It was late fall. An unusual weather system had impacted the New York area. The system brought with it some scattered convective activity and high winds blowing almost directly from the east. The disturbed air was a turbulent nightmare. Our 727 was being battered as though it was a rowboat that had been set adrift in the North Atlantic. At times, the entire gray instrument panel shook on both sides of the cockpit with such tenacity that individual flight instruments were almost impossible to discern. The autopilot was doing everything within its capacity to keep the airplane level and at the commanded altitude.
During a moment that I diverted my direct attention away from the task of flying the airplane, I glanced at my crew. The copilot’s face was an intense mixture of concentration and concern. The flight engineer’s expression, shadowed by the dim glow of his panel lights, bordered on sheepish. He shrugged his shoulders in a gesture that indicated he was powerless to do anything but ride out the choppy seas with the rest of us. I just shook my head in silent resignation.
