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...

Ceramic Sideband

I have heard tales about aircrew and food poisoning events for decades, but had never experienced it, firsthand, until a few days ago. I am careful about what I eat, anyway, so it is even more unbelievable that it could have happened to me. On a Seattle overnight, I ate a light dinner at a nationwide restaurant chain, and then a few hours later was hugging the ceramic sideband (toilet) most of the night. The following morning, I was able to fly back to the nest, or rather, the co-pilot flew back to the nest while I took care of the paperwork and communications. I called in sick, went home and collapsed on my favorite couch for two days. The wife of my youth doctored me back to health, minus eight pounds, with "Poor Babies" and "Honey, can I get you anythings?" She almost made it worth being sick...

Tonight, our main landing gear touched down 40 minutes early in Newark, thanks to strong tailwinds. Enroute, the number one flight attendant prepared our crewmeals, which I could not look at or smell of, without feelings of nausea. No problem, though... My co-pilot is a young guy, more than six feet tall, who will eat anything that does not eat him first. He ate both of the crewmeals and was looking for more.

After the hotel van dropped us at the front desk, the co-pilot pointed out a restaurant across the street, the same chain that poisoned me in Seattle. He asked, "I'm still hungry. You wanna get something to eat?"

Yikes!!

Contemporary Cartography

The co-pilot, flight attendants, and myself, started our day at the end of the day, as per normal operating procedures of a night crew. We flew to the northwest corner of the Empire and are now enroute, with 120 passengers, to the northeast corner; a demonstration of the accuracy of contemporary cartography. For the last twenty minutes, or so, I have been watching the glow of Chicago getting brighter, changing from a dim pimple of light, to a bright city of industry stretched along Lake Michigan's southwestern shore. It is a visual that never ceases to amaze me. The shore line is clearly visible; it looks like the edge of the world. Only darkness beyond...

In about 100 minutes, we will be touching down on the east coast for a short overnight, or I guess (in our case), a short overday. Sleeping in our rooms, blackout curtains drawn to keep the light out...

Tonight, westbound, against the dark winds. Until then:

Position: 60 miles west of Chicago
Altitude: 37,000 feet
Groundspeed: 570 m.p.h.
Fuel flow: 5,100 lbs. p/hr

Astronomical Twilight

Position: 80 miles north of Pittsburgh
Altitude: 39,000 feet
Groundspeed: 570 m.p.h.



There are three types of twilight; astronomical, nautical, and civil. Each type is, basically, a measurement in degrees of the sun's angle below the horizon. Astronomical is the first twilight that we see, in the sky or on the ground. It is when the eastern sky begins to lighten from the darkest part of the night. It is when the sleepy flight crew realizes that they have made it through the night.

And so it is this morning as I see a silver strand of cosmic light prying the night sky open. I vaguely remember a road trip with the wife of my youth hanging on to my waist as we lean the iron horse through curving mountain roads. Or am I experiencing oxygen starved fantasies eight miles above the Earth? Crew scheduling is known to have unspoken methods, other than normal airline SOPs, to keep pilots in the flight deck.

My co-pilot is a young, single, female whom I have never seen before this flight. She has eighteen months in the seat and is still on reserve status. That means crew scheduling is her mommy and daddy. She is beautiful, intelligent, and possesses excellent airmanship skills. The pilot hiring board had their, uh, stuff together when they hired this young lady. Earlier, she was talking about her Dad and I just had to ask "How old is your Dad?" Of course, he is my age.

The number one engine (on the left wing) is burning more fuel than number two. This is not that unusual, as engines have individual personalities. The fuel tank in the left wing is 1,200 pounds lighter than the right wing because of the higher burn rate. Before we begin our arrival procedure, I will feed both engines from the right tank to equalize the weight. In a modern airliner, the flight controls are boosted hydraulically and are very powerful, so that any weight difference in wing tanks is handled with ease. The potential problem is that fuel is so costly, that the guy who signs my paycheck has asked me to limit the extra fuel I carry (fuel weight costs fuel to carry), so arriving with 2,500 pounds per wing is not unusual in today's environment. If one wing tank is 1,200 pounds lighter than the other... Well, you can see where this is going.

Forty minutes later...

We are feet wet over the Atlantic as JFK air traffic control sequences us for the visual approach. The view from the flightdeck is awesome, as the sun's golden light illuminates our faces. Air traffic control decides to vector us to a closer runway and they ask "Can you guys get down from there?" The co-pilot, who is handling the radios, looks at me with an inquisitive grin... I reply, "Absolutely."

The hydraulic rams push their respective spoiler panel into the slipstream increasing our descent rate from cool to way cool, as the co-pilot would say...

Mesa Verde

I had four days scheduled off, so I put my wife's shiney hiney on the back of the iron horse and made tracks north for cooler weather. Five hundred miles later we stopped at Mesa Verde National Park and marveled at the ruins abandoned seven centuries ago for reasons unknown. I will wager that the builders never thought a pale face and his woman on an iron horse would pay to view their handi-work. Amazing...

Returning from Mesa Verde, we stopped at Chief Yellow Horse roadside craft sales. In front is a sign that says "Nice Indians". I can say for sure that the owner of this bazaar has never attended airline political correctness training. I asked my bud, whose wife was with my wife inside shopping, if he thought we could get a discount because the sign had offended our sensitivities.


He thought it was possible, but that our wives would make us go back outside by the bikes and behave until they were done shopping. Yeah, that is probably how it would go...

Tonight, it is back to the cloud mines and eastbound to New York City.

Redondo

Last night, after flying to the center of the Empire and back, we descended into the cradle of humanity (or so it seems), Los Angeles, for the first overnight of a four day trip. The hotel van was waiting; twenty minutes later... Redondo Beach, California. Oh, yeah! This place is another one of my favorite destinations on the airline's route structure. Anyone who says that they would never pay the inflated housing prices of So-Cal (possibly) has never been to Redondo Beach. If I had a spare million bucks, I would not hesitate one second.

There is something about this place that is, for the lack of a better word, exotic. So that I accomplish the most in the time allotted, I do not sleep late. The first stop is The Coffee Bean, and then down to the beach for a run along the surf line before the crowds arrive. The ocean smells wonderful in the morning, as in salty and cool. At the two mile mark, I enjoy sitting on the wet sand and watching the surfers for an hour. The sound of the surf is mesmerizing.

After retrieving my gym clothes, I walk three miles inland along the Pacific Coast Highway to a large commercial gym where the big boys/girls work out. I am one of the few pencil necks on the weight room floor. Holy Moly! Amazing physiques crafted from years of lifting heavy iron. I think I'll leave my top on today...

Back to the hotel for a nap before leaving paradise for points east.