Whenever I fly from London to Seattle, I usually end up on a British Airways Boeing 777. The flights are for the most part uneventful, but invariably about three-quarters of the way over the Atlantic, we usually experiences some turbulence.
I dislike turbulence, so when it occurs I tighten my seatbelt, take a few deep breaths, and intensely focus on whatever I am doing. Like magic, the turbulence will eventually go away.
But one thing I don’t do—despite having a highly vested interest in the outcome of the flight, and despite having degrees in both engineering and physics and knowing a lot about the mathematical theory of flight—is go to the front of the plane, bang on the cockpit door, and start telling the pilots what to do. (I also don’t push the pilots out of their seats and fly the plane myself!)
Now, it’s not that I couldn’t fly the plane.
I am sure after one year of intense training, I could fly a 777 on a cloudless day for a few hundred miles.
I also think that if I spent five years of intense training, including classes, flight simulators, and daily flying lessons next to experienced 777 pilots, I could learn how to fly a 777 in poor weather conditions.
But even then, it would still be inappropriate to instruct the pilot what to do.
Why?
Because a sign of intelligence is recognizing the superior intelligence and skill of others—especially in a complex field such as 777 flying. And I strive to do intelligent things.
OK. Now let’s talk about what I don’t bang on the door of the CDC headquarters in Atlanta and tell them how to manage a pandemic—a much more difficult task than flying a 777.
(REF: photo attribution: aeroprints; Being 777 CC 3.0 wikipedia🙂
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