Welcome back to My Weird Prompts. I am Corn, and as always, I am joined by my good friend and the most prepared man I know, Herman Poppleberry. We are diving into episode one thousand three hundred seven today, and I have to say, Herman, the mailbag has been completely overflowing lately. It is a testament to the community we have built here that people feel comfortable reaching out with such specific, nuanced questions that force us to look at the world through a different lens. I often think of our listener mail as a physical metaphor for the digital age. Even though these are emails and messages, they carry the weight of real human curiosity.
Great to be here, Corn. And you are right, the quality of the correspondence we have been receiving is top notch. I think it reflects the fact that our listeners are not just looking for surface level entertainment. They want to understand the mechanics of how things work, whether it is a geopolitical shift or, in the case of today’s letter, the actual cognitive and technical load of a professional pilot. These listener letters often spark some of our most grounded and compelling discussions because they come from real world experiences. We have spent over thirteen hundred episodes exploring the hypothetical and the strange, but when a listener brings us a question rooted in their own professional life, it adds a layer of texture that you just cannot manufacture.
They certainly do. And today’s letter is a perfect example. It comes to us from Shlomo Wiesen, who is writing in from Tel Aviv. Shlomo has what I think might be one of the most interesting jobs I have heard of in a long time. He is an olive oil buyer. He spends his life flying between major United States metropolitan areas like New York City, dealing with massive retail chains, and then hopping over to tiny, remote towns in Greece to talk to producers. It is such a stark contrast in environments. He sent us a really thoughtful note about the aviation side of his travels. I will read it for the group.
Shlomo writes, quote, Dear Corn and Herman, I am a long time listener and a frequent flier. My job as an olive oil buyer takes me from the high stakes boardrooms of Manhattan to the dusty, sun drenched groves of the Peloponnese and the Greek islands. One day I am landing at John F. Kennedy International Airport, and the next I am on a regional turboprop heading into a tiny strip in the mountains or on a rocky coast. I have always wondered whether it is inherently more stressful or challenging for pilots to fly into the busiest airports and airspace in the world as compared to flying into an airport that might only handle a few flights per day. Or whether landing on a short runway is harder than landing at Kennedy Airport, for example. If you are a commercial pilot, is it basically all the same or is it more challenging to do the job when you have got Kennedy Steve on your back? I would love to hear your take on the different types of mastery required for these two worlds. End quote.
I love that framing. The transition from the concrete jungle of New York to the rugged, arid hills of rural Greece is not just a change in scenery, it is a total shift in infrastructure. Shlomo is essentially living in two different centuries of aviation simultaneously. In one world, he is part of a global, automated, high density flow. In the other, he is relying on the fundamental, almost artisanal skills of a pilot navigating by sight and feel. It is a brilliant question because it forces us to distinguish between two very different types of pressure. There is cognitive stress, which is what you feel at a place like John F. Kennedy or London Heathrow, and then there is technical or environmental stress, which you find at those smaller, remote airports Shlomo visits in Greece. To answer his first question, no, it is definitely not all the same. A pilot's heart rate and mental focus are being pulled in two different directions depending on the destination.
Let’s start with the big hubs since Shlomo mentioned Kennedy Steve. For those who do not know, Kennedy Steve, whose real name is Steve Abraham, was a legendary ground controller at John F. Kennedy International Airport. He became a bit of an internet celebrity because of his incredibly fast, no nonsense, yet often hilarious way of directing traffic. He was a master of the New York cadence. When you are flying into a place like that, you are part of a massive, high speed choreography. Herman, what does that look like from the cockpit? Because to a passenger like Shlomo, it just feels like a long taxi, but for the pilots, it is a high stakes game of Tetris.
It is intense. When you are approaching a major hub like New York, you are following what is called a Standard Terminal Arrival Route, or a S-T-A-R. We have touched on navigation before, but at a hub, these routes are incredibly rigid. They are essentially pre programmed highways in the sky. By the time you are fifty miles out, you are already being sequenced with dozens of other aircraft, sometimes separated by only three miles or one thousand feet of altitude. The cognitive load comes from the radio. You are listening to a frequency that is absolutely saturated. You have to pick your tail number out of a stream of constant instructions. If you miss a heading or an altitude change by ten seconds, you are disrupting a chain of events that stretches back fifty miles. In twenty twenty six, even with advanced data link systems that send text based instructions to the cockpit, the sheer volume of traffic means the pilots are constantly monitoring the big picture to ensure they do not become a bottleneck.
Right, and that is where the pressure of someone like Kennedy Steve comes in. Even though Steve has retired, that culture of efficiency remains. It is not just about flying the plane, it is about being a high speed processor of information. You have to be ahead of the airplane. If you are still thinking about the last instruction when the next one comes in, you are already behind. I imagine for a pilot, that feels like being a gear in a very large, very fast machine. There is a certain pride in it, but the stress is about compliance and timing. You do not want to be the one who causes a go around for the five planes behind you because you were too slow to exit the runway.
You're right. And the infrastructure at those airports is actually designed to help you, even if it feels crowded. You have the best radar coverage, the most advanced Instrument Landing Systems, or I-L-S, and massive runways. At John F. Kennedy, for example, runway thirteen right thirty one left is over fourteen thousand feet long. That is nearly three miles of pavement. You could land a space shuttle on that. If you have an emergency at a major hub, you have every resource in the world at your fingertips. You have specialized fire crews, multiple alternate runways, and controllers who are trained to handle the most complex scenarios. So, while the airspace is crowded and the A-T-C is demanding, the actual act of putting the wheels on the tarmac is often supported by the best technology humanity has to offer. We talked about this a bit in episode four hundred thirty eight when we discussed airport lighting. Those massive approach light systems, the rabbit or the sequenced flashing lights that lead you to the threshold, are there to make that high traffic landing as predictable as possible.
So that is the hub experience. It is high volume, high speed, and high communication. But now let’s look at the other side of Shlomo’s life. He is going to tiny towns in Greece. I have seen some of those island airports. They are often tucked between a mountain and the Mediterranean Sea. The runways are short, the crosswinds can be brutal, and there might not even be a control tower that speaks fluent, rapid fire English. That feels like a completely different kind of challenge. It is less about the system and more about the elements.
It is a technical gauntlet. In Greece, you might be flying into an airport like Samos or Skiathos. Skiathos is often called the Greek Saint Maarten because the runway is so short and the approach is so low over the beach that tourists gather just to feel the jet blast. In these environments, you do not have the luxury of a fourteen thousand foot runway. You might have five thousand or six thousand feet. That means your speed over the threshold has to be perfect. If you are five knots too fast, you might go off the end into the water. If you are too slow, you risk a hard landing or a stall because of the turbulent air coming off the nearby cliffs. This is what I call technical stress. The pilot is not worried about twenty other planes in the sequence as much as they are worried about the wind shear coming off that mountain or the fact that there is no margin for error on the touchdown point.
And you are often doing it visually, right? Not every small town in the mountains of Greece or the islands is going to have a full Category Three I-L-S that can land the plane in a thick fog.
Precisely. Many of these airports rely on what we call non precision approaches or even purely visual ones. You are back to stick and rudder flying. You are looking out the window, judging your descent path against the terrain. You might have to fly a circling approach, which is one of the most demanding maneuvers in commercial aviation. It involves flying toward the airport, then breaking away to circle around and land on a runway that is not aligned with your initial path, all while staying at a low altitude and keeping the runway in sight. This is where the pilot’s feel for the aircraft becomes paramount. In a big hub, if you float the landing a little bit, you just use the next few thousand feet of runway and nobody even notices. In a small Greek island airport, if you float, you are in the water or the trees. There is a saying in aviation: A good landing is any one you can walk away from, but a great landing is one where they can use the airplane again the next day. On a short runway, that distinction becomes very real.
It reminds me of our conversation in episode one thousand one hundred forty about the transition from fighter jets to commercial cabins. Fighter pilots are used to that high intensity, high precision environment where the machine is being pushed to its limits. Flying a commercial jet into a short, remote strip requires a bit of that old school pilotage that can sometimes get rusty if you only ever fly between major hubs using automation. Does that transition take a psychological toll?
There is actually a documented phenomenon where pilots who fly the same highly automated routes between major hubs for years can experience a degradation in their manual flying skills. It is not that they are bad pilots, it is just that the system is so good at doing the work for them. When you throw that same pilot into a remote, non radar environment with a short runway and a steep approach, the stress levels spike because they have to step out of the manager role and back into the aviator role. Shlomo asked if it is essentially all the same job. I think the answer is that the goal is the same, safe arrival, but the tools and the mental muscles you use are totally different. I think about the pressure of the audience, too. At John F. Kennedy, you have the pressure of the system. You do not want to be the person who misses a turn and makes five other planes go around. It is a social and professional pressure. In the remote Greek town, the pressure is elemental. It is you against the geography.
I want to go back to the Kennedy Steve element again because it speaks to a very American style of efficiency. We often take for granted how good our A-T-C is. In many parts of the world, if you have a lot of traffic, the system just slows down or breaks. In the United States, we have developed this culture, especially in New York and Chicago, of keep it moving. It requires a high level of trust between the controller and the pilot. When a controller tells you to follow a Boeing seven forty seven on a short taxiway and do not stop, they expect you to do it. That trust reduces stress in the long run because it makes the system predictable, even if it sounds chaotic on the radio. Herman, how does a pilot prepare for that specific New York energy if they are coming from a much quieter environment?
It requires a lot of chair flying. Pilots will study the airport diagrams, which for a place like John F. Kennedy, look like a bowl of spaghetti. They identify hot spots, which are complex intersections where taxiway incursions are common. They also listen to the live A-T-C feeds online to get used to the cadence. But even with all that, the first time you hear a controller give you five instructions in six seconds, your brain has to shift into a different gear. You have to learn to filter out the noise. You only listen for your call sign. Everything else is just background texture. In contrast, in a remote area, you might be the only plane on the frequency. The silence itself can be stressful because you are responsible for your own situational awareness. There is nobody to tell you that there is a flock of birds on the runway or that the wind has shifted ten degrees.
That is an interesting twist. Having someone barking at you is stressful, but it also means someone is watching you like a hawk. In a remote area, you might feel a bit more alone in the cockpit. Shlomo mentioned he is from Tel Aviv. Ben Gurion Airport is one of the most secure and well managed airports in the world. When you fly out of there, you are part of a very tight, very controlled system. But when you are flying into a small regional strip in a different country, you have to be your own security manager, your own dispatcher, and sometimes your own weather briefer. The infrastructure just isn't there to support you.
That's right. And let’s talk about the technical side of the short runway for a second, because Shlomo specifically asked if it is harder. Herman, could you walk us through what a pilot has to do differently when they see that short strip of asphalt coming up?
I would love to hear the physics of it.
Sure. On a long runway, you usually fly a stabilized approach. You aim for the touchdown zone, which is about one thousand feet down the runway, and you let the autobrakes do their thing. On a short runway, everything is compressed. You are often using maximum flaps to keep your speed as low as possible. You have to be exactly on your target speed, what we call V ref. If the manual says your approach speed is one hundred thirty eight knots, you cannot be at one hundred forty five. Those extra seven knots represent a massive amount of kinetic energy that has to be dissipated. You also have to aim for a very specific spot on the runway, and you want to put the plane down firmly. This is not the time for a smooth, greasy landing that floats halfway down the runway. You want the wheels on the ground so the spoilers can deploy and the brakes can start working immediately.
It is a bit more violent, isn't it?
It can be. It is functional. You are also likely using maximum manual braking and full reverse thrust. It is a busy few seconds. In contrast, at John F. Kennedy, you might land, roll for a mile, and then exit at a high speed taxiway without ever really leaning on the brakes. So, from a pure flying skill perspective, the remote, short runway is objectively harder. It requires more precision in the moment of touchdown. But the hub is harder in the thirty minutes leading up to the touchdown. The hub is a marathon of mental focus. The remote strip is a sprint of physical precision.
I think about the geography of Greece, specifically. It is so mountainous. You have these things called katabatic winds, where cold air rushes down the side of a mountain and hits the runway. You can be on a perfect approach and suddenly lose twenty knots of airspeed because the wind shifted. That kind of environmental unpredictability is rare at a place like John F. Kennedy, which is flat and at sea level.
And let’s not forget the technology gaps. We did an episode, number seven hundred nineteen, about G-P-S spoofing and navigation challenges. In busy, well regulated airspace, there are a lot of layers of protection against that kind of thing. In remote areas, or areas near conflict zones, a pilot might find their primary navigation tools becoming unreliable. If you are flying into a tiny Greek town near the border of international airspace and your G-P-S starts acting up, you are suddenly back to using ground based beacons or even just looking at a paper chart and a clock. That adds a layer of stress that you just do not expect in the modern era. It is a return to the golden age of aviation, but without the golden age safety margins.
It is fascinating how Shlomo’s job as an olive oil buyer actually mirrors the aviation challenge. When he is in New York, he is dealing with the big retail chains. That is the hub. High volume, lots of lawyers, lots of contracts, everything has to follow a very specific protocol. It is a corporate machine. Then he goes to Greece, and he is talking to a producer in a small village. That is the short runway. It is personal, it is technical, you have to know the product, you have to know the people, and there is no corporate manual that can tell you exactly how to handle that specific interaction. You have to be a craftsman in both worlds, but the tools are different.
That is a perfect analogy, Corn. And I think that is why Shlomo noticed the difference. He is living it on the ground. To answer his third question about whether the job is essentially the same, I would say that the professionalism is the same, but the role shifts. In a high traffic environment, the pilot is a systems manager and a communicator. They are an operative within a massive bureaucracy. In the remote environment, the pilot is an explorer and a craftsman. They are using their judgment to navigate the physical world in a way that automation cannot yet replicate.
I also want to touch on the Kennedy Steve element again because it speaks to the human side of the hub. Even in a world of automation and automated sequencing, we still rely on these controllers who have a feel for the flow. Steve Abraham was famous for knowing exactly how much space a Boeing seven five seven needed versus a smaller regional jet. He could squeeze an extra three planes into a departure sequence just by the way he spoke to the pilots. That human touch is what keeps the system from grinding to a halt. When you are a pilot, you are listening for that expertise. You are trusting that the controller knows what they are doing.
It is a pro-growth, pro-efficiency mindset that really defines American aviation. It is why we can move so many people and so much cargo so safely. But you have to be up for the challenge. If you are a pilot who is used to a very slow, methodical pace in a less busy country, coming into New York can be a massive shock to the system. I have heard recordings of international pilots getting absolutely flustered by the speed of New York controllers. It is a different language, almost. It is Aviation English spoken at two times speed with a Queens accent.
Now, to address the stress of the short runway again, I think we should mention some of the world's most challenging airports just to give Shlomo some context. You have places like Lukla in Nepal, where the runway is on a slant and ends in a mountain wall. Or the old Kai Tak in Hong Kong, where you had to make a forty five degree turn at low altitude between apartment buildings to line up with the runway. Those are the extremes of technical stress. Compared to those, a twelve thousand foot runway at John F. Kennedy is a vacation, no matter how much traffic there is. But for the average commercial pilot, the ones Shlomo is flying with, they are usually in a Boeing seven thirty seven or an Airbus A three twenty. These planes are designed for the hubs. When you take a plane like that into a small Greek island, you are using much more of the plane’s performance envelope.
That is a key insight. The margin of safety feels different. On a long runway, your margin of safety is measured in thousands of feet. On a short runway, it is measured in hundreds. That naturally changes your psychological state. Your focus narrows. You become very tuned into the sounds and vibrations of the aircraft. You are looking for the thud of the wheels hitting the pavement exactly where you wanted them. If you miss your mark by two hundred feet at Kennedy, you don't even think about it. If you miss it by two hundred feet at a short strip, your heart rate is going to spike.
Shlomo mentioned flying between major United States metros and tiny Greek towns. I wonder if he notices the pilots’ demeanor changing. You know, you can sometimes hear it in the captain’s voice over the intercom. When they are at a hub, they sound like they are reading a script. Uh, folks, we are currently number twelve in line for departure, should be about twenty minutes. They sound bored. But when they are going into a challenging environment, sometimes they sound a bit more focused, a bit more direct. Flight attendants, please be seated for landing immediately. There is an edge to the voice.
I think that is very likely. There is also the factor of fatigue. If Shlomo is on a long haul flight from New York to Athens, and then he catches a regional flight to an island, those regional pilots might be on their fifth or sixth leg of the day. They are doing these challenging short runway landings over and over again. That is a different kind of stress, the stress of repetition and physical weariness, compared to the long haul pilot who has been sitting on autopilot for eight hours and now has to wake up and handle the chaos of a busy hub. That is the G-Suit Paradox we talked about in episode one thousand one hundred forty. The idea that the most intense moments of the job are often separated by long periods of relative inactivity. Managing that transition is where the real skill lies.
To bring it back to Shlomo’s question about whether landing on a short runway is harder than landing at Kennedy, I would say yes, the physical act of landing is harder on the short runway. But the act of getting to the runway is much harder at Kennedy. If you gave a student pilot a choice, they would find the landing at Kennedy much easier because they have so much room to mess up. But they would never even make it to the runway at Kennedy because they would be overwhelmed by the radio before they even saw the airport. They would be a deer in the headlights of the Kennedy Steve energy.
That is a great way to put it. It is about where the difficulty is located in the timeline of the flight. For Shlomo, as a passenger, he probably feels the technical stress more. He feels the hard braking, he sees the water at the end of the runway, he feels the plane banking steeply around a mountain. At Kennedy, he just feels like he is sitting in a line of cars on the freeway. It feels boring to him, but for the crew in the front, they are working just as hard, just in a different way. They are managing the system while the regional pilot is managing the machine.
And let’s not forget the weather. New York gets snow and ice, which adds a massive layer of complexity to a busy hub. Now you have de-icing queues, slippery taxiways, and reduced visibility. Greece has the meltemi winds, those strong, dry north winds that can blow for days. Both are stressful, but one is a logistical nightmare while the other is an aerodynamic challenge. I think Shlomo is lucky to see both. It gives him a complete picture of what it takes to keep the world moving.
It really underscores the importance of the human element in aviation. We talk a lot about automation and technology, but the judgment required to balance the cognitive load of a hub and the technical demands of a remote strip is something that, for now, only a well trained human can do. And I think Shlomo’s perspective as a frequent traveler between these two worlds is unique. He is seeing the extreme ends of our modern infrastructure. He is the bridge between the high volume consumer and the artisanal producer.
I also think it is worth noting the political and economic stability that allows this to happen. The fact that a buyer can fly from Tel Aviv to New York to Greece is a result of a world that values trade and open skies. When we see challenges to that, like we discussed in episode six hundred sixty nine about invisible walls in the sky, it makes you realize how fragile this whole system is. The efficiency of a place like John F. Kennedy or the accessibility of a remote Greek island depends on international cooperation and a commitment to high standards of safety and training.
That's right. The global aviation network is one of the greatest achievements of the West. It is a system built on precision, meritocracy, and a relentless drive for improvement. Whether it is the fast talking controller in New York or the pilot greasing a landing on a five thousand foot strip in the Aegean, it is all part of the same commitment to excellence. It is about getting Shlomo and his olive oil samples from point A to point B without a hitch.
Shlomo, I hope this gives you some insight next time you are buckled in and heading to meet another producer. You are witnessing two different types of mastery. One is the mastery of the crowd, the ability to navigate a complex, human made system. The other is the mastery of the machine and the elements, the ability to navigate the physical world. Both are essential, and both are incredibly impressive when you see them in action.
It was a great letter, Shlomo. It really forced us to look at the nuances of the profession. I think the takeaway is that while the job might look the same from seat twelve A, the view from the cockpit is shifting constantly between being a high speed data processor and a precision craftsman. It is a dynamic profession that requires a very specific type of mental flexibility.
Well said, Herman. I think we have thoroughly explored the world of hubs and short strips today. It is always a pleasure to dive into these listener questions. They really are the lifeblood of the show. They keep us grounded in the real world, even when we are talking about the weird prompts that usually define our episodes.
They certainly are. And for our listeners, if you have a question about the hidden mechanics of your job or something you have observed in your travels, please do not hesitate to reach out. We love these deep dives. Whether you are an olive oil buyer, a nuclear engineer, or a professional dog walker, there is always a weird side to what you do that we would love to explore.
We really do. Shlomo, thank you again for writing in from Tel Aviv. We wish you the best of luck with the olive oil business. It sounds like a remarkable life, and I hope you think of us next time you are landing in one of those beautiful Greek towns.
Indeed. May your landings be smooth and your runways be long enough, or at least long enough for the brakes to work. And may your olive oil always be extra virgin and low in acidity.
That is the goal. Before we sign off, I want to remind everyone that if you enjoyed this discussion, we have a whole archive of aviation and technology themed episodes. We mentioned a few today, like episode four hundred thirty eight on airport lighting and episode one thousand one hundred forty on pilot psychology. You can find all of those and more than thirteen hundred other episodes at our website, my weird prompts dot com.
You can also find us on Spotify, or subscribe to our R-S-S feed at my weird prompts dot com slash feed dot X-M-L. We are also active on Telegram if you want to join the community discussion there. We often post follow up data and diagrams for the topics we discuss on the show.
We love hearing from you. If you have a prompt or a letter like Shlomo’s, send it our way. You can reach us through the contact form on our website or email us at show at my weird prompts dot com. We read everything that comes in, even if we cannot get to every letter on the air. Your curiosity is what keeps this show going.
It is the best part of the job, hearing from people all over the world. It makes the world feel a little bit smaller and a little bit more connected.
It truly is. Well, that is it for episode one thousand three hundred seven. Thank you for listening, and we will be back soon with another weird prompt to explore.
Until next time, stay curious and keep looking at the world a little bit differently. Whether you are at thirty thousand feet or on the ground, there is always something new to learn.
This has been My Weird Prompts. Goodbye everyone.
Goodbye.
