A Long Night in the Weather
Years ago, as a fairly new First Officer, I flew with a captain whose mood was bad enough — and his attitude made sure you felt it. Chances are, you’ve flown with someone like that (curious how time seems to slow down, and a long night can stretch for all eternity).
Our first trip together was a night run into a remote aerodrome with a storm brewing. Nothing extreme yet, but you could feel the system building. By the time we reached the aerodrome at the end of the first sector, lightning was flashing on the horizon. We completed the return leg, landing back at base and pleased to have missed the worst of it — at least for now. Almost as soon as we got home, the phone rang: we were called out again — same destination, same night, same captain.
By now the storm had matured into something far more serious — a deep system pushing up from Antarctica. The second trip was urgent: a critically ill patient needed to be moved. The route took us over mountainous terrain, in the dark, into the heart of the weather.
Through the first two sectors he’d been distant, but after the second call-out, the mood cooled even further. At one point, he said flatly, “I can’t help you tonight… it’s up to you.” Questions were met with clipped replies, briefings rushed, and there was little sense of working together. I could see the anger in his life showing up in his flying — sharp control inputs, a heaviness in every decision.
Sector three was mine to fly. The crosswinds were wild, gusting hard, and rain swept sideways across the windscreen. His SOP calls came out sounding bored and frustrated, as if reading them was an irritation rather than part of the job. The lack of support was obvious, and by now he seemed openly angry at the night itself. Even so, the landing was smooth and on the centreline despite the wild approach — a small smile to myself in the dark. I had a feeling that, compared with his very average landing earlier, this one hadn’t improved his mood. By then, the Antarctic system was fully on top of us.
We loaded the patient, secured the cabin, and launched into the final leg back to base. The weather was no kinder — pockets of turbulence tossed us around as the system swept over the mountains. In the cockpit, it was much the same. His crack-offs came without warning, each one laced with a condescending edge. Small things were nitpicked, not to make them better, but to make a point. After all, he was a “very experienced Metro captain” — or so he kept reminding me.
I’ve often wondered why some crew members work like that — quick to criticise, yet blind to the holes in their own flying and SOPs. It’s not about improving the team or raising the standard; it’s about making themselves feel better. Often it’s defensive, a way to divert attention when something about their own performance has been pointed out.
By the time we shut down in the early hours of the morning, the storm outside had not eased. It had been his sector home, but he wasn’t really fighting the weather — he was fighting himself. Easy to see that now, yet back then he took it out on me.
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I’ve been hearing from pilots around the world about their setbacks, turning points, and the lessons they’ve taken from them. If you’ve faced a moment that taught you something valuable, I’d love to hear it. Your experience—shared without your name—could appear in a future Perspectives article and help another pilot navigate their own journey.
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On dark nights in a small flight deck, in wild weather, you need your fellow crew member to be helpful, professional, and engaged. It can feel lonely and confronting if you’re battling the weather and an unkind crew member at the same time.
When the Storm Isn’t Yours
At the time, I took it personally. Now, I see it differently.
It’s a common trap — we judge someone else’s behaviour as a reflection of who they are, while giving ourselves a free pass when we’re tired, frustrated, or distracted. We see our own actions as shaped by circumstances, and theirs as evidence of character. That’s how tension grows before a word is even spoken.
It shifts when you take a moment to imagine what pressures, frustrations, or values might be shaping their actions. You don’t have to agree with them, and you certainly don’t have to excuse unprofessional behaviour, but it stops you from taking their storm on as your own.
An aeromedical nurse once said to me, when dealing with dying patients, “We can sympathise, but it’s their grief, not mine.” It’s stayed with me. You can care deeply and still keep hold of your own clarity. That night, I focused on flying well and keeping the atmosphere as steady as the conditions allowed. My landing may have changed his mood, but staying focused and flying my own approach kept his weather from spilling into my side of the cockpit.
Only later did I learn he was dealing with significant personal issues. It didn’t make his approach to that night acceptable — in wild weather, with a patient in the back, professionalism matters more than ever — but it helped me understand the forecast he’d brought with him.
Keeping Your Side of the Cockpit Clear
You can’t control the weather outside, and you can’t control the weather someone else brings into the cockpit. What you can control is how much of it you take on. When you hold your own course — steady, professional, and clear — you give the flight its best chance of running smoothly, no matter the mood beside you.
The same applies once you step out of uniform. At home, with friends, with family, even with your kids — you can care deeply, listen, and stand beside them in the storm without flying through it yourself. Their struggles deserve your compassion and your presence, but not at the cost of losing your own calm. Sometimes the best thing you can do for them, and for yourself, is to keep your side of the cockpit — or the kitchen table — steady and in control.
That night taught me that perspective can be as important as skill. The storms we face aren’t always in the forecast, but they can still pass through our workspace, our home, or our relationships.
You don’t have to take them with you.
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