As is my normal custom on a two-man crew, I offer to perform the walk-around inspection when it’s the copilot’s leg. I enjoy the stroll, fresh air, and re-engagement with the parts and pieces of the airplane — a reminder of just how big the machine is that I fly.
On this particular occasion, performing the walk-around was not an exercise of sound judgment for an experienced captain. The sky had unleashed an annoying drizzle over London Heathrow Airport. Sadly, I was aware of the forecast before leaving JFK the morning prior. Certain that I wouldn’t melt (although I didn’t share the same confidence with the new uniform material), my walk-around of our 777-300 progressed without issues.
An enthusiastic crew chief intercepted me as I scanned the intricacies of a GE 90-115B jet engine. He thrust a printout of the restricted-articles form into my hand. Nothing unusual. Just some dry ice.
The crew chief’s expression held a wry grin. With a thumb pointing at a cargo pallet containing green plastic bags sitting atop a loader at the aft end of the airplane, he asked, “You know what that is, captain?”
I smiled and shook my head.
“Brussels sprouts,” the crew chief responded with British flair. “Hate the damn things.”
“I love Brussels sprouts. Can you grab me a bag?” I asked.
The crew chief’s grin broadened. He said, “They’re yours when you get to New York.” He turned and walked away toward the cargo loader.
As fate would have it, the Brussels sprouts became problematic at departure time. Shortly after my copilot, Carl, requested a pushback clearance, the ground crewman attempted to communicate the need to reopen the aft cargo compartment. Despite repeated inquiries, I found it difficult to understand the reason for the reopening. To be polite, the words being used by the man on the intercom weren’t quite cohesive. The axiom of two countries separated by a common language seemed applicable.
A radio call to our airline operations at Heathrow didn’t really clear up the matter. They were as much in the dark as we were. Finally, after a handful of disjointed discussions, we ascertained that the cargo weight had exceeded the compartment limitations. Apparently, the choice was to offload the Brussels sprouts or offload passenger bags. Fortunately, the appropriate choice was made. Bye-bye Brussels sprouts.
Thirty minutes and a couple of apologetic PA announcements to our passengers later, we were once again ready. We began a tardy pushback and taxi to Heathrow’s Runway 9L.
The headwinds in the middle of November were uncharacteristically strong. Our flight to JFK planned us for seven hours and 12 minutes, about 10 minutes longer than usual. It was one of those flights that just seemed to be stuck in neutral.
Glancing down at the sunglasses that were still dangling from the Croakies lanyard around my neck, I sighed. The last time I had flown the same trip, it was a daylight operation. As a matter of fact, our westbound flight across the North Atlantic experienced a perpetual sunset, with a retina-piercing glare remaining above the horizon throughout the trek. But daylight saving time had ended in both the United States and the United Kingdom, making the 1715 London departure a dark takeoff.
Carl and I had resumed a comfortable silence, born from years of professional flying. As we entered U.S. airspace with about 45 minutes remaining, I suggested that we consider a lower altitude. I hadn’t been able to shut the seat-belt sign off for more than 10-minute intervals because of turbulence. Unfortunately, none of the lower altitudes offered relief from the bumps despite our descent from FL 360 to FL 300.
Although frustrating, the ride wasn’t terrible. Our second crew meal of the flight was consumed without spilling a drop of vinaigrette dressing. (The challenges we have to endure.) As we cruised above a striking view of Cape Cod and Boston, ATC instructed us to reduce our speed from 320 knots to 280 knots. Par for the course.
A few minutes later, it was apparent that the speed reduction wasn’t sufficient. New York Center vectored us off course as a delay tactic. Carl and I shrugged our shoulders.
The intercom chimed with a call from a flight attendant.
“Hey, it’s Les. What’s up?” I answered with my usual greeting.
“Les, it’s Kevin.” A momentary pause. “We’ve got a passenger back here with convulsions. She’s unconscious and not responding. According to her husband, she has a history.”
“Did you call for a doctor, Kevin?”
“Not yet. We’re working on it.”
Our flight number was called on Center frequency. Sliding the intercom handset away from my mouth, I said to Carl, “You’ve got the airplane and the radios.”
ATC gave us clearance to a lower altitude. As I watched Carl spin the altitude selector of the mode control panel in the instrument-panel eyebrow, I brought the handset back toward my lips.
“Let me know the passenger’s status when you get a chance, Kevin.”
After snapping the intercom back into the cradle, I communicated the situation to Carl. He nodded.
On the center console, I toggled the mic switch forward and declared a medical emergency with New York Center. The controller responded immediately with a clearance direct to the last waypoint of the Parch One arrival. After a brief interval, the controller asked for details in the form of the specific medical problem, the age and gender of the passenger, and our arrival gate. Other than gender, I had none of this information. Crap.
A quick conversation with Kevin revealed that the passenger was 43 years old and appeared to be suffering an epileptic seizure. I conveyed this information to the controller. He asked if we would like him to request paramedics upon arrival, or would we prefer to make the request through our company? Typically, ATC garners a faster response. I asked the controller to make the call.
At some point during our mad dash, Kevin informed me that the husband accompanying the convulsive passenger was no longer requesting medical assistance. Carl and I raised our eyebrows. The horse was already out of the barn. As it turned out, she didn’t regain consciousness until after touchdown. However, she did walk off the airplane under her own power, escorted by an army of paramedics and Port Authority cops.
Through the professional conduct of veteran flight attendants, an experienced copilot, superior coordination by ATC and responsive airline personnel, a potentially serious crisis became a nonevent. Cool stuff.
All that being said, it still begs the question: Did the removal of the Brussels sprouts play a factor?
Chances are we will never really know.
