Grumble, grumble. It was a bad morning around the breakfast table at the Hilton near Teterboro Airport in New Jersey. There were three crews altogether. Two of us pilots were billeted at the nearby Holiday Inn, definitely not to be confused with a Ritz-Carlton, and we’d driven over to join the others. It was a cold February morning, still snowing and cold, cold, cold.
Welcome to the Part 135 rituals and conceits. Our laments have a predictable, almost formulaic sound to them. We no longer enjoy breakfast vouchers at some hotels, now that the company has renegotiated various contracts. I never had a breakfast voucher in my life before now, but miss them I do. In fact, for 40 years I got up at 5:45 a.m., ate a bowl of Raisin Bran and went to work. Day after day, I tracked the same interstate route to work, driving at high speed alongside other commuters, each of whom was familiar with the traffic. We knew exactly which lane we wanted. I was a surgeon then, and I came home every night: sometimes very late, but always home.
Now I have these new pilot friends (some of them are half my age) and I am gone from home five days at a time. We grouse over breakfast. The company should be doing this but it isn’t. Things are no better at other outfits. Nobody listens to us. Boohoo. It was probably good that this morning’s crowd would soon disperse. Two were headed to the Turks and Caicos, two to Chicago O’Hare, and I was assigned to take a cab to White Plains, New York, to join Capt. Chris and fly to Ithaca, New York, at 8 p.m. Des Moines, Iowa, and Scottsdale, Arizona, lay ahead of us over the next two days.
This was Day Three of five. Day One began with an all-day wrestling match with New England weather. Driving from home in New Hampshire to Bradley Field in Connecticut took an extra two hours. Fortunately JetBlue had a flight to Fort Myers, Florida.
Next morning, Day Two, I removed the engine covers as the sun came up; the temperature was in the low 50s. A nice day of flying stretched enticingly ahead. Naples, Florida, to Teterboro to Bedford, Massachusetts, just west of Boston, to Chicago Midway and back to Teterboro. Capt. Brad took the first two legs and I got the last two.
This was an exceptionally fortunate arrangement because the wind at Teterboro was 320 at 22 gusting to 39, and planes were landing on 24. I watched with some dislocation as Brad dropped that right wing and headed for the deck, only to be left in awe of his perfect landing. That right main touched down with all the force that you might use to slip a birthday card under your son’s bedroom door.
While Brad set off in search of our crew meals, I restocked the larder on the CJ3, got the ATIS and the clearance, and put the flight plan in the box — the Collins Pro Line 21. Soon, out of the corner of my eye, I caught a shadow passing right to left, wheeling a black object. A lineman smiled and alerted me to the presence of our passenger’s bag. With the suitcase came the passenger — an hour early. I loaded the bag in the cargo hold. Brad scrambled back. My lunch would have to wait. Though we blocked out 45 minutes early, we had to wait for almost 30 minutes before we were cleared to take off. Bedford was calling for the same nasty winds, but they were said to be almost perfectly aligned with Runway 29. They weren’t, and another arm wrestle was required for a safe landing on “patches of packed snow.”
Our passenger got out and another one was already waiting next to a 10-foot-high pile of Boston snow for the Chicago flight. We told him that we had 45 minutes before departure but would do the best we could to get an early start. Though less than 800 miles, the trip was going to take two hours and 40 minutes. At one point the headwinds were 157 knots on the nose. The next two legs were mine; the day was getting long already. Early passenger shows cut both ways. They very much help you keep on schedule and can be a godsend when taxi times at busy airports seem to stretch to infinity. On the other hand, you’ve got a high-paying passenger cooling his or her jets while you are refueling yours.
Off again early, but then this: On the descent into Chicago, while low at 6,000 feet, South Bend (Indiana) approach announced that “an airplane [had] departed the runway at Midway; expect holding instructions.” Soon we had the published hold at IROCK programmed in the box and I had pulled the power back to save fuel. We congratulated ourselves on the extra cushion of fuel we had loaded in Bedford.
As soon as the hold was assigned, it was rescinded, and we reconfigured to land on a different runway at Midway. On the taxi in, the strobe lights of emergency vehicles contrasted with the wan light of the upper Midwest in wintertime. A Navajo was clearly visible, nose and right main gear collapsed, in the snow off to the right of Runway 4R. A cautionary tale.
Restocked and reloaded with two passengers, we headed right back up to Flight Level 410 for the flight to Teterboro. Now those winds were friendly and the CJ3 was putting Indiana behind it at over 500 knots groundspeed. Thankfully the crosswinds had died down for the night landing, which was sweet. A few beers with the boys and then off to bed. So much for Day Two.
Day Three, which included the grumble breakfast, featured a seven-hour “sit” at Landmark FBO in White Plains. We weren’t scheduled for the Ithaca trip until 8 p.m. Luckily the airplane was in the hangar and I could do the preflight in the comfort of warmth. At 7 p.m. we got pulled out and fueled. I stretched and paced, ready to get going. Our passengers, four young people (three women and one man) returning to college showed up with a gaggle of others on time. I checked the passengers’ IDs and we loaded the guitar carefully in the cabin. I closed the door and heard Chris start the engines. When I looked up to give the briefing to the passengers, I saw only three heads. “Where is the other passenger?” I asked. “She’ll be here in 10 minutes.” I had mistaken a well-wisher with the same last name for a passenger. So much for my careful ID check. Chris shut down. I opened the door. Soon our last charge arrived and I carefully checked her name against our trip sheet. Then we were off into a clear, very crisp, very dark, very cold winter night sky.
Thirty-five minutes later we could see Runway 32 lit up from 30 miles out. We were cleared for the straight-in visual, and it was a calm swim to the lights. Chris kissed her on and we taxied carefully over snow and ice aprons and ramps. After shutdown, I opened the door and began to trek across slippery terrain with the luggage. I walked with that awkward baby step necessary on icy terrain. The passengers stayed in the airplane and I was momentarily grateful, since the surface was very slippery. After three round trips of about 100 feet each way, all the bags were in. I helped the college students out. They were friendly.
After they left, Chris told me that the male student had used the toilet after we landed, even though we were in sight of the FBO’s restroom. I sighed and headed back to disconnect and remove the lav. I struggled past the seats and out onto the slippery tarmac. I carefully carried the lav to the line shack for lav service: a 69-year-old first officer carrying a young man’s urine across an icy gauntlet with that awkward, almost comical, gait. It was zero degrees Fahrenheit.
I returned to the plane to straighten up the cabin. I collected the empty Coke cans and pretzel wrappers. I opened the liquor drawer. It was empty. Probably 25 small bottles had been removed. Looking into the barren drawer, I felt as if I had been robbed.
I went to the same university to which these students were returning. I learned a lot there and fell in love with airplanes as I worked the Avis Rent A Car counter. I have had a really blessed life, and now I am flying jets, a lifelong dream. As the realities and occasional indignities of Part 135 flying become more obvious to me, I wonder what I will make of it all. So far, the sight of New York at night and a soft landing at Midway and the new friend in Chris make it all worthwhile. Will it last?
This brings to mind a larger question. Can any dream or passion be exhausted by repetitive experience? I thought I loved being a surgeon, but now that I have left the operating room for good, I don’t miss it in the least. Forty-three years of standing on my feet was enough. I felt sadness and a sweet nostalgia the day I finished my last operation, but I have been surprised by how quickly I have adapted to this new environment in the sky. Would I miss surgery more if I didn’t have this lifelong flying ambition realized? Would everybody benefit from a second career?
Eighteen months of full-time Part 135 flying doesn’t come close to 43 years of surgery, but the above experiences do hint at the possibility that I might someday become inured to the pleasures and privileges of flying well-maintained beautiful machines capable of climbing to 45,000 feet and doing 540 knots over the ground with a nice tailwind. So far, so good, as our chief pilot likes to say. I hope I feel this way forever.
Read more about Part 135 flying from Dick Karl in a previous column.
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