There are two schools of thought about the effects of alcohol. 

1. One asserts that the liquid imposes its own 'personality' upon the drinker -- that a person should not be held accountable for his or her behavior 'under the influence' ("It was the booze talking. If I were sober, I would say no such thing"). 
2. The other view of alcohol holds that it dissolves inhibitions, revealing the true, otherwise hidden personality. 

Federal regulations forbid flying less than eight hours after drinking ("Eight hours from bottle to throttle," the saying goes) or when 'hung-over' (whatever that means). There is ample reason for you to hope, however, that the stranger piloting your airliner is a teetotaller -- or at least has abstained for more than the minimum eight hours. 

Objective experiments over the years have shown that, depending upon all the familiar variables, alcohol can adversely affect the pilot's capacity to perform functions essential to flight safety up to -- now get this -- more than two days following its consumption.

So much for assuring the capacity to perform. But what about the pilot's personality?

1. If alcohol is -- in and of itself -- responsible for unseemly behavior, then purging the system of the stuff should restore the pilot to safe conduct. 
2. On the other hand, the pilot may have a perilous ego-state lurking beneath the surface, kept in check by sobriety. The 'whoopee factor,' folks. 

• Airliner flies into a swamp at night, while all three members of the flight crew are preoccupied changing a lightbulb on the control panel.

• Airliner plunges thousands of feet before a fuselage-bending recovery, because pilots disabled warning devices in order to goad the plane into a treacherous 'corner' of its flight envelope. 

• Airliner descends out of a storm and proceeds to land at the wrong airport, the pilots complaining later that both aerodromes have the same runway layout.

• Airliner cruises twenty minutes beyond a shoreline destination over open water, despite radio calls from radar controllers, because the flight crew was fast asleep.

• Airliner wanders off course into hostile airspace -- or the airspace assigned to another airliner -- because the crew did not key in the correct navigational coordinates.

• Airliner runs out of fuel despite instrument warnings and protests by the flight engineer, which are overruled as a matter of prerogative of the captain. 

• Airliner loses power from both engines after take-off and nearly glides into the ocean when pilots, responding to a warning, inadvertently operate the wrong engine controls.

• Airliner at 37,000 feet, with its captain in the restroom and thus locked out of the flight deck, suddenly drops 5,000 feet as the copilot, in adjusting his seat, inadvertently pushes the control column.

• Airliner crashes on takeoff as flight crew misinterpret readings from engine instruments or skip an entry on the checklist calling for take-off flap setting or...

Airline travel is unavoidable. As a passenger, one feels utterly powerless, dependent. I wonder what the statistics are for the number of passengers who, as their plane pulls up into the sky, plunge into a pool of frantic awareness that their destiny has been wrested from them. 

Ominous thoughts torture the mind. If those guys and gals enclosed in their locked compartment up front should suffer a lapse in competence, become distracted, get their priorities wrong, make a crucial mistake aloft -- cripes! -- I can't do anything about it. 

Sure, you ask yourself, what are the chances of that? Professional training and practiced skills, checklists and check-rides, discipline and dedication -- all act in superposition to make making mistakes unlikely. 

This issue like so many others in our complex, interdependent world has become all statistical. Whenever I am at the controls, however, statistics lose their hold on me. Probabilities become mere abstractions. I am the one tilting the yoke and pushing the pedals. Averages have nothing to do with the enterprise. Whatever adverse conditions arise, I know that I have the power in my own hands to deal with them, to influence the outcome. Numbers apply only to others, not to me. 

"Where you headed?" asked the FBO in Needles, while pouring lemonade for the children. He was the archetypical jolly big-man in middle years. His office in the tiny building beside the ramp was a clutter of airplane parts and papers. Faded photos lined the walls. 

"Torrance Airport," I answered. 

"Hell, you ought to take a swim and relax right here," he said, mopping his brow with a rag.

"My family and I have just flown in from Carlsbad Caverns, so --"

"Good motel in town. Five minutes away."

I shook my head. "It's been a long trip, and -- "

"I'll even let you drive my 'egg plant.'" The fellow pointed with his thumb over his shoulder and watched my reaction.

Parked outside the window was a 1948 Cadillac limousine. Deep purple. 

"Got a chauffeur's cap?" I asked.

Dear Mr. Day:

One aspect of Professor Richard J. Vogl's recommendation that "non-essential aircraft" over urban areas be banned (in today's edition of the Times) warrants careful thought: how to decide which aircraft are non-essential. 

Or conversely, which flights should be permitted? Some choices are easy: One flight last month, for example. A woman I know flew an Archer to Calexico to bring back a disabled child for treatment at Shriner Hospital. Though the flight "benefits only a few," Professor Vogl would surely permit it and hundreds of other flights being made by volunteers on the American Medical Support Flight Team. 

Business trips would be all right, too, presumably. My most recent flight was a quick hop in a Cutlass from Orange County to Santa Monica. One of our best customers, an aerospace company, was having a technical problem, so I brought in some special gear and one of our best engineers. Problem solved. 

But what if it were a candy factory instead? A business flight to fix a problem there would be "non-essential," I expect. Last thing we Americans need is more cavities. Same for a sales trip to, say, a cosmetics firm or a movie studio or a maker of vaginal sprays. Professor Vogl would doubtless ban private flights for non-essential businesses. 

Check the couple sitting next to you: why, they're going skiing. The people up front with the crying child are on their way back from visiting Grandma. Hah! And that thumper behind you? He is bound for a convention in Chicago -- for confectioners. Sometimes the skies above Los Angeles are full of airliners each filled to capacity with non-essential travelers to and from places like Reno and Las Vegas. Let's ban those, too.

Having cleared the skies of all non-essential airplanes, we can apply Professor Vogl's ban in other realms. Think of all the non-essential vehicles on our neighborhood streets and freeways. Trips to the beach would be first to go. And why should beer trucks take up space on our highways? "Individual freedom," asserts Professor (of Biology) Vogl, "must often be forfeited for the common good." His noble words taken seriously could get him grounded, though. Aviation regulators may someday decide that biology is non-essential.
 

Penny taught me a whole lot about instrument flying. There was this time when we flew to El Toro Marine Base to practice a procedure called GCA, Ground Controlled Approach. 

Penny scheduled me for six approaches one beautiful Saturday morning. As usual, I put on the hood before take-off from Orange County Airport (now John Wayne). I contacted the El Toro Marine Base by radio after we were aloft.

"We will be using student controllers for your practice approaches today," said a deep voice on the radio. I changed frequencies as instructed and lowered my seat in preparation for the effort that lay ahead.

My first approach was routine. The young marine on the microphone performed flawlessly. 

"Do not acknowledge my transmissions unless advised to do so," he told me at one point. "Please acknowledge," he advised.

"Will not acknowledge," I acknowledged.

"You are right of the approach course. Turn left, heading 340. You are below the glide-slope. Stop your descent. You are on the approach course. Turn right, heading 350. Above the glide-slope, descend at 500 feet-per-minute..." 

The instructions continued in a steady stream. Then, the controller made an abundantly sensible statement. 

"Your landing gear should be down and locked; please acknowledge."

"Gear down and welded," I chuckled into the microphone.

At the last moment, about a hundred feet above the runway, I was instructed to power up and execute a 'missed approach' procedure. Unless it were a real emergency, civilians cannot land at El Toro.

For the second approach, Penny concealed my direction gyro by covering its face with a jar-lid. I told the student controller about my predicament. After a delay, during which I assume there was a scramble to look up the appropriate procedure, the controller came back on and began a more detailed set of instructions. They included commands of the form, "Turn right -- stop turn."

So it went. Penny would cover up various instruments, and I would obey the commands issued from the ground. She brought plenty of jar-lids. The fifth time around, Penny set up a 'no gyro approach.' About all I had to look at on the control panel was the oil pressure gauge. This really put the onus on the GCA controller. 

How neat to pop up the hood after such a hairy simulation and see the runway directly under my nose wheel! I had an idea.

"Care to try one, Penny?"

Penny laughed. "The fantasy life of every instrument student includes getting his instructor under the hood." I determined not to touch that line with a barge pole. "Gimme that thing," said she.

Penny adjusted the headband and pulled the hood down to obscure the window. I sat back and folded my arms. For the first time that morning, I would be permitted to experience the visual reality of flight.

A new controller took his turn at the GCA scopes. He was less sure of himself than his predecessor. I left all the jar-lids in place for Penny.

Things went fine in the beginning. Penny reduced and increased power on command. She turned and stopped turn, first this way then that. I was astonished at the magnitude of the corrections being made. We were flying all over the sky. What a lark. Then something went wrong. We were no more than 300 feet above the runway and slightly to the right.

"Increase power. Turn left. Reduce power..."

The student controller forgot to say, "Stop turn."

We continued to turn left. Penny knew something was wrong. The runway drifted off at a crazy angle to our flight path. There were buildings, including the control tower, dead ahead. I didn't say a word. The radio went quiet. 

Penny stopped the turn on her own. But, without gyro instruments, she could not tell which way we were flying. She gripped the throttle, knuckles white. By then, Two-Four Fox had to be off the GCA radar screens. Two hundred feet, descending. Tower less than a quarter mile away. 

Parenthesis. The hood is a simple plastic contraption. If you want to see out the window, simply take it off with the flick of your wrist. Mine, in fact, was the deluxe model, with hinges at the temples, which enable the pilot to tilt the hood up at the last moment for the landing flare. 

Penny made no move to lift the hood. This tells you a lot about Penny -- and a lot about instrument piloting. It is an awesome responsibility, outranking open-heart surgery. In a practice exercise, you don't cheat.

The tension mounted. Penny cried out, "My God! Don't let us crash!"

I was on the verge of taking the controls when Captain Deep-Voice called on the radio with instructions to execute a missed approach, starting with a climbing turn to the right. 

Even then, Penny did not lift the hood. 

A wedding in a hangar, with airplanes and aviation enthusiasts all around.  Got it?  It was in 1990.  Now, try to imagine that I might have been invited to give a talk.  Oh sure.  Are we on the same page here?   Now this: A short talk.  Yeah, right.  Here's the text...

Standing here in this environment puts me in mind of -- well flying, and I am reminded of the three most useless things for a pilot: the runway behind you, the altitude above you, and the fuel not put in your tank. 

A little like marriage, don't you think?  The three most useless things in a marriage: the grievances behind you, the expectations above you, and the affection not expressed to your mate.

"Read-back correct. Call again when ready to taxi."

Ground Control cleared us to Runway Two-Niner Right. I released the brakes and started an exceptionally slow taxi.

"Reminds my of that morning at Orange County, Harv," I said, peering intently through the damp plexiglass. "Did I ever tell you?"

"The time with the PSA jet," he answered. My son, alas, has heard all my stories.

"What happened with the jet?" asked Murray from the back seat.

"Nothing much," I answered. "It was my regular morning commute out of Orange County. We had this patchy advection fog that morning, and -- "

"Advection?" 

"Fog blown in from the ocean. It is thin and streaky. Never very high, though. You're in the blue just a few seconds after lift-off. Anyway, I was creeping along the taxiway about like this. I turned the plane into what I thought was the run-up area when all at once out of the soup appears this big silvery, sphere-like thing with a light on it and a black patch in the middle -- "

"Radar dome," explained Harv.

"I had missed my turn and come face-to-face with this PSA jet. He was sitting there on the ramp. Waiting for the fog to clear before loading passengers, I guess. By the time I stopped, I was too close to turn around."

"Can't back this thing up, I guess," Murray commented.

"I reported to Ground Control that I had traffic, twelve o'clock, at my altitude."

Harv chuckled. "My dad had to shut off the engine and push the plane back by hand."

"Not before doing my Buster Keaton routine for the benefit of the PSA flight crew. Made'em laugh so hard, even in the fog, I could see the fillings in their damn molars."

Take inspection, for example. Who can deny the gratification experienced by alert fingers diligently stroked along the smooth surfaces, assuring unblemished form!  Indeed, you eagerly inspect each fillet and recess.  Who can resist the fascination with features seemingly shaped as pleasure for the eye more than purpose and function! 

Ah, but now you have assured a state of readiness.  With a audible sigh, you liberate the vital elements of motion. Only then do you deign to enter that most privileged realm.  You set loose the noisome thrust with alacrity and escape the hold of earth, rising up to meet the sky. 

Still, you must take care to guide the enterprise along the intended course. Precision and purpose characterize every movement, whether gentle or firm. Wonder attends your progress. Perfection means that upon arrival at a distant place, you descend reluctantly from the pleasured heights to find renewed contentment below.

Thus does flying spoil you for any other activity. Well, almost any other. 

During Pope John Paul's U.S. tour in 1987 (September 10-19), a number of commemorative products sprung up.  Coffee mugs, ceramic tiles, and barbeque aprons were everywhere featuring images of the Pontiff.  Sears had a sale an animated lawn sprinkler inscribed with "Let us spray."  There were molded cleansing agents made from the salts of vegetable fats ("Pope Soap"). 

My favorite included a loop of nylon cord to be conveniently suspended on a shower head -- yeah, "Pope Soap on a Rope." 

Now a flying story...

A late-night fuel-stop in Cardinal Three Four Niner One Four at a remote field in Nevada found the flight line closed and the FBO unavailable until morning, which necessitated an unplanned RON.  At the closest motel, a toothless codger with a scruffy beard handed me the room-key and a fresh towel. 

"Do you have any Pope Soap on a Rope?" asked I with a grin. 

The old fellow shrugged as if he had been responding to the question all week.  "Nope." 

All right, so you had to be there.