Controlled Crash: An Airline Odyssey, from Eels and Ethics to Blimps and Drunken Bears

Copyright © 2009 by Eldon Brown

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Contents

SPECIAL MISSION FOR U THANT

INTRODUCTION

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

AFTERWORD

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

For Jim O’Sullivan

Controlled Crash (n): whimsical pilot lingo used to describe any safe landing

Special Mission for U Thant

Paul Dearie of Olympic Airlines offered my wife, Yvette, and me a trip to Greece. Olympic assigned us first-class seats, and while checking in I could overhear the conversation of an agitated man in the adjacent line. He was on a special mission as envoy for UN secretary general U Thant—problems in Cypress, it seemed. Anyhow, off we went with only three of us in first class: opera singer Anna Moffo, Yvette, and me. New York’s famous Club 21 catered Olympic then, and I still recall a bliss-making meal of Alaska king crab appetizer, thick prime rib, excellent French wines, and Baked Alaska for dessert. Thank you, Mr. Onassis. I think of that repast often these days, while munching my in-flight pretzels.

When we landed in Paris, an intermediate stop, I noticed it was Pan Am ground staff who met the UN official. Later, en route between Paris and Athens, the steward asked me if I was with the UN.

No, but my wife is, I replied. (At the time, Yvette worked at the UN.)

With a dubious look my way, he said, Aren’t you Mr. X?

Oh, no. He’s in economy.

Do you know him?

No, but I’d recognize him.

The steward then asked if I might kindly look for him; there was a vital message. As I left first class and walked slowly down the aisle of the 707, scrutinizing each passenger, I immediately became Brown of Interpol—papers, please. We have ways, you know. I returned to my seat, ordered a vodka martini (shaken not stirred), and explained to the harried steward that Mr. X was not aboard; he had gone off somewhere with Pan Am.

Landing late that evening, we discovered there were no Jetways in Athens—only the old mobile stairways. As I exited the plane, an excited gentleman hurried toward me up the stairs, while on the ground a large crowd milled about. Cameras were raised. Brilliant klieg lights shone in my direction.

Are you with the UN? the gentleman asked eagerly.

Now here was my chance to finally resolve the Cyprus question with a few well-chosen words, but I called on unsuspected reserves of strength and beat back the temptation. No, I’m just a tourist, I said, and watched him deflate.

Introduction

The metamorphosis of the airline business from a people-friendly industry to today’s antagonistic, bottom-line-oriented morass proceeded more slowly than the one from tadpole to frog or worm to butterfly. But it was just as dramatic. First airplanes flew faster—up through the Concorde and 747s—and then slower, as smaller jets and even prop planes returned to domestic air lanes. Meanwhile, airlines kept merging, to create strength through mass, and then one by one fell into bankruptcy from the combined weight.

During this sad devolution, the poor passenger morphed from a generally contented customer into a frustrated number jammed into a too-small seat. At the same time, airports changed from friendly places—for waving good-bye and watching beautiful jets—into virtual stalags, complete with electric fences, armed guards, and patrol dogs. Perhaps this mutation was more akin to mitosis, as one day we woke up to find an industry divided. Time will tell if a new, more vibrant aviation business evolves or if, like Humpty Dumpty, the greatest transportation system ever known to the world remains asunder.

For over thirty years, I toiled in sales for various airlines. Played would be more like it, actually, because for the most part I enjoyed the ride—occasional bumps and all. Joining Braniff International Airways in January 1966, I quickly learned that, on the whole, people people ran the business. The top executives at that time, all former salesmen, understood that competition existed. Recognizing competitors’ strengths and weaknesses (and your own) was the first step toward gaining new customers and keeping happy the ones you already had. Make the product better. Provide more than just transportation. Those airline pioneers recognized that travel and shipping choices existed and that friendly, knowledgeable sales representatives could tilt a customer’s decision making their way.

When I worked with Japan Airlines in the ’70s and ’80s, one of my prime business sources was Puerto Rico—particularly the pharmaceuticals industry. I developed excellent rapport with managers there, at companies like Upjohn and Squibb, and traveled to the island nearly every month. However, as my secretary pointed out, a sales curve developed that peaked the week after my visits, leveled off, and then started dropping after four or five weeks. We found that business to Japan continued at a steady rate, but declined to Jakarta, Manila, and Singapore—destinations not usually associated with Japan Airlines. I wish I had a million bucks for each time I sat across from Norma Hernandez at Upjohn or Lucy Ramos at Abbott and asked if there were any orders for Asia. Do you go to Seoul? they might ask.

Ten times every week, I would reply.

Oh, they would smile. Then you can have these LD-3 containers.

In truth, I would settle for just a thousand dollars each time business declined and then popped up again following my visit. Had I not been there, this valuable international airfreight might have gone to another carrier. Unfortunately, among the executives at the headquarters of any airline in the world, there’s an unwarranted certainty that every consumer is fully aware of their airline’s flight schedule. Yet in reality, this knowledge doesn’t go much beyond, Singapore Airlines flies to Singapore, Air India to India, United to Chicago; and it’s cheaper to fly Southwest. It takes a real person, in one-on-one negotiation, to expose the subtleties of an airline’s offerings.

Today on your Main Street, you’re as likely to find a triceratops as an airline office. Marketing decisions are molded, without much human involvement, by a team of cubicle-confined marketing executives who rarely see the light of day. In the past, when sales slacked off, a real person might be dispatched to determine the cause. Today, an analyst will study various graphs and charts for a collective market trend—usually concluding that the price is too high, when the real problem may be that on the customer’s last flight the airline ran out of peanuts. Customer is no longer a breathing human being with a problem, but part of a grouping to be analyzed, probed, and graphed.

I received a call one morning from an analyst new to the airline business, her freshly minted MBA almost sparkling through my receiver. In a conspiratorial tone, she informed me that she’d just learned of a new air-cargo source in Miami, the sales territory where I served as regional manager. Analyst thought she should jet down, cut a few deals, and come away with the business.

Now the Miami airfreight scene provides surprises from time to time, so I asked what the commodity was.

Cut flowers, she said, sotto voce.

Ha! Anyone even remotely associated with Miami airfreight knows that you can fill all airplanes, every day, with cut flowers grown in Colombia and Ecuador. As airfreight, flowers are only marginally profitable, however, since they are perishable and the boxes are just slightly above the limit used to determine whether actual or volume rates should be applied. (Actual weight sets the rate is the rule, except when the weight-to-volume ratio is very low—the logic being that a pound of lead uses less space than a pound of pillows. Space is the airline’s product, and it must be monitored carefully to insure profit.)

Around Easter or Valentine’s Day, most carriers are full by 7:00 AM, if not the night before. In fact, during the weeks prior to these holidays, over twelve million blossoms arrive at Miami International each day, most to be reshipped to destinations throughout the United States and Canada. I had to tell our analyst not only these sad facts but also that, rather than cutting deals, I was trying to raise my price for flowers. Virtual heresy to an analyst.

There’s an old axiom that nothing happens until something is sold; sales drive the product. Just look at our auto industry. There was a time when each division of General Motors produced cars trenchant in feature and design. In late summer, showroom windows at Pontiac, Buick, Oldsmobile, and Chevrolet were papered over to heighten anticipation of the new models, and each new model was different. Cadillac was the essence of luxury.

At some point, however, the Green Eyeshade Gang took over and decided that, by producing basically the same vehicle for all divisions, unit costs could be reduced. Concurrently, plastic replaced steel and wood became vinyl. GM cheapened its flagship brand by offering a little car sitting on the tiny base of the smallest Chevy. After it was tarted up with goldish trim and fancy wheel covers, they dared call it Cadillac and named it the Cimarron, after a type of wild sheep. Ford had a lock on the horse theme, with Mustang and Pinto, but were sheep the only animals left? The bean-counters really believed that no one would notice these changes, proving once more that the driver of the metaphorical bus should be the sales department. Airlines have also had their Cimarrons, as we shall see.

And why is Controlled Crash the title of my book? As I told you above, pilots like to say that every safe landing is actually a controlled crash. Happily, after thirty-five years of mostly straight and level flight in the airline business, I did have a safe landing—though with enough turbulence along the way to occasionally make me uneasy about it. Looking back from the vantage of 2009, what lingers most vividly is a parade of humorous and sometimes exciting episodes, along with certain knotty ethical challenges. Controlled Crash dives into all of these, and I hope you’ll enjoy your reading as much as I have my remembering.

Chapter 1

The Beginning

Few people are privileged to do what they really want to in life, but I am one who—perhaps because of limited aspirations—actually did. It took a while before I found myself on the right path, however.

From 1963 to 1965 I served as a Peace Corps volunteer in Kingston, Jamaica, where I taught civics in a local high school, helped adults learn to read and write, and coached Jamaica’s national swimming team. Although these were all satisfying activities, deep down I knew that, unlike Peter Pan, I would eventually have to grow up and find serious employment. At that time, the Peace Corps offered no pay, but it did lead to two tempting swim-related offers. The government of Guatemala wanted me to coach its national swimming team, while the Playboy Club near Ocho Rios, Jamaica, proffered the position of water-sports director. In consultation with my family, it was agreed that I should return to the United States and find a job where I was not forced to share a dormitory with dozens of gorgeous Playboy bunnies. I always suspected that my father, an excellent swimmer himself, secretly contacted Mr. Heffner to apply for the job, there being a bit of Gauguin in all red-blooded men.

While living in Jamaica, I was recruited by Pan American Airways to play on its winter league baseball team. The league consisted of six teams, and as a pitcher I was one of only two Americans to make the Jamaican all-star team. That all-star squad traveled to Guantanamo Bay, Cuba, to play a Marine team featuring several pro players completing their military hitches, and I still have baseball clippings from Jamaica’s newspaper, The Daily Gleaner. Who would have guessed that my curvy pitching could befuddle an opposing team? Jamaicans enjoy cricket as their favorite ball-and-bat game, and curvy is often used to describe a googly or off-speed bowl.

The pace of baseball is often criticized as being too slow and the games too long, but baseball whips by like an auto race when compared to the glacial pace of a cricket match. Cricket is the only game I know with a formalized break, when the teams and officials retire for tea and biscuits. This is no seventh-inning stretch, either; they remove to a tent or other covered structure for at least twenty minutes. Some spectators consider this hiatus the most exciting part of the match, as they also slake their thirsts with gin-and-tonics or the more lethal