The Airline Pilot (author unknown)
Posted 02/23/04
From Charles Wilder
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; 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; they know the tricky shuttle that is Rio; they know, but do not relish, threading
the needle into Hong Kong.
They respect foggy San Francisco. They know the up-and-down walk to the gates at Dallas,
the Texas sparseness of Abilene, the 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 about short runways, antiquated fire equipment, inadequate approach
lighting, but there is one thing they will never comprehend: Complacency.
They remember the workhorse efficiency of the DC-3s, the reliability of the DC- 4s and DC
6s, the trouble with the DC-7s. 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 …
and a Convair.
They speak a language unknown to Webster. They discuss ALPA, EPR's, fans, mach and bogie
swivels. And, strangely, such things as bugs, thumpers, crickets, and CATs, but they are
inclined to change the subject when the uninitiated approach.
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 that the glamour is gone from flying. They deny that a man is through at
sixty. They know that tomorrow, or the following night, something will come along that
they have never met before; they know that flying requires perseverance. They know that
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 men, yet
rated poor marriage bets. 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. They
know the twinkling, jeweled beauty of Los Angeles at night; they have seen snow up 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. And the hump of
Africa. 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 a pilot experiences all these. It is their world.
Charles Wilder (1966 – 1982) served
in Flight Operations.
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