Boston, 8 a.m.: I button my uniform jacket, don a neon safety vest, and step outside the jet bridge into a roaring gale. Most captains do the walk around on the first officer’s flying legs at my airline, and it’s John’s turn to fly, so, per tradition, I brave the howling wind and pouring rain. By the time I reach the Boeing 737’s tail, I am soaked to the skin. I turn to inspect the tail skid and am nearly swept off my feet by a fierce gust that has every bit of 50 knots in it. I am reminded of the time I rode out Tropical Storm Isaias aboard Windbird. This day has the same evil intensity to it.
Twenty-four hours ago, I awoke to a much gentler morning, sun-kissed and caressed by the gentle trade winds of Aruba. This tropical layover was the main reason I specifically bid this four-day trip. It came at the price of a Boston-Detroit-Seattle last day, always a bit of a gamble in late December.
