On the bright blue morning of March 12, 2020, my wife Dawn dropped me off at an eerily quiet Orlando airport, where I commuted north on a strangely empty airplane to a bewilderingly uncrowded Atlanta airport to begin my first day of line flying as a newly-minted Boeing 737 captain. I checked in at the main crewroom, which normally thrums with activity—it was dead silent. There were plenty of pilots there, but they mostly wandered alone, gray and ghostlike, eyes studiously averted.
A few gathered around the north wall where three TVs were silently replaying the unthinkable announcement: The U.S. borders were closed, indefinitely, to most citizens of the European Union. The modern world’s busiest commercial air routes were severed, my airline’s bread and butter swept clear from the table with small domestic scraps offering little hope of sustenance. I closed my eyes and repeated the mantra that has sustained me through my career: “This too shall pass.” I set off to find my assigned check airman and master the intricacies of the 737.
