck Jacksonville Center.
Be right back I need to salt my steak.
Alright preparation for steak searing checklist complete. Anyway, I hope living and flying in and out of Florida is everything I dreamt it would be when I was younger. I imagine it will be a relaxing gig to say the least. I mean you can't land at home without flying over the Tampa Bay, one way or the other. And then it'll be a chill ride home down I-75 in the 370 back to Apollo Beach. I love that my house is in a suburb with the name beach in it.
Lol. On the Tampa/Orlando Terminal Area Chart there's a big caution box next to MacDill's airspace that says "CAUTION: Heavy fast military jet traffic over Tampa Bay".
Yup. That'll be me.
I had the day off today—well, almost. My sim check is coming up so I have to get a few exams done before I'm opted. Today I knocked out my first closed book test, the dreaded (not really) EP test. I missed one. "Do not operate the __________ and the landing gear at the same time." I was going too fast and answered "aft A/R pumps". Fucking idiot. It's the forward A/R pumps because they're both on the left hydraulic system. I also had to take a boldface test. It cracked me up, because A) it was just boldface, didn't even have to worry about the ops limits because, I guess, well that would be far too stressful; and B) at the top of the handout it said "spelling mistakes will be accepted as long as the procedure/order are correct etc."
That is a stark contrast to pilot training. I remember sitting in a windowless room sometime before T-6's trying to fill out a boldface in ten minutes using a manila folder as a clipboard. I got one wrong because a "10" looked like a "70" or something. Later on in T-1's I remember somebody getting a boldface wrong on like week 14 so he had to turn in 14 correct boldfaces the next day. Sometimes I wonder if all that was necessary, but then I also remember when my parents came for graduation and my dad tried to fly a closed pattern in the T-1 sim and was so hopelessly behind due to not having gone through pilot training. Poor guy.
Anyway I guess the gauntlet is behind me now (can't say the same for fighter pilots) because KC-135 training is really not that difficult.
It feels weird being a "professional". Like my dad is a professional actuary, but it's not like there are amateur actuaries out there taking it up as a hobby. There's just a ton of shit I know now. Way earlier on in my documenting I mention being hot fucking shit because I taught myself how to start the engines in the 767 in flight sim. I think it's the same post where I mention getting delayed on a turn because I killed external power before powering up the APU or something to that effect. So of course I lost all power and was sitting there like "what the fuck!" Come on high-school-Decker that's rookie shit! If you unplug a lamp while it's turned on the lights gonna go out; that's why you fucking check it. But at the time I was all "ahh yeah the bleed valves on the carpet converter are set to dilate, that's probably what happened." I think you just unplugged it, I think that's probably what happened.
Anyway, here I am. Actually knowing what I'm doing when I hop on FSX for a quick flight. You know what I wanna do? I wanna be friends with a controller in like the next town over, so that whenever I'm flying home and go through their airspace I can be all like "Oh hey Barbara! How are the kids? Still living in Orlando?" That probably sounds very strange. But... you know what? Storytime.
I remember on my first T-1 checkride Josh Harold and I flew to Mafghanistan (Midland, KMAF, cute right?) It was windy as shit with the typical blowing dust and handful of Southwest flights, but it wasn't anything crazy, we did fine. Anyway I was in the seat second so handled the departure out of MAF and arrival into DLF with a stop in the MOA. We got our departure clearance in the pattern from tower, probably runway heading to 4,000 like it is everywhere in the entire fucking country when there's no SID. So we're climbing out, passing 2,000 or so and get switched to Midland Departure. Cool, the check IP checks in with his personal call sign and we get an immediate "Rake 21 Midland Departure good morning, turn left heading 147.5, maintain at or below 3,211 feet until 2.67 kilometers, passing 4,012 feet cleared direct 31 degrees 36.18 minutes north, 101, 26 minutes west."
Without ANY hesitation the IP quickly read it back, I mean, impressively, "left 147.5, at or below 3,211 until 2.67 kilometers, passing 4,012 cleared direct 31-36-18 north 101-26 west Rake 21." I started my slight left turn and looked at him uncomfortably, "I'm gonna need you to read that back to me Sir."
He laughed and told me to just fly straight ahead. "Mike I'm flying a checkride." Midland Departure responded, "oh sorry, climb and maintain seven thousand cleared direct TAELR, how's Abby?"
"Seven thousand direct TAELR Rake 21, she's good, we're going to the biergarten downtown tonight."
"Nice man, well come back and see us soon, contact Ft Worth Center 132.075"
"Yeah good talking to ya, Ft Worth 32-07 CYA!"
I want a bro like that in the next airspace over from mine! I could see some people thinking that whole conversation is unprofessional and clogging the radio but come on it's Midland fucking Departure. I'm sure they don't have time for loose friendships and shit shooting in the TRACON at Heathrow but I mean maybe if I'm flying to Ft Myers a lot I wouldn't mind having a buddy to catch up with between approaches. That's all I'm asking. This sounds vaguely familiar, like I've written about this before. Maybe it's the "Welcome to Dade" post.
Speaking of which... I was looking at the high and low charts near TPA for the factual integrity of this post and noticed something. Well, first of all KTPA is a Class B which I didn't know but that's not the good part. The good part is that MacDill is actually in Miami Center's airspace! I thought it was in Jacksonville's but the cutoff between the two goes right over KTPA and everything south belongs to Miami. Hence meaning, anytime I fly east or south I'll be checking in to Miami Center! That's great news. Fuck Jacksonville Center.
Be right back I need to salt my steak.
Alright preparation for steak searing checklist complete. Anyway, I hope living and flying in and out of Florida is everything I dreamt it would be when I was younger. I imagine it will be a relaxing gig to say the least. I mean you can't land at home without flying over the Tampa Bay, one way or the other. And then it'll be a chill ride home down I-75 in the 370 back to Apollo Beach. I love that my house is in a suburb with the name beach in it.
Lol. On the Tampa/Orlando Terminal Area Chart there's a big caution box next to MacDill's airspace that says "CAUTION: Heavy fast military jet traffic over Tampa Bay".
Yup. That'll be me.
Friday, July 13, 2018
The Tale of the Fancier Logbook
Good afternoon.
Today I sit in a different chair, at a different desk, to the same computer, in a different state. With a fancier logbook, and a higher security clearance, I report to the same document that I started seven years ago. Recently I've looked back at everything I wrote in high school, and there is one overt fact that stares me down the more I read: I have changed.
I've always found it humorous when people exclaim that people never change. Write something down, anything from a single thought to a year-long stream of your consciousness. Read it five or ten years later. You will not agree with every word. People change. It's unavoidable. People fall, people stagger back up. People ride highs, and a year later find themselves doing everything in their power to avoid lows. We may fight to hold on when our atmosphere changes around us, but then we become a plant that has failed to evolve and gets swarmed and defeated by the weeds that thrive between cracks in the concrete.
I married my wife in June of 2015. Four years prior to that, in high school, I wrote in her yearbook: "I have something very important to tell you on February 9th, 2018." High-school-Decker spoke in riddles. A lot of people at the time wrote it off as jackassery—something fun and intriguing to write in a girlfriends yearbook, assuming she'd be nothing but a distant memory in seven years. That was a fair assumption, knowing my lust for antics at the time. I did have something to tell her, however, regardless if we stayed together or broke up that summer, but that's between her and I.
I never forgot what I was going to tell her, but the significance of the date February 9th, 2018 slipped my mind for years until Doug reminded me one evening over bourbon. He claimed I confided in him to hold onto and remind me of this theory I'd come up with, as I was sure to forget the details. Apparently in high school I'd taken a long hard look at my personality, my tastes, passions, beliefs; and how they've changed. The theory was that there are peaks in life, coupled with periods of rapid change, experienced roughly seven years apart. The specifics of how I landed at this conclusion are long gone, but the conclusion itself remains intact: the first peak is at age 18 followed by rapid change in college. The second peak would be seven years later, at 25, when you're not just beyond college, but actively starting to travel your professional path. February 9th, 2018 was exactly two months before my 25th birthday.
To add further significance to February 9th, 2018 I attempted to predict my drop night as an Air Force pilot, as that would be the single most significant event in my professional life. I missed it by 3 weeks, which was impressive in my opinion. It still worked out, as the date ended up being the wing award ceremony at Laughlin, when Karen won her Key Spouse award. That coincidence seemed... uncanny.
I think I knew who I was seven years prior to that date. I think the first hundred-or-so posts in this document make that clear. For example one belief I long held onto in high school was that one day I would fly big planes and have a house in Florida. One day I'd pack a button-down, throw on a flightsuit, and jump in a jet with my friends to go to nightclubs on the other side of the country. One day I'd get paid to fly a plane and come home to a hot wife. Life was structured around "one day". A long time ago I was built on ambitions and daydreams to one day experience; I spent seven years anticipating the fantasy while enduring the wait with optimism.
And then, in total silence, the wait ended. February 9th, 2018 came and went months ago. I accepted my wings and took a picture in front of a Beechjet like I always knew I would. And then I actually forgot my birthday when I woke up and became 25 years old. I may have had insight about life's peaks and changes over seven years, but I made a damning assumption in the process. There are no fireworks when you reach the peaks. There are no road signs warning you of the changes coming and the speed bumps aren't painted yellow. You simply wake up in the morning, and you are 25 years old. And unless you made a note to remind yourself, Facebook will be the one to tell you about it.
Today is July 13th, 2018. I'm a rated and winged Air Force pilot, I get paid to fly big planes, and by the end of the year I'll be probably be flying myself from my beautiful house in Florida across the ocean to Turkey. If you piped through time to myself seven years ago, sitting in that squeaky wooden chair I hated in Hobbs' classroom, he would be taken away by that fancier logbook. He would tell you that I have made it and my life is bliss and I will never feel sad or frustrated or disappointed again in my life.
And he would be wrong. But I wouldn't hastily correct him.
Today I sit in a different chair, at a different desk, to the same computer, in a different state. With a fancier logbook, and a higher security clearance, I report to the same document that I started seven years ago. Recently I've looked back at everything I wrote in high school, and there is one overt fact that stares me down the more I read: I have changed.
I've always found it humorous when people exclaim that people never change. Write something down, anything from a single thought to a year-long stream of your consciousness. Read it five or ten years later. You will not agree with every word. People change. It's unavoidable. People fall, people stagger back up. People ride highs, and a year later find themselves doing everything in their power to avoid lows. We may fight to hold on when our atmosphere changes around us, but then we become a plant that has failed to evolve and gets swarmed and defeated by the weeds that thrive between cracks in the concrete.
I married my wife in June of 2015. Four years prior to that, in high school, I wrote in her yearbook: "I have something very important to tell you on February 9th, 2018." High-school-Decker spoke in riddles. A lot of people at the time wrote it off as jackassery—something fun and intriguing to write in a girlfriends yearbook, assuming she'd be nothing but a distant memory in seven years. That was a fair assumption, knowing my lust for antics at the time. I did have something to tell her, however, regardless if we stayed together or broke up that summer, but that's between her and I.
I never forgot what I was going to tell her, but the significance of the date February 9th, 2018 slipped my mind for years until Doug reminded me one evening over bourbon. He claimed I confided in him to hold onto and remind me of this theory I'd come up with, as I was sure to forget the details. Apparently in high school I'd taken a long hard look at my personality, my tastes, passions, beliefs; and how they've changed. The theory was that there are peaks in life, coupled with periods of rapid change, experienced roughly seven years apart. The specifics of how I landed at this conclusion are long gone, but the conclusion itself remains intact: the first peak is at age 18 followed by rapid change in college. The second peak would be seven years later, at 25, when you're not just beyond college, but actively starting to travel your professional path. February 9th, 2018 was exactly two months before my 25th birthday.
To add further significance to February 9th, 2018 I attempted to predict my drop night as an Air Force pilot, as that would be the single most significant event in my professional life. I missed it by 3 weeks, which was impressive in my opinion. It still worked out, as the date ended up being the wing award ceremony at Laughlin, when Karen won her Key Spouse award. That coincidence seemed... uncanny.
I think I knew who I was seven years prior to that date. I think the first hundred-or-so posts in this document make that clear. For example one belief I long held onto in high school was that one day I would fly big planes and have a house in Florida. One day I'd pack a button-down, throw on a flightsuit, and jump in a jet with my friends to go to nightclubs on the other side of the country. One day I'd get paid to fly a plane and come home to a hot wife. Life was structured around "one day". A long time ago I was built on ambitions and daydreams to one day experience; I spent seven years anticipating the fantasy while enduring the wait with optimism.
And then, in total silence, the wait ended. February 9th, 2018 came and went months ago. I accepted my wings and took a picture in front of a Beechjet like I always knew I would. And then I actually forgot my birthday when I woke up and became 25 years old. I may have had insight about life's peaks and changes over seven years, but I made a damning assumption in the process. There are no fireworks when you reach the peaks. There are no road signs warning you of the changes coming and the speed bumps aren't painted yellow. You simply wake up in the morning, and you are 25 years old. And unless you made a note to remind yourself, Facebook will be the one to tell you about it.
Today is July 13th, 2018. I'm a rated and winged Air Force pilot, I get paid to fly big planes, and by the end of the year I'll be probably be flying myself from my beautiful house in Florida across the ocean to Turkey. If you piped through time to myself seven years ago, sitting in that squeaky wooden chair I hated in Hobbs' classroom, he would be taken away by that fancier logbook. He would tell you that I have made it and my life is bliss and I will never feel sad or frustrated or disappointed again in my life.
And he would be wrong. But I wouldn't hastily correct him.
Thursday, March 19, 2015
Les Merveilles du Monde
Good afternoon world. It has been almost a full year since I've sat down at this chaired and dumped the cache of my mind onto the internet, and thus eternity. Perhaps the primary purpose of this 200,000 word document is to see how I grow and change throughout life; as I travel, learn, and wonder about the world I've been placed in, I've become curious as to how as little time as a year can change me.
In the past 10 months, I have done more than many do in a lifetime, and I believe I've reached the peak of the first two decades of my existence. I've experienced the fantasy of Rio de Janeiro and the excitement of the Amazon Rainforest. I've revisited one of my genuinely favorite places on Earth, Los Angeles, and had the privilege of sharing it with someone new. It was there that I committed my life to one person, and secured my opportunity of seeing the world and experiencing life's marvels with a companion whose captured my ultimate adoration. My paramour, my complement, and my copilot, will continue to sit in the seat to my right, and I now have confirmation that that will never change.
Our thirst for adventure lead us to Cambodia, one of the few lawless places left that can still offer pure, unadulterated adventure. As it's been said before, the travel bug instills a desire that I compare to being lost as sea and thirsty; you can drink the seawater and satisfy yourself for a short time, but the contents of the water will only leave you more desperately parched than before. The only way to avoid it altogether would be to not get lost at sea in the first place, and enjoy your clean and filtered water from the tap day after day. And where's the fun in that?
As I do every winter, I grew dormant and discouraged once the days turned shorter. This time was slightly different than other years, as it was soon time for me to find out if I would spend my career flying in the Air Force. Of course I received good news and had secured myself a pilot slot. At that moment, February 12th 2015 at approximately 6:00pm EST, my life changed from one phase to another. Prior to this moment, I was an aspiring pilot. I was an Air Force Pilot candidate. I was competing for a slot. In fact, since the I first dreamed of being a pilot, I'd estimate around age 5, I was competing for it. I was in a massive race with thousands of other dreamers for over 15 years, and those who won, will end up in the air for most of their life. For my entire life until very recently, everything I did seemed to have a number attached to it that went into deciding the remainder of my life. Every exam, every missed homework assignment, every casual workout, every hour in a plane, every hour on flight sim; everything. So to say that I earned my slot as a pilot, is to say that I won the race. The worldwide competition, for which so many people lost hope and settled, resulted in me being a pilot.
And now I am no longer competing. I have to get my degree, pass my flight physical, among other things; but until I start pilot training and begin competing for the C-5 at Travis AFB, I can enjoy my victory. I can relax and dismiss the stress, but most importantly I can comfortably believe that my life will be spent flying, rather than jut aspiring like I've done since as long as I can remember.
So here we are. It's been almost a year and I've unearthed more of the world, got engaged, and secured my pilot slot. Now I'm back to my usual routine of struggling through classes and twiddling my thumbs until my next adventure. That will be Dubai by the way, per my honeymoon. We're staying on Jumeirah Beach, perhaps the only strip of land to compare in value to South Beach or Beverly Hills. We're eating dinner in the most expensive venue on Earth (the Burj Al-Arab), spending the end of Ramadan in one of the world's largest mosques (I'm curious as to how this one will play out), and hopefully will spend the night in the desert.
We can't simply follow the formula of checking in at an all inclusive beach resort in the Dominican Republic for a week. We've come to discover last summer that it's not the exotic aspect of these lavish trips that leaves us with a sense of satisfaction and achievement. Our overall enjoyment comes from the challenges we're faced and forced to overcome. We do not take vacations; we travel to a place, and we conquer it.
For example, even our stateside trips to Miami or LA are not by any means easy. We find things that the average tourist simply cannot do, and we do it. Whether that's exclusive nightclubs, or shopping at Tiffany's on Rodeo Drive, it is something challenging. In Cambodia, simply walking to the market or commuting to work is far more difficult than anything you could do in America. And that is why we went there.
Dubai shall be no different. Honeymoon or not, we will find someplace difficult to find and a pain in the ass to get get to, and we'll go there. It will be a place with a native tongue of which we can't even read, and we'll get along fine for two weeks. Then we'll find something that you can't do anywhere else on Earth, such as eat dinner at the most expensive hotel in the world, and we'll do it.
In other news, I've started reading Marco Polo's manuscript detailing his 24 years of epic travel, The Marvels of the World. I'm about halfway through this historical piece and I must say, it is eye-opening. Here you have a 17 year old boy teeming with curiosity, walking from Venice to Beijing, and writing down every detail that caught his imagination along the way.
What few people know about Messer Marco, as he calls himself, is his obsession with birds. The passion with which he writes deepens substantially when he begins to describe falcons of wherever he happens to be at the time. While he always notes the religious customs, language, and maybe a paragraph on the local economy of a place, he goes on about the local birds for pages, in vivid detail. It is so clear how captured he is by the miracle of flight, and the excitement he's brought by looking up at the vastness of the sky.
You see, falconry was an expensive hobby for the upper class in the 1200s. It was a way to pass the time as snobbishly as possible, almost similar to golf today. But in the East, the falcon was laden with symbolism and the ability to steer and command a bird of prey, a creature that has the ultimate freedom to fly, had a profound and almost divine significance. It seems that for Marco Polo, falconry was more than just an expensive way to pass time. He had a passion, made clear by the enthusiasm with which he tells his story. That passion and respect for what the falcon represents seems to be what he followed for 24 years, and lead to his name being remembered 800 years later.
Another aspect of that makes his story great, even 800 years later, is his reverence towards Kublai Kahn. Marco does not write about Kublai as most Dark-Age-Catholics would, with typical disgust toward a ruler claiming to be the one and only God. Instead, he writes about Kublai as if they were friends, as if he looked up to him, as if he left Mongolia with a role model. He wrote about how generous Kublai was to the poor, his charity even to his enemies, and about the culture of mutual respect among the Mongol rulers. He especially mentions going on leisurely falconry trips together, as Kublai was also passionate about birds of prey. It sounds like young Marco found a mentor, on the other side of the world, who influenced his life for the better.
There are two things I've found that, if embraced, influence your life in a great way and guide you to where you should be: a passion, and a mentor. And that's what lead Marco Polo to a meaningful and enjoyable life. But to take it a step further, Marco Polo was renown as an excellent storyteller. His account for events and places were so well recollected, it's rumored that Kublai Kahn gave him a position on his court.
Then, two decades later while bored and imprisoned after returning to Venice, he told his story once more from start to finish. He told the world what he had seen, what type of falcons fly on the other side of the world, his friendship with Kublai, and all the amazing things people miss out on by never leaving home. By the 15th century, his tale was the most read book in history, second only to the Holy Bible. Among those reading was Christopher Columbus, who was inspired to see the Far East himself, but didn't want to walk for three years straight.
Another five centuries later, here I am reading the same manuscript in equal or more enchantment. My fascination with Marco Polo comes in the similarities we share despite being 800 years and a world apart. In his life Marco Polo traveled an estimated 15,000 miles, immeasurably more than most humans in history. Yet just last summer I logged 77,000 miles in just shy of three months. Regardless, here I am writing my story, including all of my passions, mentors, and experiences. And the same way Marco Polo couldn't resist telling the world about the red striped falcon he found in the Gobi Desert, I never forget to write a detailed account of my 15 hour flight to wherever I'm going.
So that's what's been on my mind over the past 10 months. Hopefully I'll come across more thoughts I can't help but sharing. Until then...
In the past 10 months, I have done more than many do in a lifetime, and I believe I've reached the peak of the first two decades of my existence. I've experienced the fantasy of Rio de Janeiro and the excitement of the Amazon Rainforest. I've revisited one of my genuinely favorite places on Earth, Los Angeles, and had the privilege of sharing it with someone new. It was there that I committed my life to one person, and secured my opportunity of seeing the world and experiencing life's marvels with a companion whose captured my ultimate adoration. My paramour, my complement, and my copilot, will continue to sit in the seat to my right, and I now have confirmation that that will never change.
Our thirst for adventure lead us to Cambodia, one of the few lawless places left that can still offer pure, unadulterated adventure. As it's been said before, the travel bug instills a desire that I compare to being lost as sea and thirsty; you can drink the seawater and satisfy yourself for a short time, but the contents of the water will only leave you more desperately parched than before. The only way to avoid it altogether would be to not get lost at sea in the first place, and enjoy your clean and filtered water from the tap day after day. And where's the fun in that?
As I do every winter, I grew dormant and discouraged once the days turned shorter. This time was slightly different than other years, as it was soon time for me to find out if I would spend my career flying in the Air Force. Of course I received good news and had secured myself a pilot slot. At that moment, February 12th 2015 at approximately 6:00pm EST, my life changed from one phase to another. Prior to this moment, I was an aspiring pilot. I was an Air Force Pilot candidate. I was competing for a slot. In fact, since the I first dreamed of being a pilot, I'd estimate around age 5, I was competing for it. I was in a massive race with thousands of other dreamers for over 15 years, and those who won, will end up in the air for most of their life. For my entire life until very recently, everything I did seemed to have a number attached to it that went into deciding the remainder of my life. Every exam, every missed homework assignment, every casual workout, every hour in a plane, every hour on flight sim; everything. So to say that I earned my slot as a pilot, is to say that I won the race. The worldwide competition, for which so many people lost hope and settled, resulted in me being a pilot.
And now I am no longer competing. I have to get my degree, pass my flight physical, among other things; but until I start pilot training and begin competing for the C-5 at Travis AFB, I can enjoy my victory. I can relax and dismiss the stress, but most importantly I can comfortably believe that my life will be spent flying, rather than jut aspiring like I've done since as long as I can remember.
So here we are. It's been almost a year and I've unearthed more of the world, got engaged, and secured my pilot slot. Now I'm back to my usual routine of struggling through classes and twiddling my thumbs until my next adventure. That will be Dubai by the way, per my honeymoon. We're staying on Jumeirah Beach, perhaps the only strip of land to compare in value to South Beach or Beverly Hills. We're eating dinner in the most expensive venue on Earth (the Burj Al-Arab), spending the end of Ramadan in one of the world's largest mosques (I'm curious as to how this one will play out), and hopefully will spend the night in the desert.
We can't simply follow the formula of checking in at an all inclusive beach resort in the Dominican Republic for a week. We've come to discover last summer that it's not the exotic aspect of these lavish trips that leaves us with a sense of satisfaction and achievement. Our overall enjoyment comes from the challenges we're faced and forced to overcome. We do not take vacations; we travel to a place, and we conquer it.
For example, even our stateside trips to Miami or LA are not by any means easy. We find things that the average tourist simply cannot do, and we do it. Whether that's exclusive nightclubs, or shopping at Tiffany's on Rodeo Drive, it is something challenging. In Cambodia, simply walking to the market or commuting to work is far more difficult than anything you could do in America. And that is why we went there.
Dubai shall be no different. Honeymoon or not, we will find someplace difficult to find and a pain in the ass to get get to, and we'll go there. It will be a place with a native tongue of which we can't even read, and we'll get along fine for two weeks. Then we'll find something that you can't do anywhere else on Earth, such as eat dinner at the most expensive hotel in the world, and we'll do it.
In other news, I've started reading Marco Polo's manuscript detailing his 24 years of epic travel, The Marvels of the World. I'm about halfway through this historical piece and I must say, it is eye-opening. Here you have a 17 year old boy teeming with curiosity, walking from Venice to Beijing, and writing down every detail that caught his imagination along the way.
What few people know about Messer Marco, as he calls himself, is his obsession with birds. The passion with which he writes deepens substantially when he begins to describe falcons of wherever he happens to be at the time. While he always notes the religious customs, language, and maybe a paragraph on the local economy of a place, he goes on about the local birds for pages, in vivid detail. It is so clear how captured he is by the miracle of flight, and the excitement he's brought by looking up at the vastness of the sky.
You see, falconry was an expensive hobby for the upper class in the 1200s. It was a way to pass the time as snobbishly as possible, almost similar to golf today. But in the East, the falcon was laden with symbolism and the ability to steer and command a bird of prey, a creature that has the ultimate freedom to fly, had a profound and almost divine significance. It seems that for Marco Polo, falconry was more than just an expensive way to pass time. He had a passion, made clear by the enthusiasm with which he tells his story. That passion and respect for what the falcon represents seems to be what he followed for 24 years, and lead to his name being remembered 800 years later.
Another aspect of that makes his story great, even 800 years later, is his reverence towards Kublai Kahn. Marco does not write about Kublai as most Dark-Age-Catholics would, with typical disgust toward a ruler claiming to be the one and only God. Instead, he writes about Kublai as if they were friends, as if he looked up to him, as if he left Mongolia with a role model. He wrote about how generous Kublai was to the poor, his charity even to his enemies, and about the culture of mutual respect among the Mongol rulers. He especially mentions going on leisurely falconry trips together, as Kublai was also passionate about birds of prey. It sounds like young Marco found a mentor, on the other side of the world, who influenced his life for the better.
There are two things I've found that, if embraced, influence your life in a great way and guide you to where you should be: a passion, and a mentor. And that's what lead Marco Polo to a meaningful and enjoyable life. But to take it a step further, Marco Polo was renown as an excellent storyteller. His account for events and places were so well recollected, it's rumored that Kublai Kahn gave him a position on his court.
Then, two decades later while bored and imprisoned after returning to Venice, he told his story once more from start to finish. He told the world what he had seen, what type of falcons fly on the other side of the world, his friendship with Kublai, and all the amazing things people miss out on by never leaving home. By the 15th century, his tale was the most read book in history, second only to the Holy Bible. Among those reading was Christopher Columbus, who was inspired to see the Far East himself, but didn't want to walk for three years straight.
Another five centuries later, here I am reading the same manuscript in equal or more enchantment. My fascination with Marco Polo comes in the similarities we share despite being 800 years and a world apart. In his life Marco Polo traveled an estimated 15,000 miles, immeasurably more than most humans in history. Yet just last summer I logged 77,000 miles in just shy of three months. Regardless, here I am writing my story, including all of my passions, mentors, and experiences. And the same way Marco Polo couldn't resist telling the world about the red striped falcon he found in the Gobi Desert, I never forget to write a detailed account of my 15 hour flight to wherever I'm going.
So that's what's been on my mind over the past 10 months. Hopefully I'll come across more thoughts I can't help but sharing. Until then...
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