Leaving South America

Ecuador. How I hate you.

It’s been almost 18 months since my first trip southbound in a Piper Navajo named FPXL, and the beginning of a long odyssey that included as much danger, illness, injury and heartbreak as it did beauty, excitement and wonder. And while it always sounded so exotic to say “I’ve been working in South America” (in answer to the question “So what do you do for a living?”), the experience wore thin. Fast.

In summary, South America was a study in contrasts. The scenery was amazing, the people were friendly and energetic, and the experience of flying in Equatorial airspace was educational to say the least. We had our own apartments with air conditioning and a little hot tub on the patio, feeling nice and secure behind an electrified fence. The local coffee was delicious and the local beer was cheap. We couldn’t say we were lacking for anything, except clear sky under which to actually complete the contract.

But, on the opposite side, our team collectively experienced armed robbery and kidnapping in a taxi, allergic reactions to anti-malarial medication, altitude sickness, injury, and governmental stupidity (in a foreign language). My lungs ached from the dry breathing oxygen while flying at 21,000 feet in an unpressurized Aztec (that airplane was simply never meant to be up that high). The job became more and more frustrating as client pressure increased and the months went by with no work.

The snapping point occurred was when I slipped and fell off the Aztec’s wing, broke two toes and split my knee wide open. The dull fear of what lay ahead while I was being rushed to an Ecuadorean hospital in a bouncy ambulance overshadowed what physical pain I should have been feeling (for the record, the private hospital I ended up in was clean and modern, and the entrance to emergency resembled a fancy hotel lobby. The plastic surgeon who stitched me back together was top-notch. Highly recommended). I was stuck in the apartment in Ecuador for the next month, leg stuck in a straight position and unable to walk without crutches. I was not permitted to fly home on a commercial airliner on account of not being able to bend my knee enough to get into a seat. It was most depressing 30 days I have ever experienced.

So I’m done with you, Ecuador. Get me out of here.

An interesting phone message

Spring Season 2012 was coming, and it was finally time to leave. The job was 90% done, and work awaited us back in Ontario. I went down to Guayaquil for a short 3-day stay, and headed off with Bryn as my copilot on January 28.

The afternoon before we left, I started to feel that telltale tickle in the back of my throat. “Oh no, not now…” Downing orange juice and Dayquil the whole way to our first night’s stop in Grand Cayman, I tried my best to fend it off. But it still got me. Halfway through the night in Cayman, I woke up with my nose and throat full of fire and congestion. Raging head cold. Terrific.

Bryn flew the rest of the legs home while I suffered through the descents to land. We made it to our final destination of Lakeland, Florida, then piled aboard a commercial airliner to Toronto. I was home by midnight of January 31, the fastest return trip from Ecuador in company record. I then promptly spent the next 3 days in bed. NEVER fly with a cold.

Just before this trip, I had been wrangling with what to do about this job of mine. Company organization was continuing to degenerate. Back in November, I was removed from duty on the Twin Commander, the new turbine aircraft in the fleet, in favour of a part-timer who would take over the Ecuador job in my place. The reasoning behind this decision continues to mystify me. I never flew the Commander again.

So in the wake of that miserable conversation, I started half-heartedly job-seeking. I didn’t want to leave, but it was becoming an intolerable situation. And maybe it was high time I tried to step things up a bit.

I did now have a big 42 hours of turbine time, after all, so I updated my application profiles on the Air Canada, Westjet and Jazz websites to reflect this. I sent out a few e-mails in response to some AvCanada ads. I did get a callback from Thunder Air, an operator who flew King Air’s and a couple Mitsubishi MU-2’s (which fly the same engines as the Commander), and was promptly offered employment over the phone. I considered it. But in light of relocating to Timmins and a reduction in pay, I eventually opted to just tough it out, and hope that the spring season would allow me back into the Commander. I wrote back by e-mail turning down the offer the day after I returned from Ecuador.

The morning after the e-mail, my phone rang. I expected it was the Chief Pilot of Thunder Air calling after reading my message. I let it ring. I could barely talk from the congestion in my head and throat, and was barely conscious besides. The phone predictably chimed three times, indicating that the caller had left a voicemail that was translated into text by Telus.

Curiosity overcame fatigue and a stuffy nose, and I finally fumbled the phone off the shelf to see who called. It was from a 902 area code, which I thought was from Halifax, not Thunder Bay. I read the messages in disbelief.

“Hi this message is from Samantha at Jazz Air, we are calling to schedule an interview with you. Please give me a call back to schedule a date if you are interested. Thank you.”

Jazz. This must be a cold-medication-induced dream, I thought. Am I asleep still? No, I seem to be rather awake. Or did the Telus voicemail-to-text system hear it wrong?

I flew to the big windows of my condo where my phone could get a good cell signal and returned the call. Sure enough, my number had been drawn. Samantha set up an interview date in Toronto for 5 days hence. Thankfully there was no flying to be done that week. I was unable to go back to sleep.

Hot seat

So on Wednesday morning, I dressed up in my snappiest blazer and dress slacks, packed up my logbooks, resume and reference letters, and drove my Zipcar out to the Airways Centre at Pearson. Butterflies, to say the least.

I arrived ridiculously early and found the main lobby easily enough. It was a stark room with some furniture, a huge model of the Canadair Regional Jet (CRJ), and big brass letters that spelled “Jazz” in their signature-stylized handwriting. There was a phone on the table that instructed interviewees to call a certain extension, but there was no answer.

I began imagining that this was some sort of behavioural test, and looked around for the hidden camera.

Eventually, a woman from HR came to fetch me, and I was led to a small room where I met the Chief Pilot of the Central Region. The two of them asked me the standard questions about my background, then as the Chief Pilot combed through my logbooks, the HR lady asked me a few other easy questions. Then the tough stuff: behavioural questions. These are scenario-based, such as “Tell us about a time when you were stressed and how you handled it,” or “Describe a time when you made a mistake.” I knew this was coming, and yet when the Captain had to prompt me by saying, “We are looking for more specific examples,” I figured this adventure was already over.

The next couple questions got easier, though. I described the engine failure over the Andes Mountains in response to “When did you use your flying skill to maximum effectiveness?”, and running out of fuel and landing single-engine in IDS when asked the mistake question. I got nods and a "Well, that's how you learn" from the Chief Pilot. A better sign.

The whole thing lasted only an hour or so. I was glad to leave. I got home and promptly put everything away, resolving to forget it even happened.

Another test

Three days later, the phone rang. Same 902 area code. Jazz was calling to schedule me for Stage 2, a check in a flight simulator. It can’t be. This can’t be real. I floated around in a haze for the rest of the day.

I was almost dispatched for Jamaica for a new job that same week. For once, I was hoping not to be sent to the Caribbean. Fortunately the job was postponed, and I headed back out to Pearson for my simulator check on Saturday evening.

I had done my research. I knew what to expect. Fortunately, it wasn’t the kind of check I could really study for. An instructor named Dan Holme fetched me from the waiting lounge at CAE. I was placed in front of a mock-up instrument panel of a Dash-8, the aircraft I was being interviewed for. He handed me a script and told me I had 45 minutes to look it over and memorize the calls and speeds. I would be flying, but was not being graded on the flying itself. They would be looking for ability to learn, personality, and how much improvement I showed from the start of the session to the end.

The simulator was amazing. It looked just like the front of the Dash-8’s I’d seen, peeking through the flight deck door before takeoff. It had full wraparound screens with semi-lifelike scenery. It was full-motion and was over 2 storeys high, mounted on long hydraulic legs. It probably cost as much as a real Dash-8.

The trip was unremarkable. I was not permitted to use the autopilot. We took off from Montreal, did a steep turn, then was given a hold clearance which I initially got upside down (but corrected). After the hold I flew onto a non-precision approach, then was given a go-around. During the climb, an engine lit on fire. My “copilot” shut the engine down and came back for a single-engine ILS. And that was it.

My trusty copilot and the two observers in the back said, “Of course, we can’t tell you how you did,” but they did seem happy with me. I felt all right about the whole thing.

Until I started driving away.

The farther I drove, the worse I felt. I kept thinking about that hold clearance I got wrong. Or how I didn’t really have a holding briefing, since I never worked with a second crew-member before. And on and on.

So, when I got home, I went through the same routine. Hid the business clothes back in the closet, put the portfolio back in the bookcase, and again tried to forget it ever happened.