Big John
April 2nd 06, 04:35 PM
Received from a good friend (Pilot) of mine. So many things I have
experienced and well said.
Big John
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Pilots & Their World
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; 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' sparking 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
DC10 and the snug fit of a 737. They speak a language unknown to
Webster. They discuss ALPA, EPRs, 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 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, 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 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. And
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 a pilot experiences all these.
It is their world
experienced and well said.
Big John
`````````````````````````````````````````````
Pilots & Their World
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; 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' sparking 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
DC10 and the snug fit of a 737. They speak a language unknown to
Webster. They discuss ALPA, EPRs, 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 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, 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 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. And
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 a pilot experiences all these.
It is their world