Worried Man Blues
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- Aug 26, 2009
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Show me a strong weakling and I will pronounce her mighty.
A brave coward is indomitable.
You can't learn anything useful from a natural, for a natural has no idea how he produces a given result; it just happens. Ah, but to sit at the knee of a successful idiot yields a nearly endless supply of good information -- for the tested strategy employed by the authentic rube is always worth noting, the results always predictable, the outcome never in doubt.
The finest pilots I ever flew with were people who were probably not genetically destined to be excellent aviators.
A long time ago I sat in the waiting room (holding pen) of a large major airline which I cannot name (Delta). This airline was noted for having extremely strict hiring standards. The interview process was a rigorous battery of written, practical and psychological examinations over two days and, it was clearly understood, only the best and brightest would be selected to join the ranks of the airline's corps of steely-eyed aviators. It was on the first morning at the company canteen when all of the prospective pilot candidates were getting breakfast that I knew I wasn't going to make it.
Sliding my tray up to the cash register, I was aware of the embarrassed silence as the lady rang up my heaped plate of eggs, sausage and hash browns. I was hungry and not paying attention, mentally going over holding pattern entries while reciting Pythagoras and the quadratic equation. It was then I noticed all of the other trays contained low fat yogurt, dry whole wheat toast and fruit juice (I had the High Test with extra sugar). Grinning sheepishly, I produced a sweaty wad of cash and slunk off to harden my arteries in a dark corner. Amid the phalanx of heroic jawlines, blue suits, and enormous watches, I found myself sitting across from a pudgy ex-Pan American copilot in a rumpled tweed blazer and a hideous pale yellow tie. After about 30 seconds of small talk, while our colleagues shot their watches from their wrists in heroic reproductions of aerial combat, I asked him, "What's your gouge for holding pattern entries? Just the thumb or all three fingers?" He smiled and said, "I use all three fingers, because the thumb requires too much arithmetic."
Needless to say, neither one of us was invited to the double-breasted uniform fitting.
Over the ensuing years I have shared the cockpit with a diverse group of individuals; from a former Blue Angel who nearly killed me on a cloudless summer afternoon in Philadelphia because he committed to a landing he should have abandoned -- to a diminutive and barely literate former ag guy from Fort Yates, North Dakota with buck teeth and Coke bottle spectacles who was so afraid of getting behind the airplane, he was always ten miles ahead of it. (It was from him I learned idiot-proof descent planning.)
One out of twenty guys will look at a cardboard deadbolt template (that handy device Schlage provides) and tell you how it was produced complete with geometric argument, the probable postulate for its production and perhaps some restrained praise for its ultimate application. While I have no doubt the world needs such individuals, I am only about the drill and the elegant hole it produces. Though I love drilling, I am uncertain in my drilling prowess and afraid, at some point, my drilling will be scrutinized and found wanting. I attempt to avoid this by learning from others who share the same lack of confidence, but who, against improbable odds time and again, produce perfectly drilled holes, as many as could be asked for.
Like I said.
A brave coward is indomitable.
You can't learn anything useful from a natural, for a natural has no idea how he produces a given result; it just happens. Ah, but to sit at the knee of a successful idiot yields a nearly endless supply of good information -- for the tested strategy employed by the authentic rube is always worth noting, the results always predictable, the outcome never in doubt.
The finest pilots I ever flew with were people who were probably not genetically destined to be excellent aviators.
A long time ago I sat in the waiting room (holding pen) of a large major airline which I cannot name (Delta). This airline was noted for having extremely strict hiring standards. The interview process was a rigorous battery of written, practical and psychological examinations over two days and, it was clearly understood, only the best and brightest would be selected to join the ranks of the airline's corps of steely-eyed aviators. It was on the first morning at the company canteen when all of the prospective pilot candidates were getting breakfast that I knew I wasn't going to make it.
Sliding my tray up to the cash register, I was aware of the embarrassed silence as the lady rang up my heaped plate of eggs, sausage and hash browns. I was hungry and not paying attention, mentally going over holding pattern entries while reciting Pythagoras and the quadratic equation. It was then I noticed all of the other trays contained low fat yogurt, dry whole wheat toast and fruit juice (I had the High Test with extra sugar). Grinning sheepishly, I produced a sweaty wad of cash and slunk off to harden my arteries in a dark corner. Amid the phalanx of heroic jawlines, blue suits, and enormous watches, I found myself sitting across from a pudgy ex-Pan American copilot in a rumpled tweed blazer and a hideous pale yellow tie. After about 30 seconds of small talk, while our colleagues shot their watches from their wrists in heroic reproductions of aerial combat, I asked him, "What's your gouge for holding pattern entries? Just the thumb or all three fingers?" He smiled and said, "I use all three fingers, because the thumb requires too much arithmetic."
Needless to say, neither one of us was invited to the double-breasted uniform fitting.
Over the ensuing years I have shared the cockpit with a diverse group of individuals; from a former Blue Angel who nearly killed me on a cloudless summer afternoon in Philadelphia because he committed to a landing he should have abandoned -- to a diminutive and barely literate former ag guy from Fort Yates, North Dakota with buck teeth and Coke bottle spectacles who was so afraid of getting behind the airplane, he was always ten miles ahead of it. (It was from him I learned idiot-proof descent planning.)
One out of twenty guys will look at a cardboard deadbolt template (that handy device Schlage provides) and tell you how it was produced complete with geometric argument, the probable postulate for its production and perhaps some restrained praise for its ultimate application. While I have no doubt the world needs such individuals, I am only about the drill and the elegant hole it produces. Though I love drilling, I am uncertain in my drilling prowess and afraid, at some point, my drilling will be scrutinized and found wanting. I attempt to avoid this by learning from others who share the same lack of confidence, but who, against improbable odds time and again, produce perfectly drilled holes, as many as could be asked for.
Like I said.
