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Enough is enough. Just stop. Guard.

GypsyPilot

Well-Known Member
It's SOP at Compass. But honestly I've heard very few shenanigans on guard out west, it's pretty quiet up and down the west coast. Even when I've gone to Denver or the Midwest I can't say I've heard much activity other than a few mistaken calls and ONE quick "check freq, you're on guard" in response. Is this an east coast thing?
It absolutely is. I always try to monitor guard, but as soon as I'm on a trip from Chicago and east I rarely make it through the first leg before deselecting COM 2. I almost never have this issue from Denver to the west/northwest.
 

Dphoenix

Love lasagna, hate mondays
That explains why I'm clueless, then... I've never even had to think about how I'd react as a CA if an FO was playing around on guard. :)
 
It's VERY east coast... which pretty much narrows it down to a couple regionals who don't fly to places beyond there. I can leave Mecca and fly down south...as soon as you're south of FL, it quiets down... as soon as you head NE to the tracks, it quiets down... pass the midwest going west, it quiets down.

As far as the 10% are idiots rule... that follows for the crappier carriers. Better airlines and it is more like 1%.

#Elitemainlineskygod
 

mastermags

Well-Known Member *giggity*
It's VERY east coast... which pretty much narrows it down to a couple regionals who don't fly to places beyond there. I can leave Mecca and fly down south...as soon as you're south of FL, it quiets down... as soon as you head NE to the tracks, itquiets down... pass the midwest going west, it quiets down.

As far as the 10% are idiots rule... that follows for the crappier carriers. Better airlines and it is more like 1%.

#Elitemainlineskygod
IMG_2550.JPG
 

Autothrust Blue

"How can you be so obtuse?"
Then again, there's gotta be a balance, right?

I made a great "welcome aboard" and "thanks for choosing us, blah blah" PA on operations the other day.

The slings and arrows of outrageous Barbie's Ghetto Jet Captainhood. (And I even have a buttan that lights up when the PA is keyed. I really shouldn't be allowed out.)
 

trafficinsight

Well-Known Member
I made a great "welcome aboard" and "thanks for choosing us, blah blah" PA on operations the other day.

The slings and arrows of outrageous Barbie's Ghetto Jet Captainhood. (And I even have a buttan that lights up when the PA is keyed. I really shouldn't be allowed out.)
How does that even happen? It's a rotary switch and TWO buttons?

Sent from my XT1650 using Tapatalk
 

AAPalmTree

Well-Known Member
The steady thrum of the mighty P-dubs drone incessantly into the night. I am almost oblivious to their presence as I maintain my vigil, patrolling 121.5 from Timmins to Toronto like a pacing Doberman. The toothpick rides up front, balanced on my lower lip just above the soul patch, the tip vibrating like a tuning fork. A sudden burst of static flares out of the #2 radio, causing the adrenaline to race madly for a split second before subsiding. The toothpick shoots up like a power antenna and then lays flat once more, waiting patiently for the next intrusion. “Easy, my friend”, I mutter under my breath. “They’ll be back….”

“Whas that?” The left seat warmer emerges from behind his papery tent of Globe and Mail, an inquisitive look on his face. “You say sumpin?” I wave him away impatiently and return to the task at hand. You see, chaps, I have no time for such frivolous recreational pursuits such as reading when flying. My mission is far bolder and my purpose clear: I am a self-trained, highly experienced member of the guard police. In fact, if the guard police handed out ranks, I would probably be a corporal. To date, I have over 2367 confirmed penalized violations on 121.5, all swiftly punished by my ruthless and relentless curt radio transmission: “YOU’RE ON GUARD!!” These three powerful words smite violators like a scimitar, laying bare your error for all of your peers to judge. No matter if you are a hapless student pilot calling final on the wrong radio, or a chubby corporate flyer calling ahead for a lav dump at the FBO, nobody escapes my swift intervention into your shocking transgression. I consider it a personal travesty that a trained professional could be so irresponsible to transmit on the wrong freq, and delight in clenching the transmit button and snarling my stern correction from my listening post. I’m like an AWACS in that sense, gents.
I pause from my post briefly and watch the lights of Sudbury slide by in the inky blackness. Maybe everyone will behave tonight and maintain strict radio protocol after all. I make a routine entry in the guard police black notebook. 2230 local. All is quiet.

And then it happens.
A heavy Korean accent making a position report. Stammering and stumbling over fuel quantities, time over, next waypoints….and all on 121.5! The mullet curls up in anger like an epic wave, and the toothpick stands straight up at attention, vibrating like a guitar string. My fingers twitch over the mic button, waiting for the horrific crescendo to be complete. Excitement pummels the seat cushion beneath me as the flight deck fills with a gaseous explosion consisting of limburger cheese, baked beans and broccoli. The Left Seat Warmer slumps over, grasping for the wemac, the Globe and Mail flapping feebly like a limp sail!

Silence now, but only for a second. I stab the mic button with a sweaty grasp and howl my protest into the northern Ontario darkness. I bellow my distaste in a hail of abuse and rage. “On guard! On guard! YOU ARE ON GUARDDDDD!!!”

I release the mike and slump back in my seat heavily. Another successful round of punishment issued. I scratch the number with pride in my little black notebook: 2368.
Watch those transmissions out there, blokes. I’ll be listening. Notebook in hand.
 

ian

Well-Known Member
The steady thrum of the mighty P-dubs drone incessantly into the night. I am almost oblivious to their presence as I maintain my vigil, patrolling 121.5 from Timmins to Toronto like a pacing Doberman. The toothpick rides up front, balanced on my lower lip just above the soul patch, the tip vibrating like a tuning fork. A sudden burst of static flares out of the #2 radio, causing the adrenaline to race madly for a split second before subsiding. The toothpick shoots up like a power antenna and then lays flat once more, waiting patiently for the next intrusion. “Easy, my friend”, I mutter under my breath. “They’ll be back….”

“Whas that?” The left seat warmer emerges from behind his papery tent of Globe and Mail, an inquisitive look on his face. “You say sumpin?” I wave him away impatiently and return to the task at hand. You see, chaps, I have no time for such frivolous recreational pursuits such as reading when flying. My mission is far bolder and my purpose clear: I am a self-trained, highly experienced member of the guard police. In fact, if the guard police handed out ranks, I would probably be a corporal. To date, I have over 2367 confirmed penalized violations on 121.5, all swiftly punished by my ruthless and relentless curt radio transmission: “YOU’RE ON GUARD!!” These three powerful words smite violators like a scimitar, laying bare your error for all of your peers to judge. No matter if you are a hapless student pilot calling final on the wrong radio, or a chubby corporate flyer calling ahead for a lav dump at the FBO, nobody escapes my swift intervention into your shocking transgression. I consider it a personal travesty that a trained professional could be so irresponsible to transmit on the wrong freq, and delight in clenching the transmit button and snarling my stern correction from my listening post. I’m like an AWACS in that sense, gents.
I pause from my post briefly and watch the lights of Sudbury slide by in the inky blackness. Maybe everyone will behave tonight and maintain strict radio protocol after all. I make a routine entry in the guard police black notebook. 2230 local. All is quiet.

And then it happens.
A heavy Korean accent making a position report. Stammering and stumbling over fuel quantities, time over, next waypoints….and all on 121.5! The mullet curls up in anger like an epic wave, and the toothpick stands straight up at attention, vibrating like a guitar string. My fingers twitch over the mic button, waiting for the horrific crescendo to be complete. Excitement pummels the seat cushion beneath me as the flight deck fills with a gaseous explosion consisting of limburger cheese, baked beans and broccoli. The Left Seat Warmer slumps over, grasping for the wemac, the Globe and Mail flapping feebly like a limp sail!

Silence now, but only for a second. I stab the mic button with a sweaty grasp and howl my protest into the northern Ontario darkness. I bellow my distaste in a hail of abuse and rage. “On guard! On guard! YOU ARE ON GUARDDDDD!!!”

I release the mike and slump back in my seat heavily. Another successful round of punishment issued. I scratch the number with pride in my little black notebook: 2368.
Watch those transmissions out there, blokes. I’ll be listening. Notebook in hand.
love that
 

Lee D

Well-Known Member
Most flights I end up turning the volume on #2 waaay down. Or I just give up and turn it off because the nonsensical chatter is a big distraction when I am trying to listen to 1 and talk to the Capt.

Just remember, a baby humpback whale dies every time you yell "GUARD!" Or was it a white, fluffy baby panda?


AApalmtree..... that's probably not far from the truth! Nice writing! :)
 
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