CHAPTER 8

   

      Statue of Liberty

 

          "Give me your tired, your poor,

           Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,

           The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.”

 

          Friday, 4^th July 1986

 

      I felt a little “tired”...but I wasn’t “poor.”  Although, I did feel a bit “huddled” in the cramped cockpit of this Boeing 737...”yearning to breathe free.”  As for being “wretched refuse”...perhaps I had indeed imbibed to excess with bourbon the night before.

     So why were verses from Poet Emma Lazarus’ “The New Colossus” rattling round my brainpan, dear reader?  In a word: inspiration.

     No doubt caused by the view I had of the floodlit Statue of Liberty, far below, off the left nose of my 737.

     If memory serves me correctly, we were coming from Atlanta, Georgia, and currently descending above New York Bay after 10:P.M.  It was “my leg” (my turn to fly) and I was executing a STAR (Standard Instrument Arrival) to La Guardia.  Once again I was acting first officer, in the right seat, while Capt. Carlyle – White male, 42, dark hair - handled all radio transmissions from the left seat.

     And what in blue hades was I doing back in New York?  No doubt you’re asking yourself, dear reader.

     To make a very long story short, the tumblers of the universe began turning last year, during the spring of 1985, in their diabolical plot to return me to the States.  SAUDIA decided to “reward” me by sending me down to the short-haul, twin-engined B-737. 

     B-737 at Jeddah International.

      In spite of being elevated to the rank of captain, there was minimal consolation in this fact, since I was restricted to flight operations solely inside the Kingdom. 

     The above locations in Saudi Arabia serviced by the B-737.

     This meant no more exploring the world on great layovers - as I was stuck “humping” the desert domestically - which resulted in less money and days off.

     The Boeing 737-200A was a fat, stubby jetliner, capable of hauling 111 passengers.  It contained an APU (Auxiliary Power Unit), a small Garrett jet engine in its tail, which supplied compressed air for engine starts, ran all the electrics, including the air stairs, and one air conditioning pack on the ground.  It required a crew of two (pilot and co-pilot) and to conserve fuel, we usually cruised at Mach 0.72 (420 knots – 483 mph).  Its Pratt & Whitney turbofan engines could take us to a maximum altitude of 37,000 Feet, and, basically it was a good, honest and reliably safe aircraft.

     Even so, there was the matter of physical comfort in the cockpit, while slaving over the same boring domestic routes, day after day, operating from one desert shithole to the next.  In point of fact, because of the desert’s heat overcoming our single air conditioning pack on the ground, the comfort factor was negligible.  As our legs were barely a half hour in duration – shortly after reaching cruise altitude and cooling the cockpit with both air conditioning packs - it was time to descend back into Hades. 

    Saudi Arabia.

     To combat the cockpit’s average 105°F temperature, required the implementation of the following.  Firstly: I shaved my head (like my dad and his dad – my hair was thinning out on top anyway) which reduced my overheated body temperature by 5°F.  Secondly: I wore a white towel around my neck.  Immediately before takeoff, I’d wipe the copious sweat out of my eyes with the towel’s left end – then the copious sweat off my hands with its right end – grab the controls and launch.  Just before landing, I’d have to repeat this procedure.

     Never, dear reader, and I mean never, mix up the towel’s ends.  Left is always for eyes – right is always for hands.  I did mix them up once, and came down with a terrible eye infection!

     As my third two-year contract was coming up for renewal with SAUDIA – I commenced looking for a way out of this miserable situation.  Flying was supposed to be “fun.”  Not a journey in hell.

      A typical sand storm engulfing Riyadh.

A sample of the passengers, and their livestock, I was hauling to various desert shitholes.

     Hunting falcons.

     So I handed in my notice and resigned - collecting all my salaries and bonuses owed me - packed up and moved back to the States.  I arrived on my attorney’s doorstep in Los Angeles, California, who took pity on me as a miserable, displaced refugee - welcoming me at his beautiful home in Bel Air – while I recovered from my stateside culture shock.   Arriving in the middle of March 1986, my hiatus was short-lived; by the middle of April I was once again gainfully employed and moved to the East Coast.

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