Flying for Fun and for Money

I’d like to share a story that I’m not especially proud of, but hopefully it will give you some insight into the small-scale ethical temptations that professional pilots can be faced with on a regular basis.

First, the background…

A few weeks ago I went to work at the dropzone. Frigid winter weather prevailed that day–about 20 degrees fahrenheit at the surface, with clear, sunny skies above.

As most pilots know, cold air is more dense and therefore offers improved performance for flying. Aircraft can climb more quickly, and higher, on a cold day versus a hot day, all other factors being equal.

And as most skydivers know, frozen air isn’t especially appealing to jump through. Therefore, only a few skydivers showed up to the dropzone on that particular day.

So these two factors–excellent climb performance and few loads of jumpers equated to little flying for me. I could race up and down through the thick sky in record time. That’s all fine and good if setting records is the goal, but frankly, I get paid by the hour, not by the record. I’d much rather fly on a 90 degree day than a 20 degree day simply because I can log more time and get paid more on a hot day than a cold one.

Now, I must mention however, that regardless of other factors, I take a certain amount of pride in my work. I work quickly, safely, and efficiently, no matter what, and I think that’s cool. It’s something I’m always pushing to get better at. From the moment the engine turns over, that ever-present clock is ticking and it’s time to do business.

In the world of jump piloting, that means the wheels never stop rolling from startup to shutdown. Fly with minimum fuel loads, climb at best rate of climb speed, reach your top of climb precisely at the start of the jump run, descend at speeds in the yellow arc, taxi fast, and get the job done. Thanks to this philosophy, I’ve been able to turn impressive times in, oftentimes requiring less than 25 minutes, from startup to shutdown, to perform drops from 10,000 feet. I’ve been told I’m one of the fastest pilots currently working at the dropzone.

But enough of the background. Here’s my story now…

On this cold winter afternoon, the last load of the day happened to be optimized for climbing quickly. I had the bare minimum fuel available (about 16 gallons), the air was as dense as it will ever get around here, and the four jumpers were fairly small guys. If the Cessna 182 could ever be considered a rocket ship, this load would be it.

The skydivers had signed up for what is generally considered a full altitude jump, with an exit altitude of 9,000 feet above the ground, or 10,500 MSL.

As we hiked out to the plane, I joked that we could go as high as they wanted. Needless to say, they wanted to go as high as we could get.

“But…ssshhhh…you know how that is, right?” winked one of the skydivers, implying the need for secrecy when sliding on a little extra altitude to a jump run. I knew what he meant.

I confirmed that they wanted to go as high as possible and then said, “Sure, let’s go.”

You see, the issue at hand is one of money. Skydivers pay for their jumps by altitude. At my dropzone, it’s a base rate of $8 per jump + $1 per thousand feet of altitude, so for instance, a jump from 9,000 feet costs $17 ($8 + $9).

If the pilot takes them higher than they paid for, it’s like getting “free” altitude–although that extra altitude comes at the dropzone’s expense of extra gas for the plane and extra fees for the pilot’s longer flight time.

At the time, I justified it in my mind using several reasons. Mainly, it’s just a little extra, so what’s the big deal? Nobody will know the difference.

Then I also thought, “I’m one of the fastest pilots out here. I’ve saved this place a fair amount of money by being a sharp pilot, and what’s my thanks? Less flight time and less pay, all while the company takes bigger profits. I’m screwing myself over by working hard. Screw the company, I deserve a little extra every now and then.” I didn’t see it as a big deal to burn another tenth of an hour’s gas since I’d saved them cash in other areas.

On top of all that, I didn’t view myself as a policeman over anyone. Sort of an, “If I take these guys higher and they don’t pay for it, that’s not my problem, it’s between them and the dropzone,” attitude. I thought, “I’m just the hired hand. I just fly the plane. The jumpers tell me what to do and I do it. I don’t get in to enforcing rules.”

As we lifted off, the VSI indicated an impressive 1,200 foot per minute climb rate. As we gained altitude, I could tell we would blast through the originally planned exit altitude with ease. As we approached the jump run, I stopped the climb at 14,000 MSL because I did not have an oxygen bottle with me, although we were still rising at a respectable 400 feet per minute. The jumpers laughed with excitement, put a finger to their lips to indicate our silence about the activity, then dove out the door.

Fast forward to this morning.

I came in for another day of work, having completely forgotten about our little 14,000 foot secret. As I grabbed the aircraft dispatch clipboard, the dropzone manager confronted me.

“Hey, we busted you with the wing cam from a couple weeks ago.”

“Huh? I don’t get it. Who busted what?” I was honestly confused.

“Your altitude. Going to 12,500 with those guys. The wing cam caught a shot of Roberto’s altimeter as he was going out the door.”

“Oh. Ummm….yeah…..”

I didn’t know what to say. I wasn’t even sure how big of a deal they thought it was, so I jokingly played it off, saying I’d screwed up my timing and the wind had taken me farther from the dropzone than I planned, so I just kept climbing instead of leveling off. That legitimately was a factor to some degree, but would never account for more than a few hundred feet. This “error” we were talking about was 3,500 feet worth.

We joked around a little, but I could see how management didn’t view slipping in extra altitude as an entirely laughing matter.

Throughout the day today, I thought a lot about the implications of such a seemingly small error in judgement. The fact is, even if there was peer pressure to give extra altitude, I’m the one in charge of the plane. Nobody was sticking a gun to my head, telling me to climb higher. I made the choice.

And what was it worth? An extra couple bucks in pay? A little extra “cool factor” with the skydivers? Are those things worth losing my reputation, and possibly a great job, over? Not even close.

No matter what my opinion is about my pay (or lack thereof), I’m hired to do a job the way my employer wants it done, and it’s not my place to be adjusting the rules to suit myself.

I want to be able to use the dropzone as a positive reference for future employers. If I screw up my reputation as a good, honest guy, that’s going to hurt me more in the long term than any little gain in flight time, pay, or popularity in the short term.

So I made sure to privately apologize to the manager later in the day, and I think I smoothed things over. He didn’t place all the blame on me, saying skydivers will do almost anything to get extra altitude. He said some hot chick skydivers have gone so far as to flash the pilot in order to get an extra thousand feet for free. I made it clear that I’m won’t be slipping on extra altitude in the future, no matter what.

Ironically, even today, after deciding all this on my own, some jumpers asked me for extra altitude. I told them, thanks, but no thanks. I’ve played that game before and it’s not worth it. Now, if only I could tell that to a hot girl after flashing me, that would be especially entertaining…

———————————————–

In other news, I found out a few days ago that I won’t be going to Cirrus Standardized Instructor Program training after all. It’s a long story, but basically it boils down to the aircraft owners being more comfortable training with an instructor they already know, versus training with me, who they’ve never met before. They will be sending an instructor they’ve worked with the past, rather than me. I don’t blame them. No hard feelings.

However, this only supports my philosophy that I’ve grown accustomed to over my time in the aviation industry:

I never believe somebody’s getting a plane until I see it parked on the ramp, and I never believe I have a job until my first day of work.

Literally, that’s how aviation is. If I had a dollar for every “maybe, possibly, might, not sure if it’ll happen or not,” opportunity I’ve ever had, I’d be a very rich man. Arrangements fall through right and left in this competitive, complicated line of work. I guess that’s the nature of the beast.

Thanks for reading!

This entry was posted on Monday, January 7th, 2008 at 12:20 am and is filed under Uncategorized. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.