With the practiced air of a concert pianist adjusting his piano bench, Les Abend slid his captain's seat forward and towards the midline of the American Airlines 757, adjusted the seat height and rudder pedals with habitual precision, surveyed with satisfaction the array of dials, screens, switches and throttles, then turned to me and first officer Robert Wall and said, "Does anybody know what any of this stuff does?"
Luckily, he and Robert appeared to. During the next four days I was to experience the rhythm, cadence, sights, sounds, aromas and textures of what a "trip" is all about for an airline pilot. Contributing Editor Les had gotten permission from the FAA, American Airlines, the Department of Transportation, American's chief pilot and Principal Operating Inspector for me to ride in the jumpseat as he and Robert worked their way from Fort Lauderdale to San Juan to Chicago to Orlando to Boston to San Juan to Fort Lauderdale. For them it was work; for me it was the trip of a lifetime. I wrote last month about the impressive culture of safety at American, so this time I'll tell you more about how the whole escapade looked and felt.
It is a sticky, warm night in Lauderdale as we wait to board the 757 that has just arrived from our destination: San Juan. Thunderstorms are about, but none are actually over the airport. With the final passenger count, takeoff weights and a last call for water or coffee from the flight attendant, we push back with a full boat, start engines and taxi out to 9 Left. This month Les and Robert have done this trip twice before, then Robert took some vacation, so Les flew it last week with another FO. I am strapped into the jump- seat behind the copilot, trying to act nonchalant.
First surprising observation: On takeoff the airplane really shakes as those powerful Rolls Royces reach full power and 80 knots seems to come up very quickly, but V1, VR and V2 (speeds in the mid-140s) take a long time in coming. The end of the runway is definitely in sight from our high perch as we finally achieve VR. I had no idea as to how alarming the view was. It's Robert's leg, so he does the flying, but it's Les' hands on the power as we thunder down the runway. "American thinks the captain should be in charge of the abort," Les told me later. With positive rate established, Robert waves his open palm toward the heavens like a conductor exhorting a little more out of the horn section, and Les retracts the gear. Next surprising observation: The nose gear comes up right under the cockpit and it makes a very mechanical racket as it snubs and stows.
We step climb to Flight Level 370. Night falls. We are over water. Robert, who has been on vacation, says, "I missed this." We're served coffee and water by a friendly flight attendant. It is dark in the cockpit save for the instrument lights and the occasional spotlights that are turned on momentarily to consult Jeppesen charts that are clamped on to holders next to the pilots. Imagine a cockpit big enough to accommodate a set of Jepps, in their leather binder, to be affixed next to you. This will be our only leg of the day and we're headed for a fine hotel in San Juan. Our on time departure, Robert and Les's cockpit reunion and our destination make for a happy work place.
Too soon for me, the island of Puerto Rico comes into view and the lights of San Juan are visible from 100 miles out. Our approach takes us right over the city and on to Runway 8.
Surrounded by bright urban lighting, the airport looks like a black hole until we're close enough to see the approach lights. Les sees the airport from way out and shows it to Robert who says he has it in sight. I can't see anything until we're on top of the runway, it seems. Robert greases it on. Les chides him about it. We set the brakes on time, run the after shutdown checklist, wait for all 187 passengers to deplane and then head out.
The crew van is right there, as all of them were during this trip. We take a short ride to a fine beach resort hotel, check in and meet in the lobby 10 minutes later. Les has changed into the ubiquitous official airline pilot layover uniform: a bright Hawaiian shirt and slacks. All the restaurants at the hotel are closed except the Japanese place, so it is sushi for us. We wander out into the lobby after a nice meal only to be confronted by a spectacular midnight sight: it's prom night in San Juan. Dazzling young women and clueless appearing hipsters are everywhere and it is clear that their night is just beginning.
