Pilots
07-11-2008, 06:27 PM
#1
Gets Weekends Off
Thread Starter
Joined APC: Sep 2005
Position: Retired 767 Captain
Posts: 548
Pilots
You see them at airport terminals around the world. You see them in the morning early, sometimes at night.
They come neatly uniformed and hatted, sleeves striped; wings over their left pocket; They show up looking fresh.
There's a brisk, young-old look of efficiency about them. They arrive fresh from home, from hotels, carrying suitcases, battered briefcases, bulging, with a wealth of technical information, data, filled with regulations, rules.
They know the new, harsh sheen of Chicago's O'Hare. They know the cluttered approaches to Newark and LaGuardia ; they know the tricky shuttle that is Rio ; they know but do not relish the intricate instrument approaches to various foreign airports; they know the volcanoes all around Guatemala .
They respect foggy San Francisco. They know the up-and-down walk to the gates at Dallas, the Texas sparseness of Abilene, the very narrow Berlin Corridor, New Orleans' sparkling terminal, the milling crowds at Washington. They know Butte , Boston , and Beirut . They appreciate Miami's perfect weather; they recognize the danger of an ice-slick runway at JFK.
They understand short runways, antiquated fire equipment, inadequate approach lighting, but there is one thing they will never comprehend: Complacency.
They marvel at the exquisite good taste of hot coffee in Anchorage and a cold beer in Guam. They vaguely remember the workhorse efficiency of the DC-3s, the reliability of the DC-4s and DC-6s, the trouble with the DC-7 and the propellers on Boeing 377s. They discuss the beauty of an old gal named Connie. They recognize the high shrill whine of a Viscount, the rumbling thrust of a DC-8 or 707 on a clearway takeoff from Haneda, and a Convair. The remoteness of the 747 cockpit. The roominess of the DC-10 and the snug fit of a 737. They speak a language unknown to Webster
They discuss ALPA, EPRs, RVR, ICAO, fans, mach and bogie swivels. And, strangely, such things as bugs, thumpers, crickets, NATS and CATs, but they are inclined to change the subject when the uninitiated approaches.
They have tasted the characteristic loneliness of the sky, and occasionally the adrenaline of danger. They respect the unseen thing called turbulence; they know what it means to fight for self-control, to discipline one's senses.
They buy life insurance, but make no concession to the possibility of complete disaster, for they have uncommon faith in themselves and what they are doing.
They concede the glamour is gone from flying. They deny a pilot is through at sixty. They know tomorrow, or the following night, something will come along they have never met before; they know flying requires perseverance and vigilance. They know they must practice, lest they retrograde.
They realize why some wit once quipped: "Flying is year after year of monotony punctuated by seconds of stark terror." As a group, they defy mortality tables, yet approach semi-annual physical examinations with trepidation. They are individualistic, yet bonded together. They are family people. They are reputedly overpaid, yet entrusted with equipment worth millions. And entrusted with lives, countless lives.
At times they are reverent: They have watched the Pacific sky turn purple at dusk and the stark beauty of sunrise over Iceland at the end of a polar crossing. They know the twinkling, jeweled beauty of Los Angeles at night; they have seen snow on the Rockies .
They remember the vast unending mat of green Amazon jungle, the twisting Silver road that is the father of waters, an ice cream cone called Fujiyama; the hump of Africa. Who can forget Everest from 100 miles away, or the ice fog in Fairbanks in January?
They have watched a satellite streak across a starry sky, seen the clear, deep blue of the stratosphere, felt the incalculable force of the heavens. They have marveled at sun-streaked evenings, dappled earth, velvet night, spun silver clouds, sculptured cumulus: God's weather. They have viewed the Northern Lights, a wilderness of sky, a pilot's halo, a bomber's moon, horizontal rain, Contrails and St Elmo's Fire.
Only an aviator experiences all these.
It is their world. And once was mine
And remains in memory
They come neatly uniformed and hatted, sleeves striped; wings over their left pocket; They show up looking fresh.
There's a brisk, young-old look of efficiency about them. They arrive fresh from home, from hotels, carrying suitcases, battered briefcases, bulging, with a wealth of technical information, data, filled with regulations, rules.
They know the new, harsh sheen of Chicago's O'Hare. They know the cluttered approaches to Newark and LaGuardia ; they know the tricky shuttle that is Rio ; they know but do not relish the intricate instrument approaches to various foreign airports; they know the volcanoes all around Guatemala .
They respect foggy San Francisco. They know the up-and-down walk to the gates at Dallas, the Texas sparseness of Abilene, the very narrow Berlin Corridor, New Orleans' sparkling terminal, the milling crowds at Washington. They know Butte , Boston , and Beirut . They appreciate Miami's perfect weather; they recognize the danger of an ice-slick runway at JFK.
They understand short runways, antiquated fire equipment, inadequate approach lighting, but there is one thing they will never comprehend: Complacency.
They marvel at the exquisite good taste of hot coffee in Anchorage and a cold beer in Guam. They vaguely remember the workhorse efficiency of the DC-3s, the reliability of the DC-4s and DC-6s, the trouble with the DC-7 and the propellers on Boeing 377s. They discuss the beauty of an old gal named Connie. They recognize the high shrill whine of a Viscount, the rumbling thrust of a DC-8 or 707 on a clearway takeoff from Haneda, and a Convair. The remoteness of the 747 cockpit. The roominess of the DC-10 and the snug fit of a 737. They speak a language unknown to Webster
They discuss ALPA, EPRs, RVR, ICAO, fans, mach and bogie swivels. And, strangely, such things as bugs, thumpers, crickets, NATS and CATs, but they are inclined to change the subject when the uninitiated approaches.
They have tasted the characteristic loneliness of the sky, and occasionally the adrenaline of danger. They respect the unseen thing called turbulence; they know what it means to fight for self-control, to discipline one's senses.
They buy life insurance, but make no concession to the possibility of complete disaster, for they have uncommon faith in themselves and what they are doing.
They concede the glamour is gone from flying. They deny a pilot is through at sixty. They know tomorrow, or the following night, something will come along they have never met before; they know flying requires perseverance and vigilance. They know they must practice, lest they retrograde.
They realize why some wit once quipped: "Flying is year after year of monotony punctuated by seconds of stark terror." As a group, they defy mortality tables, yet approach semi-annual physical examinations with trepidation. They are individualistic, yet bonded together. They are family people. They are reputedly overpaid, yet entrusted with equipment worth millions. And entrusted with lives, countless lives.
At times they are reverent: They have watched the Pacific sky turn purple at dusk and the stark beauty of sunrise over Iceland at the end of a polar crossing. They know the twinkling, jeweled beauty of Los Angeles at night; they have seen snow on the Rockies .
They remember the vast unending mat of green Amazon jungle, the twisting Silver road that is the father of waters, an ice cream cone called Fujiyama; the hump of Africa. Who can forget Everest from 100 miles away, or the ice fog in Fairbanks in January?
They have watched a satellite streak across a starry sky, seen the clear, deep blue of the stratosphere, felt the incalculable force of the heavens. They have marveled at sun-streaked evenings, dappled earth, velvet night, spun silver clouds, sculptured cumulus: God's weather. They have viewed the Northern Lights, a wilderness of sky, a pilot's halo, a bomber's moon, horizontal rain, Contrails and St Elmo's Fire.
Only an aviator experiences all these.
It is their world. And once was mine
And remains in memory
07-11-2008, 06:54 PM
#2
Gets Weekends Off
Joined APC: Sep 2007
Position: G550 Captain
Posts: 1,206
Thanks for your great post. I just returned from a 4 day trip, and I enjoyed reading it. You have expressed what we do and feel as pilots on a daily basis better than anyone I know. You remind me of my mentor, a UAL Captain who passed away in 2001. I belong to a different generation than you but our basic nature as pilots remain the same forever. I do lament the fact that glamour is gone from airline flying. I came on the scene too late for that.
07-11-2008, 10:50 PM
#5
Gets Weekends Off
Joined APC: Dec 2007
Position: ATL717A
Posts: 890
Who said he's admiring himself? Sorry you don't like what you do, but some of us can relate to some of this and enjoyed the read. Do yourself a favor and find something you enjoy.
I know for a fact he doesn't press his uniform.
I know for a fact he doesn't press his uniform.
Last edited by de727ups; 07-11-2008 at 11:25 PM. Reason: edited out deleted quote
07-12-2008, 08:59 AM
#6
Gets Weekends Off
Joined APC: Apr 2007
Posts: 307
07-12-2008, 09:00 AM
#7
Gets Weekends Off
Joined APC: Apr 2007
Posts: 307
07-12-2008, 02:02 PM
#9
Gets Weekends Off
Joined APC: Jun 2007
Position: 757/767
Posts: 890
[quote=bondjamesbond;424336]That was written by Bob Buck (TWA retired). Very inspiring. I've often wondered what old timers like Buck or Ernie Gann would think of the industry today...[/quote
They would weep...... I know I did the last time I read "Fate is the Hunter"
They would weep...... I know I did the last time I read "Fate is the Hunter"
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