When the Pan Am flight went down over Lockerbie, I was working in North Adams, MA. One of my co-workers, a nurse, had a daughter on that flight. It is the closest I ever want to come to terrorism. One of several terrorist targetings of Pan Am, it had a big impact on the image of the airline that ultimately was the undoing of the company.
BDM, London '73
Friday, January 6, 2012
Saturday, December 10, 2011
MY MOST MEMORABLE CRAF/MAC CHARTER FLIGHT
(CRAF: Civil Reserve Air Fleet. MAC: Military Assistance Command.)
Fiumicino Airport, Rome, Italy, March 9, 1991.
My crew and I boarded the aircraft after our pre-flight preparations. The passengers were already aboard, having just arrived directly from Iraq en route back to their home base at Twenty Nine Palms, California with a fuel stop with us in New York’s JFK airport, a crew change, and then on to Pt. Mugu Naval Air Station, California.
The majority of our passengers were the 3rd Battalion, 7th Marines of the 1st Marine Division. The most significant thing to me was that just a few weeks earlier, the majority of these men didn’t know if they were going to live through the next day. They were a major force in General Schwarzkopf’s brilliant and successful sweep of Saddam Hussein’s “Elite Republican Guard.” Of the approximately 420 soldiers that we had aboard, most of them looked like teenagers and had never been out of their home country before.
In our pre-flight briefing aboard the aircraft, the cockpit crew and cabin staff all voiced their commitment to make sure these heroes had a wonderful flight and knew how glad we at Pan Am were to be able to take them home.
Even before we took off, the flight attendants were trading their Pan Am insignia and other Pan Am memorabilia for those of as many marines as they could until they had nothing left to trade.
In my pre-takeoff announcement I invited them all, in turn, to the cockpit during the approximately 10 hour flight with the proviso that they leave their weapons at their seats (they were all still armed and responsible for their weapons).
I also announced that we had taken on a full load of MRE’s (meals, ready to eat; their standard field rations), so they would not suffer from a sudden change in diet. I could hear the groans all the way up on the flight deck and quickly reassured them I was only kidding and that we had some great REAL food we hoped they would enjoy. I heard the cheers.
The flight to New York was operationally uneventful and I had an opportunity to shake the hands and thank almost all of the men.
I did have a chance to tour the cabin and observe the rapport that our cabin staff had developed. It was like a big party with everyone very well-behaved and appreciative of the extra attention our flight attendants were able to give them.
I made an announcement when we crossed into U.S. airspace just North of Maine with a big “Welcome Home to the United States”. As big as a 747 is, it still vibrated with the cheers.
As we got close to JFK airport, Air Traffic Control said, “We understand you have some returning troops aboard.” I answered, “Yes we do.” ATC then said, “Would you like to take a tour of the City?” Of course I answered, “You bet we would.”
I was a bit shocked. New York ATC is one of the busiest in the world and not known for being overly friendly on the radio and to my knowledge, they had not allowed anything like that since WWII when an airplane hit the Empire State Building. We took them up on their offer and dropped down to 1000 feet, flew up the East River, came around LaGuardia Airport and turned down the Hudson. There, ahead of us was the Statue of Liberty. It was a beautiful windless day, so the water was like a mirror and we actually saw two of her.
I asked JFK approach control if I could take a turn around the Statue of Liberty. They said: “Sure”. I dropped down to 500 feet over the water and made a pylon turn around Ms. Liberty and our airplane was again shaking with the cheers from these men and boys who had lived without knowing if they would ever make it home again. The hairs on my arms and neck were standing up and tingling with the thought of what this symbol really meant. When they asked me what runway we wanted, I had to clear my throat to be able to answer. We landed straight ahead on runway 13 right and taxied to the terminal.
The surprises weren’t over. This was just a fuel stop for our guys but I told them they could get off to call home if they wished. I had the paperwork so I had to precede with them up the ramp to the terminal. When we reached the terminal, I was stunned. It seems that every baggage handler, ticket agent, taxi driver, Port Authority Cop and anyone else at JFK that day had heard of our arrival with the first troops back from Iraq.
The desire to greet some real heroes after the agony of Vietnam was enormous and these young men were treated to a mini ticker tape parade right there in the Pan Am Terminal. Being part of this is one of the most treasured moments of my 53 year aviation career.
Captain Sherman Carr
February 22, 2011
P.S. After Lockerbie, the U.S. Government, instead of helping to beef up security, withdrew all support, International business, military and embassy transportation from Pan Am as a “known terrorist target”. This was done in a “confidential memo” to all embassies. This was a terrible blow to international revenues and the airline had to shut down shortly thereafter. This was very disappointing to say the least.
I had originally written this story to help a fellow Pan Amer with his doctoral dissertation and thought I might submit it to the NY Times with the hope of hooking up with someone who had been in the Statue of Liberty that day and taken a picture of us. I was going to offer to sign and authenticate the photographs with the story of that flight in exchange for a few of the pictures. I can't believe that someone didn't take a picture or two. A 747, that low, circling around Ms. Liberty, with the giant PAN AM full height name on the side had to have drawn the attention of someone on the ground or in the statue. If you can figure out a way to publish this with the Times or Post and we could hook up with the photographer, we could donate the proceeds from the sale of copies to the American Red Cross or similar organization. I would be happy for any suggestions about this.
(CRAF: Civil Reserve Air Fleet. MAC: Military Assistance Command.)
Fiumicino Airport, Rome, Italy, March 9, 1991.
My crew and I boarded the aircraft after our pre-flight preparations. The passengers were already aboard, having just arrived directly from Iraq en route back to their home base at Twenty Nine Palms, California with a fuel stop with us in New York’s JFK airport, a crew change, and then on to Pt. Mugu Naval Air Station, California.
The majority of our passengers were the 3rd Battalion, 7th Marines of the 1st Marine Division. The most significant thing to me was that just a few weeks earlier, the majority of these men didn’t know if they were going to live through the next day. They were a major force in General Schwarzkopf’s brilliant and successful sweep of Saddam Hussein’s “Elite Republican Guard.” Of the approximately 420 soldiers that we had aboard, most of them looked like teenagers and had never been out of their home country before.
In our pre-flight briefing aboard the aircraft, the cockpit crew and cabin staff all voiced their commitment to make sure these heroes had a wonderful flight and knew how glad we at Pan Am were to be able to take them home.
Even before we took off, the flight attendants were trading their Pan Am insignia and other Pan Am memorabilia for those of as many marines as they could until they had nothing left to trade.
In my pre-takeoff announcement I invited them all, in turn, to the cockpit during the approximately 10 hour flight with the proviso that they leave their weapons at their seats (they were all still armed and responsible for their weapons).
I also announced that we had taken on a full load of MRE’s (meals, ready to eat; their standard field rations), so they would not suffer from a sudden change in diet. I could hear the groans all the way up on the flight deck and quickly reassured them I was only kidding and that we had some great REAL food we hoped they would enjoy. I heard the cheers.
The flight to New York was operationally uneventful and I had an opportunity to shake the hands and thank almost all of the men.
I did have a chance to tour the cabin and observe the rapport that our cabin staff had developed. It was like a big party with everyone very well-behaved and appreciative of the extra attention our flight attendants were able to give them.
I made an announcement when we crossed into U.S. airspace just North of Maine with a big “Welcome Home to the United States”. As big as a 747 is, it still vibrated with the cheers.
As we got close to JFK airport, Air Traffic Control said, “We understand you have some returning troops aboard.” I answered, “Yes we do.” ATC then said, “Would you like to take a tour of the City?” Of course I answered, “You bet we would.”
I was a bit shocked. New York ATC is one of the busiest in the world and not known for being overly friendly on the radio and to my knowledge, they had not allowed anything like that since WWII when an airplane hit the Empire State Building. We took them up on their offer and dropped down to 1000 feet, flew up the East River, came around LaGuardia Airport and turned down the Hudson. There, ahead of us was the Statue of Liberty. It was a beautiful windless day, so the water was like a mirror and we actually saw two of her.
I asked JFK approach control if I could take a turn around the Statue of Liberty. They said: “Sure”. I dropped down to 500 feet over the water and made a pylon turn around Ms. Liberty and our airplane was again shaking with the cheers from these men and boys who had lived without knowing if they would ever make it home again. The hairs on my arms and neck were standing up and tingling with the thought of what this symbol really meant. When they asked me what runway we wanted, I had to clear my throat to be able to answer. We landed straight ahead on runway 13 right and taxied to the terminal.
The surprises weren’t over. This was just a fuel stop for our guys but I told them they could get off to call home if they wished. I had the paperwork so I had to precede with them up the ramp to the terminal. When we reached the terminal, I was stunned. It seems that every baggage handler, ticket agent, taxi driver, Port Authority Cop and anyone else at JFK that day had heard of our arrival with the first troops back from Iraq.
The desire to greet some real heroes after the agony of Vietnam was enormous and these young men were treated to a mini ticker tape parade right there in the Pan Am Terminal. Being part of this is one of the most treasured moments of my 53 year aviation career.
Captain Sherman Carr
February 22, 2011
P.S. After Lockerbie, the U.S. Government, instead of helping to beef up security, withdrew all support, International business, military and embassy transportation from Pan Am as a “known terrorist target”. This was done in a “confidential memo” to all embassies. This was a terrible blow to international revenues and the airline had to shut down shortly thereafter. This was very disappointing to say the least.
I had originally written this story to help a fellow Pan Amer with his doctoral dissertation and thought I might submit it to the NY Times with the hope of hooking up with someone who had been in the Statue of Liberty that day and taken a picture of us. I was going to offer to sign and authenticate the photographs with the story of that flight in exchange for a few of the pictures. I can't believe that someone didn't take a picture or two. A 747, that low, circling around Ms. Liberty, with the giant PAN AM full height name on the side had to have drawn the attention of someone on the ground or in the statue. If you can figure out a way to publish this with the Times or Post and we could hook up with the photographer, we could donate the proceeds from the sale of copies to the American Red Cross or similar organization. I would be happy for any suggestions about this.
Words from a Captain...
I started with Pan Am in 1965 based in JFK as a Navigator/2nd Officer. I had already obtained my Nav. Certificate while in the Navy so my proving flights were just a formality. Pan Am was great to me in that they let me fly on my wife's flights, Mary Squibbs Carr, who transferred from SFO as a Purser to JFK so we could be together. When we were dating, while I was still in the Navy, I chased her around the Pacific on the Navy DC-6s that I was flying. We were actually married a couple of years before I came to work with Pan Am. It was meeting her friends and co-workers that convinced me that nothing could be better than joining the Pan Am family of wonderful people.
While in the Navy, I actually met my wife once over Ocean Station November in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, she in her 707 and me in my DC-6. But that's a story for another day.
I was able to transfer back to SFO in 1966. Another nice irony is that I took my rating training on the 707 in Hawaii and we stayed in Honolulu next to Ali Wai Yacht Harbor where I still had my sailboat that I lived on while in the Navy. The Navy bought the sailboat for me with the housing allowance they gave me for relinquishing my BOQ room (Bachellor Officer's Quarters).
I was based in MIA (Miami) from 1969 to 1991 (707 and 747) except for a short period as an A300 Captain out of JFK in 1986
Captain Sherman Carr
MIA 1969
I started with Pan Am in 1965 based in JFK as a Navigator/2nd Officer. I had already obtained my Nav. Certificate while in the Navy so my proving flights were just a formality. Pan Am was great to me in that they let me fly on my wife's flights, Mary Squibbs Carr, who transferred from SFO as a Purser to JFK so we could be together. When we were dating, while I was still in the Navy, I chased her around the Pacific on the Navy DC-6s that I was flying. We were actually married a couple of years before I came to work with Pan Am. It was meeting her friends and co-workers that convinced me that nothing could be better than joining the Pan Am family of wonderful people.
While in the Navy, I actually met my wife once over Ocean Station November in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, she in her 707 and me in my DC-6. But that's a story for another day.
I was able to transfer back to SFO in 1966. Another nice irony is that I took my rating training on the 707 in Hawaii and we stayed in Honolulu next to Ali Wai Yacht Harbor where I still had my sailboat that I lived on while in the Navy. The Navy bought the sailboat for me with the housing allowance they gave me for relinquishing my BOQ room (Bachellor Officer's Quarters).
I was based in MIA (Miami) from 1969 to 1991 (707 and 747) except for a short period as an A300 Captain out of JFK in 1986
Captain Sherman Carr
MIA 1969
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
Clipper Photo/Pan American Airways
Betty Haas Pfister, a two-time winner of the All Women’s International Air Race, died on Nov. 17 at her home in Aspen, Colo., according to her daughter Suzanne. Betty was 90.
Ms. Haas married Arthur Pfister in 1954. Before her marriage Betty made hundreds of flights — dozens as a member of the Women Airforce Service Pilots, or WASPs, during World War II, and many more as one of the nation’s most successful female competitive pilots. In addition to these, she made many flights as a Pan Am flight attendant in the days when women had a much harder time getting hired as pilots.
Betty's daughter Suzanne Pfister said that after her mom made her first flight, “Mom made a deal with her father that she would stay in school if he paid for flight lessons.”
By the time Betty graduated from Bennington College in 1942, she had logged enough flight time to be accepted as a member of the WASPs — an Army Air Force attachment created to fill the void when male pilots were deployed overseas.
As one of 1,074 WASPs, Ms. Haas Pfister ferried planes from factories to domestic airfields or to ports for shipment overseas. WASPs also towed targets for aerial gunnery practice. Thirty-eight died in accidents. By December 1944, with the war winding down, the women were no longer needed and the unit was disbanded.
Ms. Haas Pfister found work as an aircraft mechanic and, very occasionally, flying cargo planes. In 1948, when hired by Pan American, she became the first stewardess ever hired with more than 1,000 hours of flight time. “She got to travel all over the world,” her daughter said. “But she’d rather have been in the cockpit any day of the week.”
I Spy...
During one flight in the 1970's, James Bond (Roger Moore) was sitting in first class. He was unbelievably handsome and charming. I was quite nervous just having to serve him.
After the meal when things calmed down and the cabin lights were dimmed, he asked me to prepare a 'bed' for him in economy since there were a lot of empty seats. I said I would be happy to and went back to the last section of the 747. I found an empty row of four seats in the middle section and prepared a nice bed for him.
"Sir," I said, "your bed is ready." He asked me to show him and off we went.
He removed his shoes and sat down, and then looked at me and with that smile and said, "Would you like to join me?" I thought I was going to die. I was glad the cabin was dark because otherwise he would have seen my red face. I just told him that I appreciated the offer, but had to go back to my duties. Afterwards I thought of all kinds of smart answers, but *OMG*!
Posted by Eva Bunaes
SFO 1970-86
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
Roller Coaster
There have evolved over the years varying levels of cockpit security. Long before the days of Homeland Security and 9/11, the cockpits of the Pan Am jets were accessible to the flight attendants and even the public. Certainly at boarding time and sometimes during the flight, the door would open and children or passengers could look around. However, more often than not during the flight, the door was closed and would only open with a key. Each flight attendant had such a key, on a spring-loaded chain that would pull out for use and whiz back into the coil on our waistband when the key was released.
There seemed to be a fair amount of comradery between the flight attendants and the pilots, at least to get them fed and watered as the flight progressed. I have one memory of the cockpit I will never forget.
I was 21 years old and still quite new and in awe of my exciting job. I had had several jobs before while working my way through college that involved restaurant duties and serving the public on a small scale, but never as glamorous or mobile as working for an airline. Determined to keep everyone fed and happy, we all made periodic checks with the cockpit.
During one night flight eastbound over the Atlantic, I made a check with the cockpit to see if he needed some caffeine to stay awake. Most of the pilots were much older than me, experienced at their job, and very fatherly to us all. I was surprised to see that the pilot was not there, and the co-pilot was in the hot seat. He was relatively young - probably mid-40's - and always very friendly to us all. When I stepped in the cockpit, I could see him at work by himself as the co-pilot's seat was empty, which meant the pilot had probably stepped into the cabin for a break or a snooze. Those trans-Atlantic red-eye flights were very bland and monotonous for the pilots and for us as well, as most passengers opted to sleep.
The co-pilot greeted me cheerfully, and welcomed me in.
"Hi, my name is Bob. Come on in, have a seat." He motioned to the co-pilot chair next to him.
"Well, hmmm, I was just checking to see if you need anything to drink?"
"Come on, sit! You don't have anything else to do now, right?" It was fairly dark, but I could see enough of his face in the light reflected from the controls to know that he was teasing me, but also meant it.
I worked my way around all the handles and the arm rest, hoping not to dislodge anything. Luckily the seat did pivot some and I could lower myself into place without much trouble. The seat compressed a bit under my weight, and I slowly settled into place behind the yolk and control panel. Afraid to breathe, I slowly let my arms down beside me on the seat.
"Don't worry, I have control over here," he reassured me.
One of my favorite pastimes in the cabin of the plane was to stop and gaze out the window over the slide compartment in a main door. The view was usually distorted toward the edges of the window, but in the middle one could see way down to the earth below. Cities were small dots, mountain ranges reduced to jagged bumps, and clouds often floated by and caressed the hull. It was a brief moment of meditation between call bells or meal services; a place to see all the cares of the world shrink away into perspective. The angle of the window, pointing more down than the passenger windows, gave the feeling that one was flying overhead with nothing but air below. But none of this prepared me for what I saw from the cockpit.
The windows in the cockpit were not very tall, but a nearly continuous strip of them wrapped around the front and gave an unobstructed view of the sky ahead, a sliver of moon nearly in front of us, its reflection in the unending sea, and a spray of stars in all directions. To have this visual suddenly to add to the sound, feel, and smell that flight has always given me was truly unexpected. I really felt like I was flying.
I scooted a bit forward and raised up on my feet to get a better view. It was most incredible, to be speeding through the darkness with no contact with the earth. This was the first time I truly appreciated how remarkable it was to be airborne. It was at the same time frightening and invigorating. I was speechless and must have had my eyes as wide open as they have ever been.
Bob must have seen my youthful naivety and wonder at it all. "Would you like to fly the plane?"
I slowly turned my head to looked at him, even more bug-eyed, and astonished. Does he mean it? Is that OK?
"I've never flown anything before, and I hardly drive." I lied a bit there; I had driven since I was 15, but I didn't want to over-sell my experience.
"Well, it's pretty easy and I'm here to keep an eye on you."
"What do I do?" It must have been someone else speaking. How could ... what did I just ... ohmigosh!
"Just steer, gently. Push forward moves down, pull back moves up. Small movements make large corrections, and there is some delay, so take it slow. Don't try to turn the wheel at all, and we'll stay straight on course." He had his hands still gripped on his set of controls, and he looked like he was serious. I swallowed - probably both my pride and my fear - and wrapped my fingers around the yoke. It felt cold and had ribbing underneath for fingers, not unlike the steering wheel of a car. It also became a little damp and slippery with my sweat.
The jet we were in was a Boeing 707, a thin and sleek machine with four engines that carried about 180 passengers. At the time, it was the glory of airline technology and popular with various airlines. It soon became very obvious to me that guiding a creation of this size was not at all like driving a car. I tried at first not to move at all, hoping by just hanging on that we would cruise on the same course. But it soon became obvious that a small amount of altitude change was happening.
"Bring 'er up a bit," he gently suggested. I slowly pulled the yoke toward me by what felt like a millimeter, and froze. Nothing happened. Now I began to sweat. He had asked for a very simple correction and I was not able to make anything happen. Probably in the way one moves on an Ouija board, I imagined a gentle upward pull on the controls. Finally, after what seemed like several minutes (probably 10 seconds in reality), I could sense a bit of nosing up by the jet. Too much, maybe, so I gently gave a millimeter forward, hoping for a leveling out.
It had only seemed like a hair that I had pushed and again several seconds later, the nose began to follow a bit of an arc downward. I had overshot finding level, and was having to make another correction to nose up a bit. This time I thought I would split a millimeter and deal in micro-measurements. Tiny bit up, waiting, hoping for the elusive level path. No such luck; nose up again, heading higher into the atmosphere. I looked over at Bob, hoping for encouragement or instruction, only to see his hands off his controls and on his armrests. My eyes really bugging now!
I turned my gaze back to the horizon ahead and tried to concentrate on what lay ahead, not choking the yoke. Unfortunately, I could only deliver more of the same, a sine wave of up and down that was clearly the work of a newbie.
"OK, well, I'll take over before we have a cabin full of airsick passengers!" Bob chortled to himself, and shot me a kind smile. "That will give you some appreciation of what we do."
"Oh, I do, I mean, it did, I mean, it will!" I tried to rotate the seat again and climb out, only to hear a high-pitched rrrrrip. The underlining of my uniform skirt had caught on a screw on the front of the seat. No real damage done, but I sank from embarrassed to mortified.
"Well," he confided, "now you know why we can't wear skirts."
Of course, at the time, it was unheard of to have female pilots, especially for Pan Am, and his comment was not meant to be demeaning or sexist. It simply got me off the hook and gave us both a good laugh. I groped my way back out of the cockpit, feeling a bit like I had just been at sea, and began my tour up and down the aisle again looking for anything to do.
I'm not sure my feet touched the ground for a long time, and although I never did learn how to fly, I always look longingly at the co-pilot's seat when I get on a flight. And whenever I find myself in a situation of over-correcting anything that requires finesse, I remember my few moments as a co-pilot and try to stay the course.
BDM London '73
There have evolved over the years varying levels of cockpit security. Long before the days of Homeland Security and 9/11, the cockpits of the Pan Am jets were accessible to the flight attendants and even the public. Certainly at boarding time and sometimes during the flight, the door would open and children or passengers could look around. However, more often than not during the flight, the door was closed and would only open with a key. Each flight attendant had such a key, on a spring-loaded chain that would pull out for use and whiz back into the coil on our waistband when the key was released.
There seemed to be a fair amount of comradery between the flight attendants and the pilots, at least to get them fed and watered as the flight progressed. I have one memory of the cockpit I will never forget.
I was 21 years old and still quite new and in awe of my exciting job. I had had several jobs before while working my way through college that involved restaurant duties and serving the public on a small scale, but never as glamorous or mobile as working for an airline. Determined to keep everyone fed and happy, we all made periodic checks with the cockpit.
During one night flight eastbound over the Atlantic, I made a check with the cockpit to see if he needed some caffeine to stay awake. Most of the pilots were much older than me, experienced at their job, and very fatherly to us all. I was surprised to see that the pilot was not there, and the co-pilot was in the hot seat. He was relatively young - probably mid-40's - and always very friendly to us all. When I stepped in the cockpit, I could see him at work by himself as the co-pilot's seat was empty, which meant the pilot had probably stepped into the cabin for a break or a snooze. Those trans-Atlantic red-eye flights were very bland and monotonous for the pilots and for us as well, as most passengers opted to sleep.
The co-pilot greeted me cheerfully, and welcomed me in.
"Hi, my name is Bob. Come on in, have a seat." He motioned to the co-pilot chair next to him.
"Well, hmmm, I was just checking to see if you need anything to drink?"
"Come on, sit! You don't have anything else to do now, right?" It was fairly dark, but I could see enough of his face in the light reflected from the controls to know that he was teasing me, but also meant it.
I worked my way around all the handles and the arm rest, hoping not to dislodge anything. Luckily the seat did pivot some and I could lower myself into place without much trouble. The seat compressed a bit under my weight, and I slowly settled into place behind the yolk and control panel. Afraid to breathe, I slowly let my arms down beside me on the seat.
"Don't worry, I have control over here," he reassured me.
One of my favorite pastimes in the cabin of the plane was to stop and gaze out the window over the slide compartment in a main door. The view was usually distorted toward the edges of the window, but in the middle one could see way down to the earth below. Cities were small dots, mountain ranges reduced to jagged bumps, and clouds often floated by and caressed the hull. It was a brief moment of meditation between call bells or meal services; a place to see all the cares of the world shrink away into perspective. The angle of the window, pointing more down than the passenger windows, gave the feeling that one was flying overhead with nothing but air below. But none of this prepared me for what I saw from the cockpit.
The windows in the cockpit were not very tall, but a nearly continuous strip of them wrapped around the front and gave an unobstructed view of the sky ahead, a sliver of moon nearly in front of us, its reflection in the unending sea, and a spray of stars in all directions. To have this visual suddenly to add to the sound, feel, and smell that flight has always given me was truly unexpected. I really felt like I was flying.
I scooted a bit forward and raised up on my feet to get a better view. It was most incredible, to be speeding through the darkness with no contact with the earth. This was the first time I truly appreciated how remarkable it was to be airborne. It was at the same time frightening and invigorating. I was speechless and must have had my eyes as wide open as they have ever been.
Bob must have seen my youthful naivety and wonder at it all. "Would you like to fly the plane?"
I slowly turned my head to looked at him, even more bug-eyed, and astonished. Does he mean it? Is that OK?
"I've never flown anything before, and I hardly drive." I lied a bit there; I had driven since I was 15, but I didn't want to over-sell my experience.
"Well, it's pretty easy and I'm here to keep an eye on you."
"What do I do?" It must have been someone else speaking. How could ... what did I just ... ohmigosh!
"Just steer, gently. Push forward moves down, pull back moves up. Small movements make large corrections, and there is some delay, so take it slow. Don't try to turn the wheel at all, and we'll stay straight on course." He had his hands still gripped on his set of controls, and he looked like he was serious. I swallowed - probably both my pride and my fear - and wrapped my fingers around the yoke. It felt cold and had ribbing underneath for fingers, not unlike the steering wheel of a car. It also became a little damp and slippery with my sweat.
The jet we were in was a Boeing 707, a thin and sleek machine with four engines that carried about 180 passengers. At the time, it was the glory of airline technology and popular with various airlines. It soon became very obvious to me that guiding a creation of this size was not at all like driving a car. I tried at first not to move at all, hoping by just hanging on that we would cruise on the same course. But it soon became obvious that a small amount of altitude change was happening.
"Bring 'er up a bit," he gently suggested. I slowly pulled the yoke toward me by what felt like a millimeter, and froze. Nothing happened. Now I began to sweat. He had asked for a very simple correction and I was not able to make anything happen. Probably in the way one moves on an Ouija board, I imagined a gentle upward pull on the controls. Finally, after what seemed like several minutes (probably 10 seconds in reality), I could sense a bit of nosing up by the jet. Too much, maybe, so I gently gave a millimeter forward, hoping for a leveling out.
It had only seemed like a hair that I had pushed and again several seconds later, the nose began to follow a bit of an arc downward. I had overshot finding level, and was having to make another correction to nose up a bit. This time I thought I would split a millimeter and deal in micro-measurements. Tiny bit up, waiting, hoping for the elusive level path. No such luck; nose up again, heading higher into the atmosphere. I looked over at Bob, hoping for encouragement or instruction, only to see his hands off his controls and on his armrests. My eyes really bugging now!
I turned my gaze back to the horizon ahead and tried to concentrate on what lay ahead, not choking the yoke. Unfortunately, I could only deliver more of the same, a sine wave of up and down that was clearly the work of a newbie.
"OK, well, I'll take over before we have a cabin full of airsick passengers!" Bob chortled to himself, and shot me a kind smile. "That will give you some appreciation of what we do."
"Oh, I do, I mean, it did, I mean, it will!" I tried to rotate the seat again and climb out, only to hear a high-pitched rrrrrip. The underlining of my uniform skirt had caught on a screw on the front of the seat. No real damage done, but I sank from embarrassed to mortified.
"Well," he confided, "now you know why we can't wear skirts."
Of course, at the time, it was unheard of to have female pilots, especially for Pan Am, and his comment was not meant to be demeaning or sexist. It simply got me off the hook and gave us both a good laugh. I groped my way back out of the cockpit, feeling a bit like I had just been at sea, and began my tour up and down the aisle again looking for anything to do.
I'm not sure my feet touched the ground for a long time, and although I never did learn how to fly, I always look longingly at the co-pilot's seat when I get on a flight. And whenever I find myself in a situation of over-correcting anything that requires finesse, I remember my few moments as a co-pilot and try to stay the course.
BDM London '73
White Knuckles
Fear of flying is a common problem for passengers; more so in the earlier days of flight travel when many travelers would be taking their first flight.
I had a flight with one such passenger. She was middle-aged, and about to experience her first take-off. As we were checking seat backs, seat belts, and hand baggage, I noticed her sitting in a window seat looking out at the wing and crying. I stopped and asked her if she needed anything.
"No, dear, I am just terrified. I know it makes no sense to you, but I cannot stop myself from feeling afraid for my life." She put her head down into her clutched tissue and cried a bit harder.
"May I sit with you during take-off?" I wasn't sure if it was legal for me to be away from my jump-seat, but it seemed important enough to give it a try.
She looked up at me with an astonished expression and asked, "Oh, would you please? That would be wonderful."
Her row of three seats was empty, so it was an easy thing to do. I slid into the seat next to her, buckled up, and we held hands as the jet took off. When the jet rumbled down the runway, accelerating and creaking, she put her tissue over her eyes and her grip on my hand was almost painful. I wasn't sure she was going to make it without falling to pieces, but she quietly hid her face and held on for dear life. I can remember trying to make small talk to distract her, but she couldn't even respond.
Then we floated into the air, and could see the lovely lights below. It was a view of which I never tired, to see the receding lights and stress of civilization as we climbed into the clouds. She slowly released her grip and gave me a weak smile.
"We're up!" I laughed.
"Thank you, my dear. I think I will be fine now." She heaved a sigh of relief and looked a bit more composed than I had expected.
"My pleasure, ma'am. I will check back with you in awhile, and if you need anyone before that, just push this button and we will know to come and see you." I pointed out the button on the armrest, her lifeline to relief.
The rest of that flight was uneventful for everyone involved, but I don't think I had ever felt more useful to a passenger. I am now a physician and often have the opportunity to hold hands with patients who also have fears. Each time I think of that woman and her brave journey into the unknown.
BDM, London '73
Fear of flying is a common problem for passengers; more so in the earlier days of flight travel when many travelers would be taking their first flight.
I had a flight with one such passenger. She was middle-aged, and about to experience her first take-off. As we were checking seat backs, seat belts, and hand baggage, I noticed her sitting in a window seat looking out at the wing and crying. I stopped and asked her if she needed anything.
"No, dear, I am just terrified. I know it makes no sense to you, but I cannot stop myself from feeling afraid for my life." She put her head down into her clutched tissue and cried a bit harder.
"May I sit with you during take-off?" I wasn't sure if it was legal for me to be away from my jump-seat, but it seemed important enough to give it a try.
She looked up at me with an astonished expression and asked, "Oh, would you please? That would be wonderful."
Her row of three seats was empty, so it was an easy thing to do. I slid into the seat next to her, buckled up, and we held hands as the jet took off. When the jet rumbled down the runway, accelerating and creaking, she put her tissue over her eyes and her grip on my hand was almost painful. I wasn't sure she was going to make it without falling to pieces, but she quietly hid her face and held on for dear life. I can remember trying to make small talk to distract her, but she couldn't even respond.
Then we floated into the air, and could see the lovely lights below. It was a view of which I never tired, to see the receding lights and stress of civilization as we climbed into the clouds. She slowly released her grip and gave me a weak smile.
"We're up!" I laughed.
"Thank you, my dear. I think I will be fine now." She heaved a sigh of relief and looked a bit more composed than I had expected.
"My pleasure, ma'am. I will check back with you in awhile, and if you need anyone before that, just push this button and we will know to come and see you." I pointed out the button on the armrest, her lifeline to relief.
The rest of that flight was uneventful for everyone involved, but I don't think I had ever felt more useful to a passenger. I am now a physician and often have the opportunity to hold hands with patients who also have fears. Each time I think of that woman and her brave journey into the unknown.
BDM, London '73
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)