United Airlines Strikes Again: The Silent Treatment

Did you have an enjoyable, uneventful snow day Monday? I didn’t, thanks to another United Airlines foulup due to poor communication. 

My two Omaha-based grandchildren, CJ and Leo, along with their parents Ellie and Donny, were scheduled to fly home nonstop from Newark at 3 pm. The surprising snow storm dumped seven inches on our driveway. Even more surprising, despite being heavy wet snow, it did not clog the chute of my snowblower. 

Prompted by the storm, meanwhile, United decided around noon to delay takeoff until 4:40 as incoming planes had been unable to land. So, instead of leaving White Plains shortly after noon for the one hour ride to Newark, we embarked at 1:30.

We encountered no traffic, not even as we crossed the George Washington Bridge. But, as we motored down the New Jersey Turnpike near MetLife Stadium, Donny received an alert from a travel app on his iPhone that the plane would be taking off as scheduled at 3!

He quickly checked United’s web site. Phew. United showed a 4:40 departure time. Already traveling in excess of the 55 mph speed limit, there was no reason to put more petal to the medal.

A few minutes later, however, United reversed course. Its web site reverted to the original 3 pm departure. Donny never received an email or text notice. He found out only because he was obsessive and checked again on his own.

With two children, CJ 3, Leo 7 months, plus a trunkload of luggage to check, it seemed unlikely they could pass through security and get to the gate before it closed.

When we arrived at the terminal Donny jumped out to seek a customer service agent to explain their dilemma and expedite the check-in process. Helpful though she was, it could not be done in time to make the flight.

She could not explain why United had changed the departure back to the original time.

She could, however, rebook their flight out. Instead of the non stop that would have arrived in Omaha at 6:04 pm local time, where Donny’s mother would pick them up, she offered two alternatives: The earliest non stop was Tuesday morning at 6, meaning we would leave White Plains in darkness at 3:30. But when we would get to Newark, though their tickets would say the flight originated from terminal C, there could well be a gate change to terminal A, she said. It would be a decision United would not make until the morning, most probably after they checked in.

Or, they could fly Monday evening around 5 pm to Houston, arrive around 8 then wait two hours for a flight to Omaha that would get in around midnight. But—always that “but”—she cautioned the flight from Houston probably would be delayed for two hours. They wouldn’t land in Omaha until 2 am not sure if Donny’s mother would be able to pick them up.

Truly a Hobson’s choice: travel with two kids for another 12 hours, eating airport food and hoping their children would sleep at least part of the way, maybe in airport terminals, or overnight back in White Plains, get up at 3 am and return to the airport shortly after 4.

They chose another night at grandma and grandpa’s house. Which meant I was waking up at 2:30 am. Uber was not an option, not while I am retired and still physically and mentally fit to drive.

To and from the airport was uneventful. Less than two hours. Fully clothed I crawled back into bed at 5:30 am for four hours of much needed sleep. 

Recalling Bike Helmets

One of the more exciting gifts our grandson Finley received for Hanukkah from his aunt Caitlin (Allison’s sister) was a helmet to wear while riding the tricycle she gave him for his second birthday a month earlier. He loves wearing it as he scoots around the basement. He even makes his parents wear their helmets as they watch him. I can’t tell you what brand it is, but I was immediately concerned when I saw a news release last week about a bicycle helmet recall because of the risk of head injury. I was concerned for good reason, as both our children survived nasty crashes.

Ellie’s head-over-handlebars tumble came shortly after I learned to ride. I was 40. Ellie was seven and had also recently mastered a two-wheeler. Gilda, Dan, his friend Aaron, Ellie and I loaded our bikes into the mini-van one Sunday afternoon and headed out to SUNY Purchase to ride around the perimeter car loop, a popular bike-riding venue. The boys and Gilda swiftly left Ellie and me in their wind-wake as we cautiously traversed the roadway.

About two-thirds of the way we came to the top of a steep descent. We gulped, then Ellie pedaled forward. And downward. And with increasing speed. She couldn’t hold her foot brake. Before my eyes, she flipped over and bounced on the pavement. Several times. Of course she cried, more from the trauma than from any injuries, which were almost negligible, thanks mostly to her helmet. Reluctantly, very reluctantly, she got back on her horse, I mean, bike, and we pedaled, sloooowly, to meet up with Dan, Aaron and Gilda, all the way Ellie alerting those ahead of us with her loud wailing.

Dan’s helmet-case was far more heart-stopping. After he turned 14, Dan said he no longer wanted to go to sleepaway summer camp. Instead, he desired to go on a mountain-bike tour of the West, beginning in Denver. We shipped him out on a Wednesday, one United Airlines ticket for him, another for his bike (United gave us two round-trip tickets as compensation for an aborted flight Gilda and I took from San Francisco to New York during which we had to slide down the emergency shutes. Here’s a link to that story: http://nosocksneededanymore.blogspot.com/2011/04/on-wing-and-prayer.html). From the airport the group of some 20 teenagers were trucked to Estes Park, about 80 miles northwest of Denver, for their first ride.

Going down a mountain trail, Dan flipped over the handlebars and did a head plant into the ground. His eyes rolled back in their sockets. The whole right side of his body, from the top of his head to his ankles, was bruised, bloodied and skin-torn. Naturally, the trip leaders wanted to get him to the hospital right away. But a thunderstorm developed over the mountain; everyone had to lay prone to the ground to avoid being hit by lightning.

Later that night we received a phone call from one of the staff. You know something bad has happened when the conversation starts with assurances your son is all right now, that he’s resting comfortably in the hospital.

Hospital? How big a hospital? 14 beds? You call that a hospital? It took us several minutes to realize the Estes Park hospital was a trauma center mainly focused on skiing and snowboarding accidents in the winter and mountain-bike and hiking accidents the rest of the year, with the occasional lightning strike victim thrown in. Indeed, two other patients brought in with Dan that day had been blistered by lightning. We couldn’t have asked for better professional care.

Dan emerged from the plane ride back two days later swaddled in bloody, pussy gauze and bandages. To this day Gilda wonders how anyone would have tolerated sitting next to him. To prevent scabs and then scars from forming on his body, she followed the advice of a plastic surgeon to keep his injuries moist. She bathed him (Dan accepted without debate or too much embarrassment the reasoning that his mother was a nurse practitioner and had seen many a naked man). His only “trophy” from the accident was a small scar on his knee on a spot he purposely did not want moistened.

So we sent him out on Wednesday and he returned to us Friday. The tour group graciously refunded his tuition and Bell exchanged his helmet for a new one. Seems a helmet is good for only one crash. Allison has informed me Finley’s helmet is not from the company involved in the recall. Here’s hoping Finley has no need for a new helmet until he outgrows aunt Caitlin’s gift.

On a Wing and a Prayer

The last few days have not provided a pleasurable ride for Southwest Airlines, what with two emergency landings as one flight last Friday aborted after part of a fuselage tore away and a second landed prematurely Monday after a burning electric smell permeated the main cabin. Tack on more airborne troubles Monday with United’s Flight 497 that also had smoke problems and a scary emergency landing.

All three incidents, thankfully, ended with no loss of life. But they did evoke memories of similar escapades during my business flying career.

Usually, I fall asleep on a plane even before takeoff. That’s what happened when Gilda and I were returning aboard United Airlines from one of my magazine's conferences in San Francisco 18 years ago. We were sitting near the rear. In my dream I smelled something burning. It didn’t jive with the other action in the dream so I woke up about 20 minutes into the flight. Gilda also detected the odor. We alerted the stewardess who informed the pilot.

While they assured everyone there was no danger, the cabin started filling up with acrid smoke. The pilot decided to turn back to San Francisco, but since he had a full load of fuel for the transcontinental run, he first had to release gasoline over the Pacific.

As we approached the landing, the stewardesses told everyone to assume the crash position, that once we came to a full stop we were to calmly walk to the emergency exits and slide down the evacuation chutes. Bent over with arms crossed shielding our heads, Gilda and I awkwardly held hands, thankful we were together. Nobody panicked. Young and old alike slid down the chutes with only one elderly woman slightly injuring her ankle (I’ll admit now I didn’t fully follow orders—I didn’t remove my shoes). Once safely inside the terminal, though, a gold-chained, muscled guy fainted. So much for macho appearances.

For our adventure, United gave everyone a free round-trip ticket to any domestic destination (more on how we used those tickets in a future blog).

Last Friday’s rupture of part of the fuselage of Southwest Flight 812 was a harrowing experience for the passengers. Our brush with a potentially similar condition was not as terrifying, thanks, no doubt, to Dan’s keen eye.

We were flying American Airlines from Dallas to Tokyo 19 years ago, I to interview executives from Ito-Yokado for our joint-venture Japanese publishing company, Gilda, Dan and Ellie to enjoy the hospitality of our hosts.

About an hour after leaving Dallas, Dan thought he saw part of the skin of the left wing flapping away. He asked the man sitting next to him, a Navy air technician, to take a look. He confirmed Dan’s discovery. He called a stewardess who called the relief pilot who flies along on trans-Pacific flights.

Though he too advised we’d be safe proceeding, he cautioned that the prudent thing to do was turn back to Dallas and transfer to another plane. It meant an eight hour delay, making our total travel time from New York to Tokyo a whopping 28 hours instead of the normal 18.

All in all, an inconvenience but surely not as dramatic or as traumatic as that experienced on Southwest Airlines Flight 812.