“Outta sixteen-four for two three oh. Lotta guys miss that call.” I sit there wondering if this is for real. It isn’t. It is just Bill being Bill. On another trip, after grinding westward for four hours into 60-knot headwinds, I turned southwest as instructed by approach control to set up for the RNAV 4L at Midway International Airport in Chicago (KMDW). The airplane and its occupants are exhausted. Quietly, I hear Rob say, “We can save about 15 miles if we go direct to the airport. Want me to call the field?”
Of course, that’s the right thing to do. I wish I’d thought of that myself. It wasn’t a command and it wasn’t a rebuke. It’s just Rob being Rob.
