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The 3rd of July, 1984, arrived, and on that day I was doing a rare standby. During the past year I had been exclusively bidding eastbound trips. Avoiding westbound trips - especially New York - having gotten a gut-full of the “Big Apple” during my six weeks of training at the start of 1983. Naturally “Murphy’s Law” caught up with me - on the only day I was doing a standby that month – for my tired, old aviator’s butt got dispatched to JFK.
We flew the “Great Circle-Route” via Ireland. Check it out on a globe, and you’ll see this is the most direct route.
The trip went smoothly without a hitch; except for one extremely uncomfortable two-hour period, over the North Atlantic, when the sun didn’t move off my right shoulder.
Honest to God, I felt in the pit of my stomach we were lost. Upon checking, and double checking, our Inertial Navigation Systems’ Control Display Unit, it kept telling me: “Relax. Stop your whining. You’re not lost. The three of us know exactly where you are.” Oh yes, dear reader, we had three Litton INSs, in “Triple Mix,” talking to each other and comparing notes.
I hadn’t flown this close to the Arctic Circle before – where apparently this uncomfortable phenomenon can occur. Imagine my relief, when the sun subsequently crept behind my right shoulder.
JFK International Airport, New York City.
After arriving at JFK, a crew buss took us to Manhattan.
Manhattan Island, New York City.
Manhattan in 1984: Note the twin towers of the World Trade Center. The “good old days” prior to 9/11.
On the way, we passed an enormous graveyard just off the expressway - forested by a massive field of grave stones jammed one on top of the other.
The sight of which, for some inexplicable reason, depressed hell out of me, dear reader.
My spirits rose, however, when we were dropped off at the Grand Central Hyatt (109 East 42nd – Grand Central Terminal). It offered the very height of New York luxury – all on SAUDIA’s nickel – Allah bless them!
The Hyatt’s Lobby at Christmas.
The location was also perfect. Merely a leisurely five-block stroll down 42nd Street to Broadway and Times Square – loaded with the best bars, restaurants and theaters in the world.
Times Square, Manhattan.
The next day was the 4th of July! Therefore I decided to hook up with a British Flight Attendant that had crewed my flight.
Sarah and Me at The Creek in Jeddah, Saudi Arabia.
Sarah was the cutest, petite, blue-eyed, blond-export from Surrey, England, who had ever crossed the Atlantic. Fortunately, SAUDIA had based her in New York, and she was delighted to blow off old King George and celebrate the 4th with me.
The sexy little traitor!
We took in lunch at Sardi’s.
This was a hangout for all the show-biz folks.
After lunch we grabbed a Broadway Musical: “A Chorus Line.”
Then we snagged a movie, a flying film of course: “The Right Stuff.” About the first Mercury-7 Astronauts.
Later, we had a late night supper at Lindy’s.
Afterwards, Sarah whisked me off to a church – which had gone bust and was converted to a trendy disco – where we danced and drank the night away.
And for a moment, dear reader, I fell under the “Big Apple’s” spell. I was having such a blast - exposed to all this luxury, booze, pork, fun and sex – perhaps I should reconsider bidding westbound trips. Sadly, I temporarily forgot New York’s mean streak which, upon occasion, tends to bite one squarely on the rump. Ask any New Yorker.
The next day I surfaced at noon with a hangover – had room service bring a tall Bloody Mary, with eggs Benedict and lots of coffee – while I placed a call to Miami.
My room at the Hyatt.
I caught a flying buddy at home, I had known at Air Florida, and wished him a belated happy 4th of July. He sounded down in the dumps – when I queried him - he laid a bombshell on me. Air Florida had gone bankrupt, closing its doors on the 3rd of July, 1984. True to form, Air Florida Management ran that slick, new airline right into the ground. Now all those good people - who believed in the dream that was Air Florida, and slaved for that dream, taking sub-industry-standard wages - were pounding the bricks looking for work.
Air Florida’s crash in the frozen Potomac River had finally caught up with them.
Had I played the political game and gotten along with Air Florida Management, dear reader, I also would be currently broke and knocking on doors. Instead, I’m lying here in the lap of New York luxury, on my king-sized bed, with sweet, sexy, petite Sarah at my side nursing my hangover. Thank God Air Florida Management threw me away. How else would I have ever gotten on the 747? I’ve said it once...and I’ll probably say it again before this book is finished...the airline business is totally insane.
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