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Air Florida had a contract with a casino in Freeport, on Grand Bahama Island, in the Bahamas, to deliver nightly full-loads of gamblers from Fort Lauderdale.
Freeport, Bahamas: gamblers’ paradise (pair-a-dice?).
When assigned to this detail, I’d usually fly four legs round the state first – ending up at Miami – then fly the six-minute trip empty from Miami to Fort Lauderdale. Since the leg was so short, we never carried passengers – it was always a ferry flight.
We’d arrive at Fort Lauderdale usually by 6:P.M., whereby the company was required to provide the pilots with “dinner”; consisting of a cardboard box containing a stale ham and cheese sandwich, an apple, and ice cream cup. As the flight attendants got nothing – and I was stuck in the cockpit up to my eyeballs with the weight & balance and other paperwork, while the captain ran a preflight outside – out of guilt, I’d get on the PA and make the following announcement: “If anybody wants my box lunch...report to the cockpit.”
Usually a smiling stewardess would then appear – relieve me of my “box Lunch” – getting it out of the way, so I could continue wrestling with the paperwork. We barely had a half-hour on the ground – so everything was rushy-rushy.
AF Flight Attendants, dead on their feet, taking a well deserved break.
However, on this one particular flight in the middle of June 1978, a rather odd event occurred upon making my usual PA announcement. A distinguished gentleman in his forties, wearing a three-piece suit, materialized in the cockpit’s doorway, and said, “I’ll take that box lunch.”
Remember, dear reader, our jetliner was supposed to be empty – we had just completed a ferry flight – so who was this stranger? Then I figured maybe he’s an FAA inspector – they were usually riding with us during the day checking our performance – although, never at night going out of the country.
Confused, I handed him the box lunch – he nodded his thanks and vanished. I went back to my paperwork.
Shortly thereafter, a huffing and puffing, red-faced stewardess arrived in the cockpit’s doorway. Apparently she had been way back in the tail section, and had run all the way up here. After catching her breath, she blurted out, “My God, Pete, we’ve got passengers on board! Didn’t you hear about the change? It’s not a ferry flight anymore!”
A passenger, dear reader, was happily munching away on my free, stale “pilot’s dinner.”
Air Florida had introduced a new route – upon getting approval - to haul revenue passengers on the extremely short leg between Miami and Fort Lauderdale. Naturally, the pilots were the last to know.
And thus the first clue, concerning an airline’s longevity, was dropped in my lap that night, dear reader. In future, whenever I wanted to check on how well, or how badly, an airline was doing – I’d always ask an air stewardess. For she’s usually privy as to what routes are being picked up or dropped, which bases are opening or closing, what aircraft are to be bought or sold off, and, of paramount importance, if the airline is filing for Chapter 11 bankruptcy. No doubt you’re asking yourself: “How on earth could she possibly acquire such sensitive intelligence?” In two words: “pillow talk.”
One of the company’s top executives (married or not) is always “balling” a beautiful stewardess, who will at length ask: “Gee, honey...you look worried tonight. What’s wrong, baby? Tell momma all about it.” The executive then unloads on her – swearing her to secrecy. She in turn tells her air hostess BFF. And, as the old saying goes: “Telegraph, telephone and tell a woman.” Remember, dear reader, if you ever think an airline is in trouble always ask the air stewardess.
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In the middle of November, 1978, the U.S. Special Political Parole Program for Cuban political prisoners and their families was authorized. At the time I was completely unaware of this. Nevertheless, this decision would impact my life.
Consequently, December 16th, 1978, arrived, and on that day, I was stretched out on my massive-modular, Haitian-cotton couch, having a croissant and coffee - enjoying Good Morning America - when the phone rang. It was Air Florida Dispatch informing me to report for a flight “Pronto.” Since I was on standby that day, I rapidly slipped on my uniform, and sped to the airport in my compact Honda Civic.
Upon signing in at dispatch, I was informed I’d be operating a charter to Cuba!
“B-But isn’t C-Cuba on the U.S. Embargo List?” I countered in disbelief.
“Yes...” dispatch replied. “Don’t sweat it. You’re going anyway.”
And before I could catch my breath, or fully appreciate the situation, I was launching out of Miami International in an empty DC-9 headed southwest to Havana!
José Martí International sits south of Havana.
My captain was a towheaded “kid” in his late thirties by the name of Olsen; whom I’d never laid eyes on before. Our three flight attendants were daughters of Cuban refugees, which had stealthily slipped onto Miami beaches in leaking, sinking boats.
The girls were born in the States and totally bilingual (in case we experienced a communications problem with the Cuban authorities). The Air Florida stewardess was issued a soft, clingy, figure-hugging dress, in a shimmering royal beige or blue.
Their “uniforms” were comfortably-slinky and, on a “stacked” Cuban woman, quite sexy.
Yes...those are plastic drinking cups! The FAs were always playing pranks on me.
So why, dear reader, was Mrs. Chisholm’s little boy breaking all the embargo rules by flying to Cuba?
We were rescuing remnants of the “Bay of Pigs Invaders” who had been rotting away in Cuban prisons for the past seventeen years. These political prisoners were being released, along with their families, in return for U.S. trade concessions. Eastern Airlines held the original contract for this job, except they had somehow upset the Cuban Government, and were rudely dropped. Humbly, Air Florida leaped into the breach.
Havana sits roughly 248 miles southwest of Miami and, as it was such a short distance, we climbed to 26,000 feet, where it took us a half-hour to get down there. Even so, because José Martí International had an archaic, low-frequency, NDB instrument approach, it required an additional eight minutes to shoot the whole approach; while punching blindly through layer upon layer of stratus cloud throughout our descent.
Evidently the Cuban air traffic controllers lacked the skill, or equipment, to radar vector us to final approach, hence requiring us to drag our butts around the drawn-out, old-fashioned instrument approach.
It struck me as odd, dear reader, that a major international airport serving Havana wouldn’t have an ILS or, at the very least, a VOR instrument landing system. Instead, they only had these two, low-frequency NDB radio beacons – designed to line us up on final approach – left over from the pre-war, Stone Age of instrument flying.
So we dropped down to 2,000 feet and flew over the first radio beacon – which sat eight tenths of a mile off the end of Runway Five (050°/230° magnetic, NE/SW) – then turned to a westerly heading and holding it for 45 seconds. Afterward we made a 180 to the left – completing a huge teardrop - and tracked inbound to the second radio beacon on a heading of 052° magnetic; while descending to 1,700 feet.
Upon crossing this second radio beacon, we were 4.8 miles from the end of Runway Five, and began our descent to the MDA (Minimum Descent Altitude) of 610 feet. This would place us 400 feet above ground level, as the airport sat at 210 feet above sea level. At that point if we didn’t have the runway in sight, we’d have to make a missed approach, climbing back in the clouds for the missed approach procedure.
As we tracked inbound – back to the first radio beacon - and passed 800 feet, we finally broke free of the last stratus cloud layer, much to our relief, and got our first glimpse of the ground. Nearly three miles in front of us lay a pine forest, slashed by a narrow, empty strip of black asphalt.
Instantly my left testicle set off a red warning light in the back of my brain, dear reader. Since all international airports, I’d ever seen, were surrounded by crowded industrial parks with loads of crappy motels; never a forest. This didn’t “look right.”
I picked up my mic and radioed the tower we had the runway in sight.
At least I think that’s the runway.
The tower cleared us to land on Runway Five - in a Cuban accent – and gave us the wind direction and speed: “Zero two zero at six knots” - a slight crosswind off our left nose.
Subsequently, as we crossed the runway’s threshold – giving me a better, close up view of the entire runway – that’s when my left testicle really got uncomfortable.
It didn’t appear or “feel” like a runway, dear reader. There were no white threshold markers, no lead-in or strobe lights, no 1,000-foot touchdown markers. Hell! It didn’t even have a basic centerline marker! It was simply a strip of narrow, bare asphalt that disappeared over a rise in the middle of a thick pine forest!
Capt. Olsen made a greasy-smooth touchdown on the main landing gear, then – after our nose wheels gently kissed the asphalt – we ran over a railroad track cutting across the middle of the runway!
In all of the hundreds of runways I’ve ever landed on – at this point and in the future – I’ve never encountered a railroad track, dear reader. This was all wrong!
Immediately, Olsen mumbled aloud exactly what I was thinking: “Jesus...I hope to shit this is a runway.”
And that’s when my left testicle began shouting at me: “You idiots have landed on a road! You’ve landed on a fucking road, and you’re going to join those political prisoners, locked up for the rest of your lives, in a Cuban prison!”
Capt. Olsen and I never noticed the railroad tracks on the approach plate until we landed.
A train chugging across the runway! Note the absence of any runway markers – just bare asphalt.
As this crushing cloud of doom and gloom descended on me similar to a ton of bricks – the pine forest off to my right abruptly fell away – exposing a Russian MiG-19 fighter in Cuban Air Force markings.
Had I been able, dear reader, I would have leapt from our DC-9 – ran up to that MiG – hugged it and planted a big kiss on its snout! For it meant we weren’t on a road!
Following that, in the distance, I caught sight of a solitary Russian Tu-154 tri-jet, in “Cubana” livery, parked on a ramp in front of a grey, two-story, blockhouse type building.
Welcome to “José Martí – La Habana,” dear reader.
Olsen called for the “After Landing Checklist.” Which I used in getting the flaps up, the speed brakes down, and firing up the Garrett APU (Auxiliary Power Unit - a small, auxiliary jet engine in the tail section – providing pneumatic and electrical power).
“What the fuck is this guy’s problem?” Olsen exclaimed.
I glanced outside and discovered a Russian jeep, covered by a canvas top with plastic windows, speeding down the center of the runway – zeroing in on our nose!
‘What the fuck,’ indeed!
Without delay, Olsen applied brakes and slowed our taxi to a crawl.
Approximately 50 yards out, the jeep slammed on its brakes – slid to a halt – then spun round in a tight 180. A large white sign on the rear of the jeep appeared, stating: “FOLLOW ME” - in outsized red letters.
Once again, dear reader, in future I’ll never experience this at any of the major international airports I will operate to worldwide. The “Follow Me” jeep is usually exclusive to military airfields.
So we followed the Russian jeep and he got us parked, way the hell and gone from the terminal building, on an isolated portion of the ramp. After chocking our nose wheels, the driver jumped back in his jeep and sped off.
Upon transferring all electrics and one of the air conditioning packs to the APU – we shut down both engines and secured the cockpit.
I then got all our paperwork in order for the Cuban authorities – fully expecting a visit from a bearded, cigar chomping, hard-bitten ex-Castro guerilla, morphed to a communist bureaucrat.
I was going to call one of our stews forward to act as interpreter – when the “communist bureaucrat” materialized out of thin air.
I was so stunned by what popped into our cockpit, dear reader; I would have joined the Communist Party then and there!
My “communist bureaucrat” was a young, striking redhead – wearing her luxurious, long hair in a single, thick braid down her back – and possessed the most brilliant green eyes I’ve ever seen! She wore a Russian, olive-drab shirt jack, with shoulder boards, and sported snug, American blue jeans and sneakers. By her trim, athletic body, she was either a gymnast or dancer - plus the American accent was strictly New York and switched on.
She asked if we required catering, our toilets serviced, re-fueling or a power cart. I thanked her, telling her all that had been taken care of before we left Miami. As for the power cart, it wasn’t necessary as we had an APU. She then took all my paperwork - assuring me she’d reappear later with a passenger manifest and flight plan for our return trip to Miami. Afterwards “my dreamy commie-redhead” vanished.
Olsen and I looked at each other and shook our heads in wonder. So far, the Cubans were plainly chock-full of surprises.
One of our Latina stews stuck her head in the cockpit, and said, “Arriba, Muchachos! Let’s blow this fire trap and do some souvenir shopping!”
“We’re right behind you, Chica!” Olsen laughed.
The DC-9 had its own built-in, retractable air stairs, which the girls had already extended. So we shut down the APU, secured the cockpit, closed the L-1 passenger door - in case it rained - and began our long trek across the wide, empty concrete ramp.
As we left, another Russian jeep pulled up to our DC-9 and parked. It was also canvassed covered; preventing one from seeing what it contained. Two men got out – one stationed himself at the air stairs – the other at the DC-9’s tail. Obviously they were guarding our aircraft. They wore Russian shirt jacks, with shoulder boards and service caps, in olive-drab. However, these men were totally unarmed – no assault rifles or side arms.
And that’s when I at last twigged, dear reader.
Prompting me to genuinely examine my surroundings - assimilating what I had been exposed to. Aside from the Russian Tu-154 - and a couple of Russian helicopters parked too distant for me to identify – there was nothing on this immense ramp in front of the terminal; nothing going out – or coming in. An obsolete, pre-war instrument landing system, no runway lead-in or strobe lights, no proper runway markings, no industrial parks with crappy motels, no air traffic of any type, and no vehicles, aircraft or people moving on this massive ramp. The place was a ghost town! So why would these guards need weapons?
This was a major international airport serving the capital city of Havana, dear reader. So what the fuck was going on?
Fundamentally this: I was witnessing the effects of the U.S. Embargo on this “communist worker’s paradise.” No infrastructure; equals no activity...of any sort.
Inside the terminal building we found the same story. A huge, empty hall with empty counters - no shops whatsoever - not even a news kiosk - and no security officers packing any visible weapons.
I had to bring back a souvenir; proof I had been to Cuba.
So I exchange two bucks at a bank - getting Cuban Pesos in return – and practically pleaded with a couple of reluctant immigration officers to stamp my U.S. Passport with Cuban entrance and exit stamps. Consequently, as I was in my black airline uniform with gold wings, sleeve stripes and cap device – indicating I was with Air Florida and would shortly leave the country – they at length caved in and stamped my passport. By their looks, I could tell they thought I was one nutty gringo.
After we drank an excellent Café Cubano – recharging on a heavy dose of caffeine - it was time to prep our DC-9 for departure. And as we started that long, empty trek from the terminal, a yellow, antiquated Russian school bus, crammed full of people, pulled up to the terminal’s entrance. Apparently these were our passengers. Then a group of emigration officers boarded it, carrying clipboards, obviously taking a head count.
At which point, something rather strange occurred – I heard a guitar begin to play – then a large group of people singing "Guantanamera"("woman from Guantánamo"). Stopping dead in my tracks, I glanced backward, and was surprised to find a crowd of people on the third-floor observation deck of the terminal building.
In future I would learn, dear reader, that José Fernandez had originally written this song in 1929, and subsequently its lyrics had been adapted from José Martí’s poetry by Julián Orbón; elevating it to an unofficial anthem for the Cuban people. In 1966 a group called The Sandpipers put out another version, which swept to the top of the U.S. and U.K. music charts.
I turned away and continued my trek. Olsen had gone on ahead towards the DC-9, although our Cuban flight attendants had stopped, and were looking up at the singing crowd. As I drew alongside them, I noted they were holding hands and wiping tears from their eyes. I came to a halt, and asked, “What’s h-happening, girls?”
One of them turned to me, and replied, “Those people singing are friends and family of our passengers. This is the only way they can say goodbye. Our families never got to say goodbye. They had to sneak outta Cuba in the middle of the night.”
I reached out and patted one of the girls on the shoulder, saying, “T-Take as long as you want. We’ll wait for you...there’s no rush.”
The girls nodded their thanks, and wiped away more tears. I moved out.
When I reached the DC-9, I waved to the guard, who waved back, then discovered Olsen had already opened the passenger entry door and cranked-up the APU. Currently he was performing his preflight walk-around back at the tail section.
Preparing for departure.
I climbed aboard, stowed my hat and coat, sat in the right seat, and began the paperwork. “My dreamy commie redhead” once again materialized in the cockpit – handing me the passenger manifest and flight plan. I looked it over – then Olsen arrived – and I handed him the bits he had to sign. The redhead took her copies and departed. I went back to work on the weight & balance.
Afterward, one of the stews advised us the passengers were arriving. I glanced outside and saw the Russian school bus pulling up to our air stairs. Women and kids commenced entering our aircraft along with the political prisoners. And this is where it got eerie.
Back in the States, dear reader, when flying Cuban charters for local travel clubs, Christ on a cracker, were those people noisy! They didn’t talk – they shouted and screamed - while their kids ran up and down the aisle, also screaming, as though they were a wild pack of Indians on a raiding party! Even with the cockpit door closed, you could hear the racket. At times it got so unruly and bad; a stewardess would slip into the cockpit to “hide.”
Oddly, this group of Cubans were different; they were dead quiet. They didn’t even talk – while their kids were well behaved and, most importantly, silent!
“What the hell kind of Cubans are these?” I thought to myself, dear reader. Then I realized...these are Castro’s Cubans.
As for the few political prisoners I could spot, they were generally old in appearance beyond their years – grey to white hair, with pasty-white skin. Three had to be brought aboard on stretchers – making me wonder if they’d make it to the States alive.
It was my leg back to Miami, and I attempted to give those folks the smoothest ride possible.
After all, dear reader, hadn’t these poor people been through enough?
Nevertheless, when I greased it on at Miami, there was this literal explosion of cheering, clapping, whistling and shouting. And, of course, the kids began running up and down the aisle like whooping red Indians! Driving our stews to drink!
So explain it to me, dear reader. What is it about American freedom that makes people act so nuts?
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