New Horizons – Part Five
Controller Training and Return to Flying
Nineteen months. That was how long it took me to progress from a developmental non-radar trainee to a full journeyman controller. While in the past the process had taken a full four years or more for the ATC training process to produce a full-fledged radar controller, I had completed it in just over a year and a half—and I had the Whitten Amendment to thank. I was now certified on sixteen low altitude and two high altitude radar and non-radar sectors in the Houston Specialty after training and certifying at an average of just over a month on each sector.
Because of the Whitten Amendment as soon as I certified on the two to four sectors that qualified me for a jump to the next GS pay level, (which in the past would’ve required me to wait for at least twelve months after certification for the jump), I was immediately promoted. My pay scale went from GS-9 to GS-13 so rapidly, that the payroll department had great difficulty in paying me the correct amount each payday. All during my training I had no idea how much my next paycheck was going to be—at times jumping from three-hundred to over a thousand dollars a pay period over the last paycheck, then the next check a lower amount because payroll discovered they’d grossly overpaid me. Either way on average, I was now earning at least three times what I’d been paid while in the Air Force or at the shoe store
Remembering my painfully learned lesson in the Air Force concerning paycheck overpayments, I recommended to Kaz that we should frugally budget our normal household expenses and put the pay overages into savings. That way when the bi-weekly paychecks ended up being less than what we thought they should be we’d have money to draw on to even things out.
Although I had seemingly breezed through training, it certainly wasn’t easy—in fact, it was grueling, and the fact that a month into my training I had decided to re-enter flight training made it even harder. So, what made me decide to return to flight training after surviving initial ATC training and facing at least a couple of years of intense live traffic training? Well, it had to do with my fear of failing ATC training and having nothing to fall back on.
A few weeks after I’d started my formal on-the-job training on the floor, I began to worry about my ability to withstand the extreme mental pressure that was starting to build and was sure to get worse—and with the removal of the time-in-grade requirements the push was on for me to certify.
Several old journeyman controllers had told me that without being able to season for a few months after certifying on a sector and resuming training, they would’ve never made it.
“If you consider the Whitten your good friend you’re in for a big surprise.” I’d been told.
“You’re going to regret not being able to get to know the intricacies and recognize the traps that each sector has in store for you. Training with an instructor only teaches you so much—you have to work each sector by yourself to learn to recognize those things. And if you don’t recognize those things fast enough, you’re gonna quickly find yourself putting two airplanes together and not understanding what just happened to you.”
There was a lot of truth to what I was hearing because several times during training, while I had been utterly convinced that I had applied the correct rule to resolve a confliction to my sheer horror I discovered that that particular rule was successful only under certain conditions in the real world. It was only due to divine providence that while reviewing my work I had seen the lack of separation in just enough time to apply some remedial actions before loss of separation occurred. During our training debriefs Hillary would bring up these incidents, having documented them on the training form, and while praising me for resolving them before he had to intervene, I was heavily criticized for not having seen the confliction right away.
During my training I constantly worried that I’d screw something up and without recourse be sent down to that Flight Data purgatory to await my banishment to some Godforsaken backwater village to serve as a Flight Service Specialist. So, I began to formulate a backup plan.
First, I did a bit of research regarding my veteran’s benefits. Before I left the Air Force, I was briefed by a personnel specialist on the various programs available for veterans such as myself, and by far, the best was what is known as the GI Bill.
Besides offering veterans with cheap and guaranteed approval mortgage loans the GI Bill provided us funds for college tuition, and best of all (for me at least) up to four-hundred dollars a month for advanced flight training. To qualify for the flight benefits, one had to already have a private pilot license and be enrolled in some type of advanced pilot training program at a certified flight training school. The monthly benefits would be paid directly to the flight school and allowed the student to work towards certification in flight instructor, multi-engine, commercial, ATP (Airline Transport Pilot), and Instrument Flight Rules flight training.
The catch was that to qualify for the full four hundred dollars monthly grant the student was required to accumulate five hundred dollars a month or more, in flight training expenses. No one was sure why this stipulation existed, but the owner of the flight school I enrolled in speculated that the government wanted the student pilot to spend some if his/her funds so that it wouldn’t look like a complete give-away program. Whatever. With what I was earning now I could afford to pay for the program with no problem, so now all I had to worry about was having the time to train.
I decided it was time for me to sit down and discuss these plans with Kaz, so one evening just after dinner I told her I had something to discuss.
“You not having trouble in the training, are you?” She asked worriedly as she laid her hand over mine.
“No, no, it’s nothing like that. I think I’m doing OK…probably better than the guys on the other crews, but I’m still a little worried about something.”
“OK, what?”
“Well, even though my training seems to be going OK I still can’t get over the number of guys who’ve washed out. I mean, some of those guys I felt were much better than me and they still didn’t make it. So, I’d like to discuss what I will call a back-up plan.”
“Back-up plan? What that?”
“Oh, it’s a plan that’s in place in case something goes wrong. You know, like if I have a deal (lose separation between two aircraft) and they wash me out.”
“You never have deal! You too good for that! What happen to your confidence?”
“Nothing. But I think it’s better to have something to fall back on in case something happens.”
“OK, so what you planning?”
“Well, I’m thinking of signing up at a flight training school for advanced pilot training.”
“Pilot training!? Are you crazy? You just got your pilot license last year—and you been flying a little after you got discharged from Air Force and before we moved to Houston. How much more training you think you need?”
“No, this is different. If you recall, after the Air Force I could no longer belong to the Bergstrom Flying Club, so I found that little airfield, Tims Airpark north of Austin. I got checked out in a little Alon Air Coupe because it was cheap to fly, and I wanted to stay current. But I’ve since lost my currency.” (To stay current a pilot has to complete three take-offs and landings every ninety days).
“So what? You now controller…and flying in Houston is too expensive anyway!”
“Well, I’m not a controller yet, and this is what I wanted to talk to you about. The government has a program called the GI Bill—remember, we talked about getting a mortgage loan through them after I finish the controller training program?”
“Of course, I remember! But what that have to do with flying?”
“The GI Bill will also pay for pilot training! The only requirement is that the trainee has to already have a pilot license. So, I automatically qualify.”
“That sound too easy. Nobody give money away like that.”
“I didn’t think so either, but it’s true. I already checked it out. There’s a flight school near the center at a little airport named David Wayne Hooks. I called them up the other day to ask and I was told the GI Bill will pay up to $400 a month for advanced flight training, and all I have to pay is about a hundred a month. We can afford that!”
“But when you suppose to have time for that? You already so busy with the training at the center.”
“I think I can make it work. Besides, the extra time I spend training for my commercial license will help take my mind off of worrying about washing out at the center. So, what do you think?”
“I think you crazy! When are you planning to fly? You work every day!”
“On my days off mostly, but I can also fit in some flying in the mornings when I don’t have to go into work until four in the afternoon. I don’t know how much flying I have to do to get to four-hundred a month.”
“You trying to kill yourself! Besides, when are we supposed to start a family?”
“I think we have to think about that when I either finish my controller or my flight training.”
***
In early October of 1970, I filled out all the necessary government paperwork for application into the flight training program as required by the GI Bill, and although my formal acceptance into the program would not be received for another six weeks, the director of the flight school assured me that it would be no problem.
On a sunny and cloudless Saturday, October 3rd, 1970, after successfully attending three days of Ground School at DWH (David Wayne Hooks Airport), I took off in a yellow and white Cherokee 140—tail number N5903V—for a check flight with my flight instructor to begin my advanced flight training. I had not flown since February 23rd, 1969.
According to my flight log for that day, I flew for nine-tenths of an hour in the local airport training area, completing several power-on and power-off stalls, some chandelles, and terminating with four touch-and-goes and a final landing. The rest of my training flights would be done solo with an occasional flight check with an instructor. Meanwhile, back at Houston Center, having already certified on all nine non-radar sectors, I began training on the first of nine radar sectors.
By the end of that month not only had I successfully certified on that first radar sector, but I had also accumulated eight hours of flight time from DWH. During those eight hours I racked up thirty-eight take-offs and landings, countless crosswind approaches, chandelles, power off and power on stalls, and had completed three cross-country (round-robin) flights to unfamiliar airports. This frenzied pace would continue for the next eight months.
To say my life was a blur during this period of time would be a gross understatement, and I owe an enormous debt of gratitude, to a very patient and understanding Kaz.
Tom Moore
Right after having been introduced to Hillary Larkins, my OJT instructor on crew seven, I was escorted to a small office directly behind the bank of radar scopes that made up the Houston Specialty Low Altitude sectors.
Sitting cross-armed behind a gray metal desk, a smoldering cigarette stuck between his thin lips, was a stout, balding, and deeply tanned man. Dressed in a gray-tinged white dress shirt that had certainly seen better days, and a thin dark brown tie, whose messy knot had been pulled down exposing a missing collar button over the top of a wife-beater undershirt, was crew seven’s first line supervisor.
“Frank,” Hillary said softly, “meet Tom Moore…our supervisor and the guy who’s going to be conducting all your check rides and debriefs for sector certifications.”
“Hi, Mr. Moore, glad to meet you.” I said.
Tom grunted and pulled what remained of the cigarette from his mouth with stubby nicotine-stained fingers. With what seemed a substantial effort he rolled the office chair back and stood up exposing a sizeable pot belly around which hung a pair of dingy dark gray slacks.
“Hey there, Frank, call me Tom!” He bellowed hoarsely while extending his free hand. “I hear you really did well up in training. At least that’s what Billy upstairs went and told me. Based on his reports we oughta be expecting some great work from you.” His handshake was soft and un-reassuring and he spoke in a heavy East Texas twang.
“Oh, well I sure hope so.” I responded timidly. “I’ve been looking forward to working on the floor for what seems like years.”
“Yeah, well you scored big when you got ole Hillary here for an instructor. He’s as good as they come. Hell, he’s even better than me!” As he chuckled at his remark a phlegmy sound rattled deep in his chest.
“Tom, no one’s better than you—at bullshitting, that is.” Hillary said dryly.
“Eyup, that’s my boy Hillary—don’t say too much but when he does it’s a zinger!” The chest rattle came up as a wet cough. “Sheeeit!” He managed to say in between coughs.
“Tom,” Hillary interjected with a bit of impatience. “I’m thinking on starting Frank on the Beaumont Low Sector (BMT) to get him broke in on those east corridor low arrivals from over Lake Charles. What’dya think?”
“Hell, that’s just as good a place as any. If you can learn how to get those little itinerate bastards (ATC slang for small propeller-driven general aviation aircraft) all lined up for approach into Hobby (Houston Hobby Airport) or Galveston—well shit, you’ll have’er purty much whupped.”
“Uh, OK…” That was all I could come up with.
“OK Tom, we gotta go get plugged in ‘cause the push from Louisiana (pronounced, Lu-zee-ana) is about to start.”
“Sure thing! Go get’m Frank! And don’t let those little suckers get the best of you! I’ll be interested to read Hillary’s training reports on ya.”
“Thanks, it was nice to meet you.” I said, as Hillary pushed me out the door.
“He’s a great supervisor ‘cause he don’t know crap and he knows it.” Hillary said, almost under his voice. “When you get all checked out on the manual side try to never get caught working next to him when he’s on the radar. Supervisors have to get eight hours every month of live radar traffic to stay current, but when he’s on the radar it’s a righteous disaster. He’s smart enough to pick the times when there’s very little traffic, but we also always try to put an experienced controller on his non-radar side to keep him from killing somebody. He goes under very easily.”
“OK, I’ll try to remember that.”
“Also, you’ll never get scheduled for a check ride with him until I’m positively sure you’re ready. Tom’s so clueless he’d check out one of the gul-darned custodians if we told him he was ready.”
“Oh…” I didn’t know what to say to that.
“Anyway,” Hillary said as he put his headset on. “Let’s see how the good ole Beaumont sector is doing today.”
“Alright.” I said, as I walked toward the sector, also putting my headset on and making sure the microphone was directly in front of my mouth.
“OK, looks like she’s cooking.” Hillary remarked.
The controller who was working seemed to be really busy—talking into his mic, writing on strips, pushing comm buttons, and pointing to different shrimp boats on the radar scope. There seemed to be more flight strips in front of him than I’d ever seen in training and the scope was full of shrimp boats. When a flight, represented by a flight strip, needed to have some action take on it, the strip would be slanted to the right or left. No action required meant the strip would be lying flat. As I scanned the board it seemed to me as if every strip was slanted.
“Get all plugged in there and get in the swing of things. When you think you got the picture ask him for the relief briefing.” Hillary instructed while pointing to the controller who seemed to be doing ten things at once.
Each sector had dual radio/comm plug-ins, and as I plugged my headset into the vacant one, the radio chatter coming from the radar controller and the aircraft he was controlling was overwhelming—and I was suddenly too busy to acknowledge Hillary’s last instruction.
***
A month later I had certified on the Beaumont sector and began training on the Humble Low sector (IAH). This particular sector was basically devoted to northbound traffic departing the Houston Metroplex area, and included Houston Hobby (HOU), Houston Intercontinental (IAH)—now called George Bush Intercontinental Airport, Galveston Airport (GLS), Ellington Field (EFD), and a dizzying myriad of small general aviation airports that dotted this congested area This included DWH—the airport which I was now flying out of for my commercial pilot training.
Any IFR flight departing any of these airports, whose initial route of flight was northwest, north, or northeast out of the Houston area, would traverse the Houston TRACON (Terminal Radar and Approach Control) airspace worked by tower controllers, and be handed off to the IAH sector.
If the flight requested twenty-three thousand feet or below (FL230) for a final altitude, it would remain under the control of this sector until it exited and was handed off to another low altitude sector. However, if the flight was climbing higher than FL230, then the IAH radar controller would hand it off to the HOU HI altitude sector controller. All coordination for altitude requests were made by the IAH sector non-radar controller by land line, and when the altitude was approved, the IAH radar controller would issue the altitude to the flight and hand off radar control to the HOU Hi radar controller.
While my training on the BMT sector had been complex and extremely busy, the majority of the flights traversing that sector consisted of mainly low altitude propeller general aviation aircraft (little itinerate bastards) whose airspeed rarely exceeded two-hundred-fifty knots. Altitude and route coordination with other sectors was conducted at a more leisurely pace given the relatively slow speed of each flight and their usual adherence to the airway route structure. The IAH sector was completely the opposite.
High speed aircraft, the majority of which were air carrier or corporate jets, came pouring northbound out of the TRACON airspace—and since they had only received clearance to fifteen thousand feet by the departure controllers in the tower, they were all requesting higher altitude and more direct routes to their destinations. While the IAH radar controller was always busy accepting radar handoffs, then climbing, turning and keeping all the north departures away from each other—it was a coordination nightmare for the non-radar, or manual, controller sitting to his right.
Three weeks after I first plugged into the IAH sector to begin my nonradar training Hillary decided that I was ready for a check ride (certification). Since check rides were conducted by the team supervisor Tom Moore was called out of the office to conduct my certification.
“So, Hillary tells me you’re ready to get checked out, huh?” Tom said cheerfully, trying to balance his coffee cup with one hand while strapping his headset onto his balding head.
“Yeah, I guess so…” I said, feeling my nervousness ball up in the pit of my stomach.
“Yeah, he’s as ready as he’ll ever be.” Hillary said, behind me. “I’m starting to get bored watching him do his job on this sector, so I guess it’s time.”
“OK, well let’s go!” Tom said, plugging his headset’s plug next to mine.
Since it was just before 6AM, and very little traffic was presently departing Houston, this sector had been combined with another during the midnight shift. Hillary plugged his headset into the radar side and began the process of breaking off and opening up the sector. He would be working the radar and I would be his manual controller during my check ride.
Within twenty minutes the sector had exploded with departure traffic and I was getting into the rapid-fire sequence of listening to aircraft requests on the radio, jumping onto a land-line and dialing the appropriate sector, asking for and receiving approval, and quickly offsetting and making the proper notations on that flight’s flight progress strip. When everything worked it was like dancing flawlessly with a partner who anticipated all your moves.
Suddenly I felt a tap on my wrist, and I looked away from my strips and to my left to see Hillary looking angrily behind me.
“Wake him the hell up, for crying out loud!” Hillary spit out…as angry as I’d ever seen him, and the first time I’d ever heard him use a curse word.
My head shot over my right shoulder and I saw what Hillary was referring to. Tom was sitting behind me and to my right a few feet away with his head lolled back and eyes closed tight. His mouth was open and dangling precariously from his lower lip was a filter-less Lucky Strike cigarette. It hung there with about an inch of gray ash threatening to fall onto his shirt.
I shot a look back at Hillary and waited until he had completed a radar handoff on a Continental DC-9 heading for Dallas Love.
“He’s looks like he’s asleep.” I said hesitantly, and really not knowing what to do.
“Wake him up!” Hillary hissed between his teeth. “NOW!”
“Uh, OK.”
I turned slightly and rolled my chair back and a little to the right. Reaching out with my right hand I grabbed Tom’s pant cuff and pulled a couple of times. The ash on his Lucky dropped off and rolled on his shirt and off onto the floor. “Uh, Tom…Tom. Wake up.” I whispered, kind of loudly.
He opened his eyes a little and squinted at me. “What?” He asked groggily.
“Uh…Hillary says you need to wake up.” I said, not really knowing what else to say.
He jerked his head forward and gently pulled the cigarette off his lower lip with a pair of stubby fingers. “Uh, fuck.” He managed to say. “OK, that’s it. We’re done here.” And then he stretched magnificently and yawned largely.
Hillary kicked my left ankle and said angrily, “Whenever you’re done there, I need you to call Houston High and get me FL280 for this Delta!”
“Oh! Sure…I mean, affirmative. I’ll get right on it!” I spun back to my sector and called for the altitude—at the same time giving the radar controller the aircraft’s location. “OK,” I said to Hillary. “FL 280 is approved, and he has radar contact!”
“Delta two-eighty-one, climb and maintain flight level two-eight-zero, and contact Houston Center on one-three-three point nine. Good day, sir.” Hillary smoothly spoke into his headset.
I felt something brush across my right wrist and saw that Tom was pulling out his headset plug. “Shit boy…” He said sleepily. “You’re so good you fucking put me to sleep! Hell, you don’t need me here! You’re checked out! Congratulations!” And off he went back to his office.
I looked over to Hillary and saw him shaking his head. “He is just a worthless…. Uh…anyway, congratulations. Let’s get back to work.”
***
A few months later after I had successfully certified on all nonradar sectors I was sent back upstairs to the training department to complete my radar pre-training. Before I knew it, I was back on the floor with my crew and ready to begin live radar training. Because there were times when the traffic was so heavy or we were short-staffed because we had taken a few more sick leaves than normal, I was unable to train. On those days I would be assigned to work the nonradar sectors that I was certified on.
One morning I walked into the specialty and was told that because we were short, I’d be working the IAH nonradar side for the majority of the day. I didn’t mind the assignment because I really liked this sector. It was usually very busy, very complex, and the time passed really fast—sometimes pushing right up to lunch without my even realizing it.
As I was untangling the cord on my headset wondering which radar controller I was going to be working with, I saw Tom Moore saunter up balancing a cup of coffee in one hand and holding his headset in the other.
“Hey Frank, how are you today?” He said cheerfully.
“I’m OK, how ‘bout you?”
“Good, good. Better than most, I’d say.”
“That’s great.” I said, plugging in the headset into the sector. “Who’s opening up the sector?”
“I am!” Tom said. “Time for me to get in a couple of hours of currency. So, I figure with a hotshot nonradar guy like you working my manual side, how can I go wrong?”
I knew better than to say anything, but I’d seen Tom work radar before, and even with my limited knowledge, I thought he was dangerous. He was slow, tended to trip over his own tongue—often having to rescind bad clearances—and in short, ran a clumsy sector. I would have my hands full doing my job and watching him try to do his. Several times, on other and easier sectors, I’d seen his manual controller point out to Tom that he was about to kill two airplanes.
Tom plugged in and began to take handoffs on aircraft that were about to enter his sector, and we were off to the races.
In what seemed like minutes Tom was completely under and the sector was out of control. He was having trouble taking all the departure handoffs from the departure controller, and because he was ignoring their altitude and routing requests once they come on frequency, he was also putting me under. He began asking me to do a whole lot more than I was supposed to do, but to keep everyone separated I just tried to work faster.
“Hey!” He said, suddenly as I was on a call trying to get approval on a couple of flights that had already leveled off at FL230 because Tom was so behind. “HEY!!” he yelled again.
I turned to my left and hoped that I would be able to field his question while I was talking to two other controllers on the land line. “Yes?”
“Hey, are you checked out on this radar position?”
“Me? No!”
“But you have worked this radar sector, right?”
“Well, yes…but just in training with Hillary monitoring me. But I’m not checked out yet.”
“Well, I’m your supervisor so I’m going to authorize you to take this sector over.”
“Tom! I can’t do that! I’m not certified. Besides, it’s too busy to “one-man” the sector. (One controller working both radar and manual side because of low traffic volume).
“I’ve seen you fucking work this radar sector and you’re good! So, get your fucking plug out of the manual side and plug it here into the radar. Otherwise, someone’s gonna get killed out here.” He pounded the face of the radar scope with his finger.
I thought, “Well, maybe two of us working the radar will be able to get us out of this mess!” So, I unplugged from the manual side and re-plugged into the radar side.
As I looked at the radar, trying to match the shrimp boats with a corresponding radar blip, Tom abruptly reached over and pulled his plug out! Then, he stood up and walked away!!
I was so shocked that my mind literally went blank. I remember seeing him walk slowly away, taking his headset off his head while heading for the office. Then I heard several pilots call.
Without giving Tom another thought I pushed his chair out of the way and rolled myself in front of the radar. Since each radar position had the identical comm panel as the non-radar side I had to not only talk to the pilots but conduct all the manual coordination. I recall the bitter bile taste building on the back of my tongue as I scanned the radar began to issue turns (called vectors) to keep several flights from losing separation.
Once I was satisfied that all the potential conflictions were resolved I took a little time to get off the radio frequency and complete some badly needed manual coordination on the land lines.
Suddenly I heard a familiar voice behind me say, “You’re doing fine, just keep doing what you’re doing. Everything’s OK.” I looked to my right and saw that Hillary had plugged into the radar with me and was standing behind me scanning the radar display.
“I’ll take care of all the coordination, you just keep working the traffic. We got a non-radar guy coming out of the coffee shop to work the manual side in a couple of minutes. So just hang in there while I try to get the picture.”
I sensed someone sliding in to the manual side off to my right and quickly heard him say, “OK, come off the land lines, I got your non-radar side and I see what’s going on.” I recoiled slightly by the sudden acrid stench of cigar smoke hitting my nostrils and instantly knew that Ray Stehling had taken over my recently abandoned manual side. Ray was one of the most senior radar controllers on crew six and was well known for his deep affection of beer, motorcycles, and chewing moist, stubby, half-lit cigars.
And just like that, the traffic was suddenly back to manageable and I was again able to breathe. Hillary put his hand on my shoulder and said, “We’ll talk about this as soon as we’re relieved. But you’re legal now that I’m plugged in with you. I’ll need you to tell me exactly how this happened so I can brief the area manager later on. I hear he and the rest of the bosses up front are really pissed.”
“But I didn’t know what else to do! He just got up, unplugged, and left!”
“No, no. Not you. They’re not pissed at you. If anything, they’re in awe of how you handled the situation. I hear there were deals happening all over the airspace. Is that right?”
“Well, I remember I had to really do a lot of vectoring and issue quite a few altitude changes to keep everyone separated, but no one really came that close to losing separation.”
“OK, we’ll talk later. For now, let’s just keep what we got.”
“Alright.”
“Good job, by the way. If that’d been a check ride on the radar you would’ve passed with flying colors.”
“Thanks.”
I never found out what happened to Tom over this incident, and I never asked, but in my opinion what he’d done was completely illegal and close to criminal.
***
In spite of the incident that morning on the IAH sector, Tom and I always seemed to get along just fine. He was a nice enough guy who preferred to talk about fishing on Lake Conroe or reminiscing about the good old days before Houston Center had been built in 1964 and had taken over the combined airspace from the old San Antonio and Lake Charles ATC Centers.
Those had been the days of very limited radar coverage and just about all air traffic control had been accomplished by reading flight progress strips and communicating with aircraft through even older radio equipment than we had. As Tom would say, “That’s when we had real controllers who had to see where the airplanes were by forming the picture in their heads, not by looking for them on some radar scope. Shit, any weak-stick can do that.”
From what I’d heard from other controllers that had worked with him, was that Tom had never been a strong controller but benefited from the “good old boy” system and had gotten promoted to supervisor right before the two smaller centers were consolidated into Houston ARTCC. Apparently, because Houston was going to be three times larger than the two old centers there was going to be a supervisor shortage when the new center became operational.
So, having hunted and fished with all the right people and had also taken care not to step on any political toes during his controller days, Tom found himself being promoted to first line supervisor when he transferred to Houston. However, it was a foregone conclusion that that was as far as his career was going to go.
As a first line supervisor it was his responsibility to check out developmental controllers on his crew as they concluded training on each sector and to debrief them after the check ride. Suffice to say that Tom had no clue whether or not the developmental was proficient enough to actually work the sector he was training on, he simply relied on the word of the OJT instructor. If the instructor said so-and-so was ready Tom would gladly certify them.
I had gotten used to his phony perusing of my training forms and his silly questions after the various check rides as I progressed in my training, but during the check ride debrief on my last radar sector he seemed even more distracted than usual.
After going over a few points he verified that he was going to recommend me for full journeyman controller. “No reason to not certify you,” he said as he signed the form. “You’ve been ready for quite a while.”
“OK, thanks.” I said, gratefully.
“So now that we’re done, I have a question I’d like to ask you.”
“Sure, go ahead.” I said, relieved and a little delirious that I’d finally made it.
“Your last name…what is that? Italian? Are you a daigo?”
The question took me a little by surprise. “No actually, my dad’s parents came over from France—but my mom’s parents came over from Mexico.
“So…you’re Mexican?”
“On my mother’s side, yes.”
“Well, ain’t that a kick in the ass! I never would’ve taken you for no Mexican. Shit, are you sure you’re Mexican?”
“Well, half Mexican on my mom’s side. But because she was born in San Antonio, she’s an American.”
“No shit…Mexican…”
“Um, I guess.”
“Well I’m here to tell you that you sure ain’t like any Mexican I’ve ever known. I mean, you don’t act like one.”
I was starting to get annoyed. “How do Mexicans act?” I asked pointedly.
“You know…lazy, stupid, and you know, always dodging hard work. And I’ll tell you—you ain’t nothin’ like that. Shit, you’re smart and the best fucking controller I’ve ever seen. Shit, you flew through the goddam training program. Ain’t nobody ever done that!”
“So, because I don’t bring a sarape and a sombrero to work and ask for time off to take siestas after lunch, you didn’t think I was Mexican?”
He took a couple of seconds to digest what I’d just said. “Ah hell…shit, that’s funny! Siestas! Ain’t that when they take naps?”
“Yes.”
“Nah, you ain’t nothin’ like that at all.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“No, that’s OK! And, oh yeah, Hillary told me you’re also a pilot? It that true?”
“Yes, it is. I’m enrolled at a flight school at David Wayne Hooks working towards my commercial license.”
“Well shit, see!? Ain’t no Mexican can do that! Learning to be a controller—and a goddam good one too—and getting a commercial rating on the side. Shit no! Ain’t no way you’re Mexican!”
“OK, I guess I’m not then.”
“Exactly! Anyhow,” He looked at his watch. “Anyway, congratulations on getting through training and I’m just sorry to see you go. I’d like to keep you on my crew as a journeyman.”
“I’m not staying on crew seven?”
“Oh hell no. Crew four is short one so you’ll be transitioning over to them in the next couple of weeks. You’ll be working for old Bob Wold. He’s a good old boy, you’ll like him. He came over from San Antonio Center just like me.”
He stood up and shook my hand. “Well again, congrats on your checkout. I’ll talk to Bob and fill him in on our little talk. I know he’ll be happy to have you on his crew.”
I took that to mean that he would be happily informing Bob that I wasn’t a Mexican.
To be continued…
