Traffic at Eleven O'clock

4:00 A.M. local

The beach... Cancun... Wife in tiniest bikini I've ever seen.... Drink with paper umbrella... Then, one of three set alarms sounds like an engine failure claxon in my left ear; no pretty wife in tiny bikini anywhere, only a dark hotel room in Newark, garden spot of the Empire. Reluctantly, I roll out of the rack and plant my feet on the deck as the second alarm sounds. OK, I am up... Give me a break, please. I can't find my geezer glasses to read the coffee packs. One of them is decaf, but I cannot read the tiny writing. I guess at which one is real coffee and put it in the filter pack holder, add water and push the "on" button. The third alarm, a wake-up call from the front desk goes off. Who could possibly be flying this early?

5:00 A.M. local

Myself, the co-pilot, and three female flight attendants are waiting for the crew van to shuttle us to the Newark airport. My co-pilot's wife, a flight attendant for another airline, was in Philadelphia on an overnight. Since they do not see each other much, he traveled to Philly to be with her for about eight hours. He returned a few hours ago. I would do something like that if my wife was that close.

6:00 A.M. local

I am in operations looking at the planned fuel load, when the co-pilot calls me with, "We've got a problem. One of the nav computers is not cooperating." Back in the flight deck I confirm that he is correct. The number one nav computer is tango uniform. No problem, though. We will go without it. I call the maintenance chief and get his blessing to fly without #1 nav computer, and then complete the required paper trail pointing to the guilty party... Me. If number two nav computer goes south enroute, we might have to look at paper maps and fly from radio beacon to radio beacon. Oh, the horror of it all. I think we'll be OK, though.

6:20 A.M. local

The tug driver, in his New Jersey accent, says, "Cap, you are cleared to start number one." The co-pilot, by pushing magic buttons and pulling levers, commands the small jet engine in the tail to send compressed air to the pneumatic starter which, in turn, begins turning number one engine. I can hear the air rushing through the engine cowling as it slowly begins to turn. I used to keep my side window open so I could hear it better, but the company made me quit doing that. Still, even filtered through Plexiglas, it sounds cool. A few moments later, the fuel computer throws a lighted match into the burner can and our day has officially begun.

7:00 A.M. local

Altitude: 30,000 feet
Groundspeed: 460 m.p.h.


Underneath our belly, the cloud deck is washed in the morning's orange sunlight. Our nose is in a 100 m.p.h. wind which is forecast all the way to The City of Angels. Looks like we are going to be a few minutes late. Air Traffic Control is holding us down at 30,000 feet until a B-747, the Queen's Finest, has crossed our path 1,000 feet above us. Finally, ATC calls traffic at 11 o'clock... The British aluminum cloud is in sight and looking good in the morning light. The Union Jack is clearly visible as they fly across our nose. Friggin' awesome sight! I wonder if the Captain is a son or daughter of a Spitfire or Hurricane pilot who fought in the Battle of Britian. It's possible...

7:00 A.M. local (new time zone)
Altitude: 36,000 feet
Groundspeed: 440 m.p.h.

Los Angeles is still four digits in distance. I am going to quit looking at the mileage display. I can smell our mini breakfast warming in the front galley, but my appetite is zero. My stomach is still nervous from my bout of food poisioning, but getting less so everyday. I will feed mine to the co-pilot. This kid is an eating machine!

LAX local time is 5:00 A.M. There, it is still dark...