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     Alcoholism, I was discovering, is a shadowy figure that lurks among some of the best airline pilots.  And, in spite of the pressure and stress in the cockpit when things go wrong, amazingly, I’ve also found that a few pilots fly one hell of a lot better half in the bag.

     One such pilot was Captain Cardinale, a rangy, haggard individual with thinning salt and pepper hair (formerly a USAF fighter pilot, who had flown F-86 Sabres against Commie MiG-15s, in his youth during the Korean War). 

     When we crossed paths, Cardinale was in his early fifties and had recently experienced a traumatic divorce.  Slaving overseas to support his wife back in the States, with two grown daughters at university, required loads of money and long absences.  Refusing to join him in Arabia, his bored, restless wife decided one day to run off with the muscular pool-boy to Mexico – selling the house and emptying all their bank accounts.

     Never, dear reader, - I mean never - get a divorce in California.  The breadwinner always gets raped!

     Naturally the daughters sided with mom (she had all the money) – cutting off all contact with Cardinale due to his being broke.  The poor sap genuinely loved that woman and his daughters – is it any wonder he drank.

     We were assigned to operate SAUDIA Flight 386 – Jeddah to Manila via Riyadh and Singapore - leaving Jeddah on 16^th August, 1983, in our 747.

     And here, dear reader, was what I was discovering about long haul flying:

   At the beginning of the flight one is bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.

     Later comes the struggle to stay awake and keep one’s sandpaper eyes open.

     We made the stop at Riyadh’s new King Khalid International Airport - which boasted two parallel runways at almost 14,000 feet in length - on schedule.  Its terminal resembled a beautiful Italian-marbled palace, and, ultimately, the airport would be designated as an alternate landing site for NASA’s Space Shuttle. 

 

     All was going smoothly at Riyadh, until we got ready for “push-back” from the gate.  A huge, squat, heavy tug was hooked up to our nose wheels, waiting to push us backwards out onto the taxiway.  During which we would start our four, ginormous fan-jet engines, one at a time.

     The “Tug” hooked up for “Push-Back.”

     The “Jetway” or “Air Bridge” at Riyadh International.

     I heard the SAUDIA Purser - a young, attractive Filipina – call Cardinale on the interphone, and ask if she could close the main L-1 passenger door.  To which Cardinale replied, “Yes, dear...please close the door.”

     At which point Cardinale called for the Before Starting Engines Checklist.  Which I proceeded to read aloud, as it was Cardinale’s leg (his turn to fly).  As I read the checklist, Cardinale and then the flight engineer, an American with tons of flight hours, made the proper verbal responses to my challenges. 

     This was a rare occurrence, dear reader, to have an all American flight crew.  Usually I was flying with Saudis, or Saudi and European flight crews.  However, for the life of me, I can’t remember the American flight engineer’s name.

     I got half way through the checklist - when the purser interrupted me - calling Cardinale again on the interphone, and asked if she could close the door.  Impatiently, Cardinale responded once more, “Yes, dear...please close the door.”

     After I completed the checklist, since we had already gotten clearance to “Push” from ground control, Cardinale called the ramp mechanic on the interphone, and told him, “You’re cleared to push-back.” 

     To which the mechanic answered, “Gear pins removed...release the brakes.”

     Cardinale applied toe pressure to both rudder pedals – causing the parking brake lever on the center console to snap forward – removed his feet from the rudder pedals, and stated on the interphone, “Brakes released...time one five.”

     We could actually hear the muffled roar of the tug, attached to our behemoth nose wheels’ strut 30 feet below, as it revved up – then commenced to push.  At first we started moving backward normally – then followed a series of abnormal rocking vibrations – coming to a grinding halt.  Cardinale snatched up his mic and yelled over the interphone, “STOP THE PUSH...STOP THE PUSH!  Something’s wrong!”  The mammoth tug on the nose wheels ceased “pushing,” and shut down.

     I then heard the flight engineer behind me; exclaim in amazement, “Oh my God...the L-1 door is open!”

     Cardinale looked over his right shoulder, saw the L-1’s amber annunciator light illuminated on the flight engineer’s panel, and snarled, “Who in fuck opened the door?”

     Who indeed, dear reader?

     This is what happened: The young Filipina Purser, who was new at her promotion, had in reality closed the L-1 door.  After which - while we finished up our checklist in the cockpit - she began to hear someone pounding on the door outside with his fist.

     There is a small, circular, thick, magnifying-glass type window at the top of the L-1 door.  It magnifies the ground below – in order that one can make sure a pool of fire isn’t waiting for one after a crash.  Checking this window - all the purser could see were giant, magnified teeth, fat lips and an oversized mustache – mouthing unintelligible words in a panic!

    The L-1 Door on the B-747.

     Now the purser has a dilemma – to open the door she has to get the captain’s permission – but maybe she could open it, just a little crack, to hear what’s wrong with this guy.

     Opening a jetliner’s door, even a crack, without the captain’s permission, dear reader, is like being only a little bit pregnant.  Both can have disastrous consequences.

     So the purser opens the door a crack, and this jerk of a Saudi Gate Agent pulls it fully open into the locked position.  He then steps aboard the aircraft, places his hands on his hips and demands to know, “Where is my clipboard?  What have you done with my clipboard?”

     This idiot had forgotten his clipboard, dear reader.  In true Arab fashion he won’t accept responsibility for his own stupidity – instead placing the blame on the female purser.

     To which the purser replies, “What clipboard?  What are you talking about?”

     At this point, however, their argument is interrupted by one of the first class passengers - who stands up, grabs his heart and points at the open doorway, screaming, “Oh my God!  WE’RE MOVING!”

     The idiot gate agent spins around – sees that the jetway is in fact moving – then “bravely,” in true Arab fashion, jumps off the 747 onto the passing air bridge and runs away.  Never to be seen again – without his precious clipboard – leaving the 98-pound Filipina Purser struggling alone to close the massive L-1 door!

     In the long run the petite purser loses the struggle – as the passing jetway relentlessly forces her back, and scrapes off the bulky escape-slide package from the base of the door.

     After all the excitement in the cockpit died down – and securing everything with more checklists – we all stepped out of the cockpit - entering the upper deck’s first class lounge;  a luxurious, comfortable area with couches and coffee tables.  Where Cardinale and the flight engineer could stretch out on a couch, un-jangle their nerves, and get their story straight; writing up their accident report in the 747’s maintenance log.

     The B-747’s upper deck first class lounge.

     Out of curiosity, I strolled down the spiral staircase to the main deck in first class. 

     There I came upon a strangely unnerving sight.  The L-1 door was still open, with the jetway covering scarcely half of the doorway.  Gazing outside through the doorway’s vacant, vertical slot, I could see all the way to the ground, and the rolled-out escape slide waving in the breeze as if it were a giant condom.  Why it didn’t inflate is anybody’s guess.

     An example of a deflated escape slide; waving in the breeze. 

     The Saudi gate agents; possessing the mentality of 12-year-olds.

     Returning to the first class lounge up stairs, I got there barely at a fortunate moment to hear a TWA mechanic ask Cardinale if he wanted the CVR (Cockpit Voice Recorder) tape pulled.

     To which, much to my surprise, Cardinale replied, “No.”

     At that instant, I knew he’d lost it, dear reader.  Being half in the bag was obviously affecting his reasoning.  While we were getting the cockpit ready for departure, Cardinale had told me a really dirty joke – which was on the tape and could be heard by the conservative Saudi management during the accident investigation.  In his inebriated state he was more worried regarding that dirty joke – than being blamed for this accident and losing his job.

     At that point I jumped right in, saying, “C-Captain you’re making a huge mistake.  I heard you tell the p-purser two different times to close the L-1 door.  That is on the tape and is your sole p-protection.”  Then I turned to the mechanic, without waiting for Cardinale’s response, and said, “Pull that CVR tape and get it to m-management in Jeddah.”

     I had just saved my alcoholic captain’s job.

     It didn’t take TWA maintenance long to install a new escape slide package, and check the L-1 door for airworthiness.  After roughly a two-hour delay, we were off like a rocket and touched down at Changi Airport, in Singapore, eight hours and 36 minutes later.

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