Jim, my copilot, peered at the computer screen as I tapped the appropriate codes onto the keyboard. We both glanced at the green display that appeared. Yup ... our airplane was late as usual-almost 40 minutes. We were departing La Guardia, flying to Miami, and then on to Port of Spain in Trinidad. Little did I know that the delay had set in motion a chain of events that would haunt us until the very end of our two-day trip. Our tardy departure was about to begin a domino effect.
The airplane was arriving from Miami and had left late because of typical weather flow control delays through Washington Center airspace. Fortunately, the same airplane would be used for our thru-flight to Port of Spain. That would eliminate the drill of packing up our flight nest and bag-dragging to another gate when we arrived in Miami. But we still had one minor problem.
The Port of Spain Airport Authority had been closing the runway at 10 p.m. local time for some type of mysterious night construction. Our departure delay in La Guardia would jeopardize that arrival. As a matter of fact, on a previous trip we had almost been forced to turn around in San Juan airspace.
On that flight, our dispatcher had negotiated a 15-minute later arrival. I had pushed the power up, allowing us to fly at almost .84 Mach. Even at that speed, the computer was calculating an ETA with only three minutes to spare before the airport would be closed. About 50 miles south of the southern Puerto Rican coastline, San Juan Center conveyed some bad news. Piarco Control (the nonradar air traffic agency for Trinidad) was going to inform us that landing clearance would be denied. After a few tense minutes, and a call to our dispatcher, we were allowed to continue. Apparently, the airport authority forgot to inform the Piarco controllers of the negotiated delayed arrival. Some flights have not been so lucky and have had to divert to San Juan.
With flight plan paperwork in hand, Jim and I left Operations and walked into the concourse. We negotiated the organized chaos of the security lines and excused ourselves past a sea of impassive faces. Upon our arrival at the gate, the agent took the time to exchange pleasantries despite a small crowd of discontented expressions in front of his counter. We opened the door to the jet bridge and walked onto the airplane. After introductions to the flight attendants, Jim and I began our preflight duties.
With the airplane boarded in record speed, the forward entry door was closed. Unfortunately, the agent's efficiency did not continue into the next part of the process. Our ground crew had disappeared like a David Copperfield magic act. Because of our delay, the original ground crew had reached the end of their shift. We needed the next shift to conduct our pushback, and it didn't seem like anybody was rushing to our aid.
A couple of radio calls later, a fresh ground crew walked out of the ready room. By the time we began the pushback, a maze of rolling aluminum had begun to multiply on the taxiways. The line of weather in Washington Center's airspace was starting to choke off La Guardia departures. We weren't going anywhere soon. Neither Jim nor I had high hopes of being able to see Port of Spain that evening.
By the time we did depart, it became anybody's guess as to our final destination for the trip. Upon reaching cruise altitude, just to keep the atmosphere lively, I bantered about some likely scenarios with Jim.
Jim wasn't concerned. He was on the very bottom of the reserve status list. His pay would be the same no matter what trip he flew because of the reserve minimum guarantee. Jim was happy just to be back on the job. He had returned from furlough, spending almost three years as a captain for our affiliate regional airline as part of an often debated flow-back agreement within our union contract. (That's another story.) Working for the affiliate made him appreciate his position with our airline. (That's also another story.) In addition, Jim was the proud father of his first child, born premature only a week earlier.
As we drew closer to Miami, our dispatcher began to send us a series of messages via the Automatic Crew Alerting and Reporting System (ACARS) printer. The first message was a request to put the pedal to the metal in an attempt to decrease the turnaround time and thus beat the curfew. Perhaps we were going to Port of Spain after all.
The next message was for our flight attendants. They were being reassigned to a St. Thomas layover. That was interesting. What did that mean for us?
We had our answer soon enough. When the ACARS printer slithered out another section of curled, white paper, I tore it from the slot and began to read the cryptic message. Jim and I were being reassigned to fly a trip to Panama City. So much for Port of Spain.
My initial reaction was actually relief. The new trip sequence would bring us home hours earlier. And since the new sequence qualified as a reassignment, I was pay-protected for the greater time of the two trips, which happened to be the original. Or so I thought. The caveat to my thinking didn't include one of the exceptions to the rule that the reassignment was as a result of a misconnect. So much for that theory. Knock a few more bucks off the next paycheck.
