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