A cockpit is a cockpit, is a cockpit and so on (I think that’s Joyce). The reality of any cockpit is its similarities with other cockpits and the feeling of being home when you close the door and sit into your seat.

Entry in different cockpits requires similar, but never the same, strategies for body position, bag carrying, coat wearing (or not) and manoeuvring to sit. If you’ve got an injury this all gets very complicated very quickly. Where you work (employed potentially a stretch) will dictate the etiquette around cockpit entry. I’ve worked with people who insist the Captain must enter the flight deck before the First Officer. Great for increasing the cockpit gradient and making CRM an ethereal concept rather than a practice. This does not work with people like me as I’m too switched off to realise what’s going on. It’s normally when the Captain tells me they’ll be eating dinner first that I realise I’ve already crapped on my day by not playing the game.

Slight detour, but valuable in the context of explaining other people’s nonsense. Walked into the aircraft, behind the Captain, one day and he stopped and turned to me and said “we can’t take this airplane until it’s ready” I’m thinking we haven’t started to get it ready so this must be a test, I reply “sure… I’ll ready the aircraft now?” He rolls his eyes and grunts “not you, Logan, the carpet” I’m looking at the carpet he’s looking at and I’m concerned because the carpet is present, attached to floor and performing its role as inanimate object masterfully. He shouts at the dispatcher, which seemed unnecessary, “this aircraft is dirty and will not dispatch until this stain is removed from the carpet” I’m searching vigorously for a stain and although I know I probably need glasses I can’t see anything. Anyway, the issue now is no one is in the flight deck, no one has taken their coat, or hat, off (mid-summer) and based on how long this is taking a delay in dispatch will mean no dinner for me until we hit discretion. We didn’t do discretion, some form of protest against the company, but that wasn’t the issue. My rumbling tummy was the issue, more so than the barely stained carpet. When we finally did get underway, we were two hours late, but thankfully we were operating a 777 so the spacious cockpit had room for his ego.

Back to cockpits – where eating, entering and operating on a long-haul wide body is like working in an open plan office. It’s spacious, quieter than other cockpits and allows a stretch of the legs every so often to keep you sane. Contrast that with where I work now; I basically work in a bobsled. It’s small, noisy, the seat is never quite comfortable and there is no crew dinner to screw up the CRM. There are no passengers either, which is great for those of us who don’t enjoy addressing the public in the cruise, but it does suck the romanticism out of the whole thing. I shouldn’t complain all the same; the Transit van I was driving for Amazon during the pandemic had air con but little else and based on the sound of the engine I reckon my Bose A20 would have come in handy.

I think the point is all workplaces are inherently stressful in some form or other and, some more than others. It’s not just the environment but the people you share the space with. I’ve often thought of fighter jets with their tandem cockpit, or the Apollo programme capsules that essentially had the astronauts folded into them and how these environments, despite their challenges, brought the best out in the operating crew.

Thankfully I discovered what a fighter jet feels, smells and hurts like very recently when I won a social media competition. I won’t get into the details of what I entered or how I entered, suffice it to say I did win said competition and I got to take an L-39 for a spin. This is every aviator’s wet dream! There is no sound that any pilot gets more excited about than that of a screaming jet engine as it destroys the natural world by ensuring everything within 2 nautical miles vibrates beyond any natural rhythm or intention.

When I arrive to the facility for briefing, I’m immediately struck by one simple thing – every single person working there has a shaved head. None of them look like pilots. There’s one other person there for a ride that day and as we sit down, I’m starting to wonder what I’ve gotten into. The chief pilot, a guy who refers to himself as ‘John Doe’, enters the room in a flight suit that looks as though it did a stint in the Battle of Britain. He looks us up and down and sniffs loudly, I’m not sure he was actually smelling us, the room, or searching for our fear, but the hair was standing up on the back of my neck. On the blackboard (yep, not whiteboard) behind him, written in a scrawl, is G-Club. And then, in his heavily accented Eastern European tones, he starts.

“The first rule of G-Club, is you do not talk about G-Club”.

“The second rule of G-Club is: you DO NOT talk about G-Club”.

“Third rule of G-Club, someone yells knock it off, goes limp, does the funky chicken, the flight is over”.

“Fourth rule: only two guys to a flight”.

“Fifth rule: one manoeuvre at a time, fellas”.

“Sixth rule: flight suit and boots are mandatory”.

“Seventh rule: flights will go on as long as they have to”.

“And the eighth and final rule, if this is your first flight with G-Club: you have to pull to the maximum allowable G-load of the aircraft”.

I am bamboozled but strangely aroused by the idea that I’m trapped here and can only leave when I’ve accepted my fate. I must survive to prove I’m worthy. It does all seem vaguely familiar, but I can’t put my finger on it. The other guy, Robert, is not smiling, in fact he seems downright scared, so I ask him if he’s okay. He looks at me sheepishly and says, “do you think I can leave?” To which I reply “only if you want to carry the shame with you for the rest of your days” “But I’m not a pilot” he responds, and I remind him he doesn’t have to be a pilot. “You’re a space monkey now, all you need is a flight suit and the right attitude” This doesn’t help, and he looks like he might cry. I’m a borderline sociopath so I just ask where to get my flight gear. I’m raring to go.

Despite John Doe looking like he was dragged out of a bar the flight suits provided to us are relatively new and smell clean. The helmet and mask are not as new and post Covid I can see Robert is sweating looking for the disinfectant wipes. I note the infrared cleaning box beside the flight gear, and I could tell him it’s already been disinfected but I don’t. He’s on his own journey, I’m helping him with my silence.

Once we are suited and booted, we are taken to a briefing room for an overview of the sortie profile and what to expect. Our pilots are John Doe and Tyler, I’ll be with Tyler. The plan is a formation take-off and route to a training area to conduct 15 minutes of single aircraft manoeuvres before rejoin and route back in formation. We are given some, very light, guidance on G-straining techniques and informed that we will most likely pass out. We are handed two sick bags each, as apparently one is never enough. I am getting rather giddy and simply cannot wait to get into the aircraft, meanwhile Robert is basically sweating like a maniac and looks like he might faint.

It’s midday as we make our way out the aircraft, the sun is beating down and although I am woefully uncomfortable, I don’t show it. When we get to the aircraft Tyler, in his heavy accent, tells me “don’t worry about ejection seat, you will not need”. I had no idea I would be sitting in an ejection seat and am totally clueless as to what I am supposed to do if something goes wrong. He eyeballs me and says “you are a pilot, yes? Don’t touch that yellow and black handle unless I say. Understand?” I nod politely and try to suppress the urge to make jokes or to pull the handle to see what would happen. Getting into the seat is a pain in the ass, quite literally, as it feels as though the seat is made out of titanium. How do fighter pilots sit in their aircraft for hours on end just in case they have to launch at short notice? A 777 this is not. But a cockpit it is and despite being mildly uncomfortable my excitement is eroding any sense of dissatisfaction. Once the canopy does come down Tyler gets his pre-start checks done and winds up that engine.

We taxi out and despite the lack of comfort I’m feeling my adrenaline starts to pump. We line up with John Doe and Robert in the lead aircraft. As we start the take-off roll, I get a sense of the thrust to weight ratio as the acceleration is quick, by comparison to what I fly, and we reach rotation very quickly. Tyler is a straight up master of formation flight as he sticks tightly to Jon Doe and talks me through the reference points he is using. We are transiting at 350 knots and before I know it Tyler says, “are you ready?” “For what now?” I reply.

The aircraft snaps right to 90 degrees angle of bank in a millisecond and he pulls hard on the controls inducing a g-load that makes my giant Irish head feel like a sack of potatoes. I stick with it, and he levels out increasing speed to almost 400 knots and talking through what we are doing next. He zoom climbs to 10,000 feet and once level gives me controls. I find my feet quickly and I am throwing it around when he tells me “it’s time” I am not sure what it is time for because I am already having the time of my life. He takes controls, rolls hard left unprompted and I see grey, red and then nothing. “Logan, you with me? Can you hear me?” I can hear him, but I can’t talk. My body is limp bar one of my hands which is twitching like crazy, and I feel like I am paralysed. My face starts to feel normal again and I tell him “I’m good” and he laughs. “What are you laughing at man, 8g isn’t a picnic without warning” I exclaim. “8g. That was 4.5g, do you want to go again?” He doesn’t realise but I am about to blow chunks into the mask, and I do not want that to happen so I politely decline. G-LOC is a horrendous experience and if it were anyone else it happened to, I’d have laughed my ass off, but I feel like I have run a marathon and want to puke and cry.

The merge and return to base are simply exquisite with a formation break over the airfield from low level that involves a wing over onto downwind, thankfully my queasiness has abated. When the aircraft parks and we remove the mask, I notice a smell that reminds me of drinking pints in shitty Dublin pubs and then I realise. I’ve been sweating profusely, and the flight suit and seat are absolutely drenched and heavily stained with sweat. My fear and failure encapsulated in a fittingly dark green shade. I consider, for around 2 seconds, asking someone if we should clean it up but I’m thinking this shit happens all the time and I keep my mouth shut.

I get out of the aircraft and pretend like everything is normal and I am disgusted to see Robert grinning from ear to ear with an empty sick bag stuffed into his flight suit pocket. His elation is unwarranted as he explains how “we got to 8g, the aircraft limit, and I stayed with it” “I thought you weren’t pilot” I say in shock to which he responds “I’m not, I suppose I am just pretty fit with all the running I do” “Running? How much running can any one person do that would give them the constitution to handle 8g?” “I do ultramarathons” he explains with a look that says F#*$ You! “8g is something else isn’t it” I say knowing he’ll never know the difference. I don’t like to lie necessarily but I’m very comfortable with it.

As we walk back into the building, we get a hero’s welcome with the staff clapping and cheering, I’m cool as a cucumber knowing I didn’t earn it. I’m struck by one of the guys laughing while he’s clapping and I’m sensing some sarcasm in the reception we’re receiving. All of a sudden Tyler calls me “Logan, get your ass up here” pointing to the top of the briefing room. I try to strut and maintain my cool, I do catch my foot on a chair leg and stumble slightly, but that’s the least my worries.

“On this day, as every day in G-Club, we award the funkiest chicken, to cash the cheques your ego has written on behalf of your body” says John Doe with glee. He’s smiling from ear to ear as one of the team throws him a rubber chicken. He’s loving the attention now as he announces “this trophy is a reminder that the body never lies when telling the story of your true character” I’m stunned into silence as he hands me the chicken and says “you’re very quiet, Logan. Shake that chicken and show us your alive!” I shake the rubber chicken, with about as much energy as a geriatric playing bridge, and he starts a chant with everyone shouting “FUNKY FUNKY FUNKY FUNKY”

Normally I would have more fight in me, but my mojo has well and truly deserted me. I feel like Robert is staring into the deepest darkest pits of my soul as I drift to an image of the sweat stained cockpit. At the very least I know the next sortie won’t be delayed to clean a stain on the seat and I remind myself that despite the outcome that’s the most exciting cockpit I’ve ever sat in. Not as comfortable as a 777, the assault on the senses a reminder just how brilliant aviators can be when challenged to their mental and physical limits. I’m further from the tip of the spear than I thought.

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