Crunch Time

As I recall, how I managed to pass my final Air Force meteorological course assessment way back when. I wrote this story for a Nonfiction requirement in my 2002 Creative Writing Course at NMU.

Crunch Time

 

Crunch time: That emphatic axiom describing the chaotic situation when a weather forecaster’s workload becomes seemingly overwhelming and nearly impossible to handle. We Air Force weather students knew all about crunch time: the briefings, the forecasts, warnings, advisories, and so on and so forth that come together in a perfect storm of conflicting priorities and overlapping deadlines. We knew what we were getting into when we signed on to be a weather forecaster long before attending the USAF Weather Technician Course. 

After many weeks of mind-boggling classes and culminating the course, the final forecast assessment tested us on everything taught and gave us a realistic sampling of crunch time. Bottom line: It was designed to determine if we fledging forecasters could handle the pressure and stress. Well before arriving to the course, countless weather neophytes like me had gathered around warm flickering weather computers on bases around the world to listen as seasoned forecasters told tales of women crying and men sobbing after taking the legendary dreaded final assessment.

Those few poor sobbing souls who in the end failed had forgotten their priorities and rules with an unmerciful stacks of weather charts dictating ever-changeable and ambiguous weather while up against seemingly demented instructors and unchangeable deadlines: They were the fallen victims of crunch time.

There I was, pacing the school’s corridor alone with seven tense Air Force Weather classmates anticipating our definitive forecast course assessment. Single-mindedly, we paused to watch an instructor saunter by with eight tubes of rolled-up weather charts and enter the assessment hall. This, my final ordeal in the USAF Weather Technician Course, took place back when Chanute Air Force Base still sprawled amid the maturing green cornfields of Illinois and forecasters studied paper weather charts instead of computer graphic displays.

I set down my formidable weapons, a compact box of multi-colored pencils and markers and flipped through my pocket-sized notebook that held forecast hints, equations, and rules of thumb. My eyes scanned the hand-scrawled notations, but I didn’t actually comprehend anything therein. That well-worn reference crutch was the only aid I could carry into the assessment hall, for there were no computer-generated forecast models in there, just those tubes of raw meteorological data for us to analyze, interpolate, and extrapolate into the future to come up with, no, scientifically derive a feasible weather forecast like a real forecaster.

The phlegmatic instructor gestured us in for our time had come, and we marched in silently like convicted prisoners. I entered my dark-paneled cubicle, surveyed my token weather station equipment, basically a now archaic weather computer, a telephone, and the PMSV. With trepidation, I eyed the Pilot to Metro Service (PMSV) radio used by forecasters to transmit weather information to pilots though in this assessment probably only an out-of-sight instructor. Speaking on the radio was my weak suit.

Taking a shaky breath, I saw my own neatly rubber-banded tube of weather charts from another day when some significant weather event had occurred. I wished I could have discovered the event’s date beforehand and risked the perfect cheated forecast though knew in my heart it wasn’t worth the risk. I laid my trusty notebook down close at hand.

For twenty-two weeks, I had studied atmospheric physics and dynamics, developed meteorological analysis skills, and crammed for countless forecasting task evaluations. Now at the course’s culmination, this assessment was not only a career prerequisite, but a momentous rite of passage, a quickening in a fledgling’s weather career of meticulous charts, crucial flight briefings, and ponderous forecast codes. Failing here would cruelly hurl me back three weeks to either resolve my shortfalls or abruptly end my weather career. With good scores up to this point, I knew to succeed I only had to survive the assessment’s realistic dose of crunch time.

Picking up the weather charts, I stretched the first band off, and then the second; my trembling fingers tore off the chart's corners. I went cold and froze, but on realization that it wasn't the end of the world, I gingerly pinched up the triangular corner scraps and dropped them neatly to watch them slowly flutter down into the trashcan. I grimaced at my time-wasting mistake. Making up for lost seconds, I quickly unrolled the charts and categorized them. I punched some up as wallpaper in my tiny forecast office. I sorted yellow paper strips of data and glanced at that PMSV radio before picking up my worksheet. I swiveled around and stood there...

The tissue paper-like upper air charts lay there in a curl. I took a deep breath, and the charts crinkled as I pressed them flat and arranged them in ascending slices of the atmosphere over United States from that date in the past. I began to analyze them by quickly sketching features in pencil and then, after an oh-so-brief reconsideration, semi-confidently used a marker to highlight the highs, lows, fronts, and weather elements we are all familiar with from television forecasters.

Weeks before in practice sessions, I adored analyzing, applying artistic finesse in black-lined humps and dips to denote high pressure ridges and low pressure troughs, adding neatly spaced red dashes of temperature isotherms to cross and intermesh with black, blue, and purple lines. The colorful analysis was crowned with green scallops to show moisture and the probability of clouds or precipitation equaling artistic works of Rembrandt in a weather perspective. I had the luxury of time during those practice sessions taking my sweet old time to make my charts precise and pretty, but in this assessment I couldn’t afford that luxury where taking time wastes time unlike those fateful, storied forecasters who despite impending deadlines and higher priorities failed to fall out of love with the artistic colors, hypnotizing lines, and the sweet smell of magic markers.

“CHANUTE METRO, CHANUTE METRO, THIS IS SKYHAWK FIVE-THREE-SEVEN-FOUR-NINER, OVER.” The radio’s squawk jolted me out of my doldrums. Chanute metro: That was me. I scribbled down the simulated aircraft’s call sign, stepped to the radio and gripped the microphone. I choked down a lump in my throat.

I drew in a deep breath and spoke, “Skyhawk five-three-seven-four-niner this is Chanute metro, go ahead.” My voice sounded strained and squeaky. 

The reply squawked, “ROGER METRO, LANDING YOUR LOCATION IN ONE-FIVE MINUTES, REQUEST LANDING CONDITIONS, OVER.”

 “Seven-four-nine, metro copies, please standby.” I answered while my fingers flicked through the printed observations. I kicked myself for not knowing the simple answer. I’d done radio contacts numerous times with real, in-flight aircrews, so had no viable reason for the sweat and thumping heart but still... I read the observation carefully and finished with the request for the regulation-required pilot report. The instructor/pseudo-pilot gave me winds and temperature at his simulated flight level for which I thanked him and then properly noted and transmitted. One realistic task down, but I knew it wouldn’t be the last time I heard from that blasted radio.

An hour passed, and I began noting the charts’ features I had analyzed on the school’s worksheet. All forecast offices had worksheets that compiled facts, thoughts, and weather trends and like a real office an observer dropped off more charts and printed data. I noted the observation this time and filed everything away to keep things neat and within reach.

I returned to my surface analysis and eyed the not so beautiful charts I had just completed and hung nearby. Surface weather systems such as fronts exist due to support from the atmosphere above, so following hard-taught rules I identified the support and colored in the blue-spiked cold front bound for the base. Nasty weather is exciting stuff for this fledging forecaster and from the Skew-T chart that displayed meteorological data from a single rising balloon I worked up equations revealing vital clues to thunderstorm potential and intensity. I processed another radio call, a cross-country flight asking for various flight level elements and a destination forecast for Denver. I felt slightly better about that thing. The cubicles around me buzzed with radios, telephones, and voices; I barely acknowledged the din.

I began typing my forecast line by line not exactly sure what and when weather conditions were going to occur. Forecasts are transmitted into the worldwide database at twenty past the hour, the hour depending on the location, and for my assessment it was three-twenty. It was fifteen to three. My charts were done. The forecast worksheet was nearly completed. I was caught up. My heart calmed.

A major stepped up to break my contented chain of thought. I recognized him as the weather school commander and was flattered to have him at my forecast counter.

 “May I help you major?” I asked politely.

“Yes, sergeant, I’m departing Chanute at 1900 tonight and flying to Kansas City.”

Officers didn’t unnerve me like they do some enlisted people, just treat them with the proper respect and get on with your life.

"Sir, would like this dash-one now or are you coming back for it?”

“I’ll wait; it’ll save me a trip back,” he said, grinning devilishly.

Self-kick. Of course, I should have assumed that considering it was an assessment with time ticking down to forecast time.

“All right, sir,” I said, and pulled out the dash-one flight weather briefing form. “Could I have your aircraft type, flight level, and expected time en route to Kansas City?”

I jotted down his information. He stood tall and looked around, probably impatient to harass the other tyro forecasters. The phone rang urgently. I picked it up, glanced at the clock-five to three-and answered, “Chanute Weather, Sergeant Roll may I help you?”

“Say, Sergeant Roll, this is Colonel Nelson, Base Commander. If you didn’t know, I’m hosting a golf tournament tomorrow morning and you will give me a good sunny forecast, right sergeant?”

I recognized an instructor incognito, which reassured me a little though envisioned a group of the forecasters in another room whooping it up over our collective stress. The radio blared, “CHANUTE METRO, CHANUTE METRO…” The cursor blinked in a blank of my half-finished forecast. The pit of my stomach ached. I’m sure the weather school commander saw me sweat. I thought they must have singled me out to stick it to. Take a breath, remember your priority list; it's not impossible, it's only an assessment. Yeah, that's why my heart thumped, palms sweated and head swam. This was the notorious assessment crunch time.

“Colonel Nelson, I have a call from an in-flight, please hold.” I gave a reassuring glance to the major who looked rather smug. I answered the radio call and the pilot wanted forecasts for three destinations. It couldn’t be simple. My head pulsed and sweat beaded. I recited the destination forecasts and decided to skip the requirement to request a pilot report, but no, he gave me one anyway. I jotted the information down on the corner of my worksheet to transmit later. Politely, but I’m sure in a stressed-out voice, I asked the pilot if I could be any further assistance. Thank God I couldn’t, and we both signed off. The telephone blinked persistently. One minute after three. I picked up the phone while holding an index finger up to the major who was now impatiently leaning on my counter still wearing a grin. My mind whirled over priorities. A red flag! 

“Colonel Nelson” I said, scanning my incomplete forecast, “What time is your event tomorrow?”

“Tee-time eight AM sharp,” The ersatz colonel said. Impersonating an officer is a court martial offense. I smiled as the musing crowded my already over-crowded brain. Focusing on my forecast, I still had rain showers forecasted at eight AM. I swallowed the larger lump in my throat.

“Sir, the greens will be wet from the overnight showers, but the rain would have moved off by eight; so, broken skies, temp 68 with light northwesterly winds.”

“Thanks Sergeant, good luck.” I heard a snicker before hanging up. At least they were having a grand time. I tippity-tapped the delete key to erase the rain showers in my forecast after eight. I turned to the major, “Sorry sir, I’ll get your flight brief done in a jiffy.”

No one was flying with this weather briefing, so there was no risk of a plane crash, the one central thought always in mind when giving real briefings. I filled in his takeoff information with slightly worse conditions than the current observation, guessed educated-wise on a temperature and pressure, filled in flight level data recalled from the radio call, and flipped through the yellow paper strips for the destination and alternate forecasts. I glanced at the clock. Twelve after.

I quickly reviewed the flight information with the major and finished with, “Anything else I can do for you, sir?”

He scanned the form, “No, thanks Sergeant Roll, good job.”

I signed my name, handed over the form, forced a tight-lipped smile, and swiveled around to complete my forecast. Suddenly, I recalled what real, seasoned forecasters said after a briefing.

“Have a good flight, sir.” He winked. I stood tall.

The cursor blinked faster. I made minor changes to the forecast’s first and last lines. The second line forecasted thunderstorms coming onto the base, the next line had moderate thunderstorms with high winds and small hail on base for two hours, and then added another line to end the storms. The second to last line had the fog and rain showers moving off before the commander’s golf tournament. With a final check of correct coding and format, I stabbed the send button at three-eighteen. My forecast was gone, history, and this assessed crunch time was over.

 I paused and took an easy breath. I looked about. My tiny forecast cubicle seemed brighter and friendlier. I attended to final details and slid my unused notebook into a back pocket. My heart settled, breathing evened, and sweat cooled. 

Days later, I found one of my classmates didn’t make it, a crunched victim, but I had scored top of my class overall, and though not so soon afterward, I looked forward to crunch times with real weather, real customers, and real deadlines, and as a real forecaster I could recount the crunch time tale around a warm, flickering weather computer. 

AFTERWORD.

Between our two sister classes I had scored second overall giving me the chance to pick my first forecaster assignment from a list of bases. Without hesitation, I picked K.I. Sawyer Air Force Base located in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan much to delight of my fellow classmates because it meant they didn't have to go there. K.I. turned out to be a challenging, exciting assignment with its fair share of crunch times, but that's a whole other story.