CHAPTER SIX: ALTHOUGH THE AIRCRAFT REMAINS UNDER CONTROL
“N 1234, what is your altitude?”
“I don’t know.”
I was flying to San Francisco on American flight 37, and listening to the cockpit radio on channel 9. (Flight numbers have been changed, not to protect anyone, but because I don’t remember them. Everything else is true).
“N 1234, say again your altitude.”
“I don’t know.”
“American three seven heavy, IMMEDIATE right turn for traffic twelve o’clock range ten miles altitude indeterminate.”
The right wing dipped far below the horizon. “Right turn American thirty-seven heavy. We’re looking .... it’s OK, Center, we see him, a seaplane way down low.”
“American three seven heavy, resume your previous heading.”
You can hear interesting things on the cockpit radio. The typical LaGuardia landing is Bang. Screech. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to New York’s LaGuardia Airport.” But the time I heard “TWA two six five cleared to land. If you can do a high speed turn, captain, I’d appreciate minimum time on runway” it was BANG! SCREEEEEECH. “Ladies and gentlemen ...”
I once heard a bit of a drama played out. “Cleveland Center, Medivac Charter Two. We’d really appreciate avoiding any turbulence.”
“Stand by, Charter two. United triple six, how is the air where you are?”
“Smooth at three five thousand.”
“United triple six, turn right to heading two eight zero; descend and maintain flight level two niner thousand. Maximum rate of descent, please.”
“Right two eight zero, out of thirty-five fast for twenty-niner United triple six.”
“Medivac Charter Two, climb and maintain flight level three five thousand. You should have smooth air.”
I have absolutely no fear of flying, which is probably surprising. I don’t know whether the worst turbulence was over Pittsburgh on a flight from Chicago, when I had missed my scheduled flight (see Chapter Six: One More Cup of Coffee) or the flight to St. Louis when the announcement “flight attendants take the closest empty seat” was followed by “there are a lot of tornadoes today.” The St. Louis flight was in early 2002. My seatmate was reading a document entitled “Terror In the Skies”. I passed a note to my fellow sage on my other side, “I hope it’s not a how-to manual.”
My first flight to St. Louis was by way of Chicago. The Chicago to St. Louis flight was delayed by mechanical problems. We had to get off the plane, and wait, apparently while they built another plane. We boarded that, and were told that this plane couldn’t be pressurized. Then we were told that it had been fixed, but that it would be a while until they could do paperwork that would satisfy the FAA. The paperwork wound up taking longer than the repair. Finally, as we were descending into Lambert at St. Louis, I heard the engines rev up again, and we were climbing. Someone came out of the cockpit, down the aisle, and disappeared through a door at the back. I was just thinking that it was a hopeful sign that he didn’t have a parachute - unless they keep them by the rear door? - when he came back up the aisle. Just before he got to the cockpit he said “it’s OK, we have wheels.” We landed normally.
The next trip to St. Louis, not by way of Chicago, involved being deiced twice before leaving LaGuardia. No doubt about wheels approaching St. Louis, but again we descended and climbed again, to be diverted to a longer runway, since the flaps wouldn’t deploy fully.
On a flight to Atlanta, I had settled into my window seat, and was flipping through a magazine. I glanced out the window, and noticed a police car driving by. Not Port Authority police, as might be expected at the airport, but NYPD. I went back to the magazine. I looked out again, and there were five NYPD cars parked near the plane. Then, on the PA, the unmistakable voice of a New York cop: “Ladies and gentlemen, please take your puisonal belongins and exit the aircraft expeditiously.”
We exited expeditiously. Anyone who had checked a bag had to go down the outside stairs from the gate, and pick it up. There was one leftover bag, which the police took away. A guy got up on a ladder and looked in the engines with a flashlight. The baggage was reloaded, and most of the passengers reboarded, to the amazement of those who said variations on “I’m not getting back on THAT plane.” We flew to Atlanta. I was sure we’d get there just in time for me to meet the standby guest who got my hotel room, and that he’d be the same guy who got my flight from Chicago when Marie needed one more cup of coffee. That would have made a better story, but in fact I got there in time to check in.
But the interesting flight was the one to Orlando. Ann and I were going to Disney World (see The Road North; or, the Wrong Turn) with that clown George. No, I’m not being critical; he was in fact a clown. Some day I’ll tell the story of the cartons that had to be moved, and my opportunity to say to George, who was trading stories with someone in the same line of work, “will you stop clowning around and help?”
Anyway, the trip to Disney World was going to be the perfect trip. We had joked that no one would get sick, no one would miss the plane, and, if there were a plane crash, it would be on the trip home. George got food poisoning on the flight from Los Angeles to New York the day before we were leaving for Florida. Ann and I almost had to carry him to the cab to the airport. The cab crept along, making very strange noises. “It’s the transmission again” the driver said. We finally arrived at the airport. The driver assured us that he hadn’t thought we would make it. Ann and I almost had to carry George onto the plane. The eternal optimist, she said “You see, everything is working out.”
About half an hour into the flight, an announcement: “Ladies and gentlemen, those of you who have been looking out the window will have noticed that we have turned around. There are indications of an irregularity, and, although the aircraft remains under control, company policy requires that we return to the airport.” Silence.
We made a very direct approach to Kennedy, descending rapidly. The fire engines were out, and followed us back to the gate; but we weren’t in fact required to exit the aircraft expeditiously.
The faulty air conditioning part that had caused the smell of smoke in the cockpit was replaced, and we took off again, about two hours late.
And it was the perfect trip. We didn’t in fact freeze in the near record January cold in Orlando; Ann didn’t in fact fall out of Space Mountain; and George didn’t in fact die of motion sickness on any of the rides.
And since I had left all the arrangements to Ann, I wasn’t the one who misread the time on the return tickets, requiring us to sleep on the airport floor.
A sort of postscript, since I composed this. I was flying to Orlando for the first time in ages. My friend, the World’s Best Waitress (see Chapter Six: Heroics), loves flying and is fascinated by all aspects of aviation. I told her the “although the aircraft remains under control” story, and said, as a joke, “if the plane doesn’t crash, I’ll see you next week.”
She gave me that serious look that melts my heart. “I’ll say a prayer that you have a good landing.”
Damned if it wasn’t the smoothest landing I’ve ever felt. Half the passengers applauded.
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