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On Tuesday, 19th August, 1980, I underwent my last training flight with Brian from Riyadh to Jeddah. Satisfied with my progress, he was going to recommend me for a “Line Qualifying Check-Ride” with the Saudi Equipment Manager.
The approach to Riyadh.
The old Riyadh International Airport.
This last flight with Brian, dear reader, would prove to be one I’d never forget.
My office.
If memory serves me correctly, it was 9:34 P.M. when we reached the Run-Up Apron of Runway One (010°/190° magnetic, NE/SW). As usual it was a clear night, with the green taxiway lights and white runway lights revealing the flat, empty desert surrounding Riyadh International. On the horizon to the east, I could make out the distant twinkling lights marking the edge of Riyadh’s City Limits. We were operating from Riyadh’s old original air base; the new Riyadh International Airport was still under construction.
After completing our before takeoff checks and briefing, I switched the #1 VHF Radio’s control head over to the Riyadh Control Tower’s frequency, picked up my mic, and transmitted the following: “Riyadh Tower...SAUDIA one five four is ready for takeoff at Runway One.”
As I waited for a response, I adjusted an ear plug of my lightweight, spindly Telex headset, which the company had issued to all cockpit crewmen. Since it was summer, and our 707s operated mainly in Africa and the Middle East, we weren’t required to wear jackets and ties. Therefore the three of us sat quite comfortably in the cockpit in our short-sleeved white airline shirts - decorated with black and gold epaulets plus gold wings – opened at the collar.
There was no response from the Control Tower.
“That’s odd...” Brian stated. “Try him again, Pete. There’s a good chap.”
“Riyadh Tower...SAUDIA one five four is ready for takeoff at Runway One,” I transmitted a second time.
Once again...there was no response; just dead air.
“That’s not right...something’s amiss,” Brian observed.
Then an excited Saudi voice broadcasted over the air without identifying itself: “SAUDIA one five four...standy...standy...”
We assumed it was Riyadh Tower, at which point the 707’s entire right side was lit up by flashing yellow lights. Glancing out my right side window, I saw emergency vehicles grind to a halt short of the runway on the service road beyond our 707’s right wing tip.
“Hey, Brian, I’ve got crash trucks over here,” I announced.
“Crash trucks?” Brian asked, surprised.
Before I could confirm, a new, excited Saudi voice transmitted over the radio: “Tower...SAUDIA one six three...”
Riyadh Tower answered: “Go ahead one six three...wind three two zero at five knots.”
Excitedly, SAUDIA Flight 163 replied, “One six three is cleared to land...uh...we have engine number two shut down...we have only one and three.”
“Copied one six three...emergency equipment standing by,” Riyadh Tower confirmed.
“Okay...” SAUDIA Flight 163 responded.
This was not the most professional conversation over the radio, dear reader. There was confusion - with a hint of panic. Apparently 163 had shut down its number Two engine and was operating on engines One and Three. Indicating it must be an L-1011 TriStar.
It was then I spotted two, descending, white lights resembling stars outside my right window - roughly three miles out - with a faint, white-flashing strobe light behind them.
“I’ve g-got one six three in sight, Brian...he’s on final approach,” I advised.
“Yeah...I see him, Pete”, Brian confirmed.
Then Riyadh Tower called us: “SAUDIA one five four... change back to Ground Control.”
I picked up my mic, and answered, “Roger...SAUDIA one five four is switching back to Ground Control.”
I switched #1 VHF Radio back to the second control head, which still held the Riyadh Ground Control frequency.
“I don’t like the sound of that, chaps...I think we’re buggered” Brian remarked.
“Riyadh Ground this is SAUDIA one five four. Over...” I transmitted.
“Roger, SAUDIA one five four...be advised the airport is now closed. What are your intentions?” Riyadh Ground Control asked.
“Dammit...I knew it,” Brian added sourly. “Tell him we want to go back to the gate, Pete.”
“Riyadh Ground...SAUDIA one five four requests clearance back to the gate,” I transmitted.
“Roger, SAUDIA one five four...cleared back to the gate,” Riyadh Ground Control responded.
Brian glanced over his shoulder at Flight Engineer Ahmad Bagharib – a Saudi male, 32, clean-shaven, full head of dark curly hair, a bit plump - seated between, and behind, myself and Brian at his F/E Station.
“Let’s get the old girl cleaned up before we taxi, Ahmad,” Brian suggested. Then he commanded, “After Landing Checklist.”
Ahmad Pulled out the checklist, and confirmed, “After Landing Checklist, Captain.”
Upon completing the checklist, Brian switched on the taxi lights and applied a little power. As we started to roll, using the nose wheel steering tiller – mounted next to his left knee (the co-pilot didn’t have one) - he swung the 707 in a tight 180° to the left.
Upon entering the taxiway – we turned right and paralleled the runway on its west side. Brian cut power and we rolled along with all four engines at idle.
We had lumbered down the taxiway barely 100 yards, when I spied SAUDIA Flight 163 glide past our right side. Sure enough, it was an L-1011-200 TriStar.
This is a massive, wide-body airliner containing three Rolls-Royce RB211 turbofans rated at 50,000 pounds of thrust each, propelling it to a 590 mph cruise, and providing a max takeoff weight of 474,000 lbs.
As the TriStar silently slid past us - then touched down on the runway - I was horrified to observe a long tongue of flame issuing from its center (No. Two) engine’s tailpipe!
The emergency vehicles, with flashing yellow lights, had already entered the runway and were chasing after the flaming TriStar.
By this time Brian had also sighted the TriStar, and exclaimed, “I’ll be gobsmacked! Get it stopped, Mohammed! Get those people off your aircraft!”
I couldn’t agree more, dear reader. In the case of an uncontrollable fire, the drill is simply this: Get it on the ground ASAP! Get it stopped! Shut down the engines and EVACUATE!
At once my horror evolved to shock! I couldn’t be witnessing this! The captain didn’t stop! Still trailing fire, he rolled clear to the end of the runway at high speed, performed a 180, which slowed him down, then proceeded to taxi back towards us on the opposite side of the runway! The emergency vehicles followed behind similar to “lost wee lambs.”
“Holy Christ, Brian,” I exclaimed. “He’s not stopping...s-surely he knows he’s on fire!”
“What?” Brian exploded. “He’s not evacuating?”
“No...,” I replied in disbelief. “He’s t-taxiing back towards us on the other side of the runway.”
“My God, man...,” Brian echoed my disbelief. “Those people should be evacuating by now! What the Devil is that captain thinking? Here’s our turnoff, Pete. Clear my right wing.”
Tearing my eyes off the flaming, flashing lights caravan on the far side of the runway, I looked ahead of us. We had reached the entrance to the parking apron - I checked our right wing for clearance – saw there was nothing there and announced, “Clear right.”
Brian then swung the 707 into a sharp left turn and we entered the apron. At which point I lost sight of the “flaming, lighted caravan.”
Off to our left was a line of parked SAUDIA B-737s and more TriStars. I then located our ground crew up ahead in white coveralls, waving flashlight wands, directing us to our parking bay. At present there were no jetways at this airfield. Instead, they used air conditioned busses and vans, to transport passengers and crews between the terminal and aircraft.
After offloading the passengers, our flight attendants and flight engineer abandoned us for the crew lounge – where they could eat, gossip and sleep. I chose not to join them – sacking out in one of the first class seats with a pillow and blanket.
Around midnight someone tapped me on the shoulder. Upon awakening, I discovered Brian standing over me with a pipe clenched in his teeth. All the interior lights had been extinguished, except for the galley lights, first class lounge lights, and the cockpit lights beyond. Our 707 didn’t possess an APU, therefore we were required to use an electrical cart and air conditioning cart, which, due to the 707’s sound proofing, I could faintly hear rattling away in the distance outside off the 707’s right nose.
As I stretched and yawned, shaking myself awake, Brian removed his pipe and said, “Wouldn’t you be more comfortable at the crew lounge, in the terminal, with the rest of our crew?”
“Uhh...t-thanks for asking, Brian,” I said. “I’m doin’ fine here.”
“I apologize for disturbing your beauty rest,” Brian continued. “There’s a chap that’s come aboard, which I think you should meet.”
Brian paused to light his pipe, and then said, “Listen to what this man has to say...it’ll give you a good idea as to what’s in store for you out here. Consider this a part of your line training that’s strictly off the record.”
From my vantage point, I could see a man seated in the far corner of the first class lounge – wearing white overalls. Dumping the blanket and pillow, I stood up and scanned my surroundings.
It’s a weird sensation, dear reader, being on a dark, empty passenger airliner at night. Glancing back at coach class - unable to penetrate its unnatural black cavity – a shiver climbed my spine. Making me feel for a moment I was on the “Flying Dutchman” - a ghost ship.
Shaking off my discomfort, I followed Brian to the lighted first class lounge. This was a private partitioned area - just before the L-1 main entrance door - consisting of four seats, arranged in pairs, facing each other on either side of a walnut table.
The B-707’s first class lounge.
First class etched-silver trays had been set out on the table - holding plates of sandwiches and dates, with two etched-silver coffeepots containing American and Arabic coffee - accompanied by gold-trimmed porcelain cups and saucers.
Seated in the far corner of this lounge, next to the window, I spied an American White male, 41, built similar to a ruggedly-handsome stevedore, with intelligent hazel eyes and a full head of chestnut hair. He also bore a five o’clock shadow with smudges of soot and grime coating his face, hands, and white overalls. Fatigue was deeply engraved on his features, and his movements resembled an arthritic old man, as he stubbed out a cigarette in the armrest’s ashtray. Immediately, he fumbled with an open pack of Marlboros - lighting up another fag with hands that trembled.
At the time, dear reader, I wondered why this guy was obviously in such bad shape. Sadly...I was about to find out.
Brian sat down next to him - and I took the seat opposite – facing Brian across the table. However, before I sat, I removed a copy of Ahlan Wasahlan (Hello and Welcome) from the seat, and dropped it in the seat next to me. This was SAUDIA’s in-flight magazine.
Brian looked at the gentleman seated next to him, saying, “Chris...meet a fellow Yank I’m currently checking out on the line.” Looking at me, Brian said, “Pete...Chris is a lead mechanic on loan to SAUDIA from TWA.”
Chris reached across with his right hand, as he said, “Chris Weighman...how are ya?”
I gripped his vice-like hand, saying, “Pete Chisholm...my p-pleasure.”
After we shook hands, I picked up the coffeepot with the American coffee, and poured myself a cup. Afterward I offered it to Chris, which he accepted, freshening up his own coffee. Then I spotted Brian pouring green Arabic coffee, made with cardamom, into a porcelain demitasse; followed by puffing on his pipe to relight it.
“Damn, Brian,” I said in disgust. “How in hell can you drink that g-green stuff...it tastes like turpentine.”
Puffing a wreath of smoke, Brian chuckled, saying, “In time it will grow on you, old bean...trust me.”
Chris reached over and offered me his pack of Marlboros.
“Uh...no thanks, Chris,” I said. “I d-don’t smoke.”
“Can’t blame you...,” Chris remarked. “It’s a nasty, filthy habit. Do you mind if I smoke?”
“Not one little bit,” I replied. “Besides, it smells g-good with the coffee.“
This brought a weary smile to Chris’s face.
Then Brian got serious, saying, “Chris...I know this is rather difficult for you. Even so, would you mind awfully telling Pete what you saw tonight?”
Chris rubbed his bloodshot eyes – took a drag, exhaled blue smoke, pulled himself together – then glanced up at me. After a long pause, he laid the bad news on me, saying, “That TriStar with the fire tonight was delivered to SAUDIA last year fresh from the factory. It was a relatively new bird...which really has us puzzled.” Chris took another drag, then said, “According to the manifest...flight one six three originated out of Karachi, with a stop at Riyadh, before going on to Jeddah. It had a crew of fourteen with two hundred eighty-seven passengers.”
Riyadh, Saudi Arabia, 1980.
Chris hesitated...as if this next part was impossible to say. “For absolutely no good reason whatsoever...I watched all those people die tonight.”
For me, dear reader, it was similar to being kneed in the nuts. I was that stunned.
T-That’s impossible!” I blurted out. “T-That TriStar landed. Those p-people were safe. Now you’re telling me they’re all d-dead? What the fuck?”
Wearily, and burdened with shame, Chris concurred, “What the fuck indeed.”
“My God, Chris, why...?” I asked; still unable to get my head around it. “W-Why are all those people dead?”
“The Saudi Captain never stopped that TriStar and initiated evacuation.” Having said that, Chris proceeded to describe the most unbelievable story I had ever heard in aviation.
Chris and a fellow mechanic had been chasing the emergency vehicles, with the flashing yellow lights, down the runway in a white SAUDIA Land Rover.
Only to overtake them at the runway’s far end, as this lighted caravan turned off onto the taxiway.
Chris observed the flaming TriStar turn off the runway at an excessive rate of speed – scrubbing the tires - causing them to smoke and lay rubber. Completing a 180, the TriStar continued on the taxiway, paralleling the runway, at high speed. Not once did it attempt to stop and initiate an evacuation.
After backtracking on the taxiway for several hundred yards - the TriStar slowed - then rolled to a gradual stop with engines One and Three still running. All of the emergency vehicles parked surrounding it – as Chris and the other mechanic exited their Land Rover.
Chris felt the TriStar lost speed as it was taxiing on an uphill grade, and at last rolled to a stop all by itself. He could hear the two remaining engines running at idle...making him think the pilots were either passed out or dead at that point.
By this time fire had already entered the TriStar’s aft passenger cabin – Chris observing flames through the windows - with smoke and people all crowded towards the front of the passenger cabin. They were fighting and screaming; for some reason they couldn’t get the doors open. It was Dante’s Inferno in there with 200 plus passengers – mostly Saudis, Pakistanis and a few Europeans – trampling women and kids in their panicked onslaught of the four forward doors.
Then he spied passengers collapsing from smoke inhalation, sourly observing, “You know how the fire-retardant materials the airlines use for their interiors make poison gas when they burn? Shit...those people didn’t stand a chance.”
Chris immediately ran for the emergency vehicle containing the Saudi Fire Chief – jerking open the passenger door - he pulled the Fire Chief out of the vehicle and pleaded with him to get the TriStar’s doors open so those passengers could escape! But the Fire Chief refused, as the engines were running. Saudi firemen aren’t allowed to fight a fire until the pilots shutdown the engines!
Chris screamed at him that the engines are running because the pilots are unconscious or dead!
Despite this, the Saudi Fire Chief was adamant.
So Chris and the other mechanic grabbed their tools and ran separately to the fuel access panels on both running engines. Upon opening the panels and closing the fuel valves – engines One and Three began winding down.
L-1011 Rolls-Royce RB211 turbofan rated at 50,000 pounds of thrust.
Running back to the Fire Chief, Chris and the Saudi started arguing again regarding opening the doors. After a good ten minutes – with tears in his eyes - much to his horror, Chris determined the Saudi Fire Chief was trying to save face!
SAUDIA had 20 TriStars operating in and out of Riyadh. Amazingly, neither the Saudi Fire Chief, nor his firemen, had ever trained on a TriStar! There are eight doors on the TriStar – four on each side. They hadn’t a clue where the doors were; let alone how to open them from the outside!
There are eight door escape slides on the TriStar, four doors per side.
About this time a ground crew arrived with the air stairs, mounted on the back of a truck.
The Air Stairs.
Chris had them drive the air stairs up to the TriStar’s R-2 door. Even though Chris spots flames above the aft fuselage – indicating the TriStar’s aft passenger cabin roof was melting!
By now twenty-three minutes had transpired since Chris, and his mechanic buddy, shut down the engines.
Chris charged up the air stairs with four Saudi Firemen following him. Accessing the door’s panel, Chris opened the R-2 Door. When it slid upward into the roof...flames and charred bodies, stacked up on the inside of the door, were blown out onto the air stairs! Forcing Chris and the firemen to retreat!
“By then, it was way the hell too late,” Chris added bitterly, as he stubbed out his cigarette.
“So...everybody was d-dead?” I asked.
“Oh yeah...,” Chris wearily replied. “In fact the fire rapidly became so intense it melted the entire passenger cabin’s roof.”
In the stunned silence that followed, Brian tapped the ash from his pipe inside a cut-crystal ashtray - then cleaned the Pipe’s bowl with a penknife.
“Let’s face it, chaps...,” Brain remarked. “If this accident had occurred at any capitol city in the Western World...all those people would still be alive and presently tucked safely away in their beds.” Brian reloaded his pipe with tobacco, then observed, “In contrast, as Islam lets them off the hook...where no one is held responsible for their actions...all this terrible waste of life tonight will be written off to the will of Allah. Mark my words. And herein lays the hypocrisy of the whole system.”
“I don’t understand, Brian, what do you mean by h-hypocrisy?” I asked.
”What happens on any SAUDIA flight to London, Paris or Rome, about one hour before arrival?” Brian asked.
”I haven’t the f-foggiest, old bean,” I quipped.
Brian chuckled, as he relit his pipe - puffing a huge wreath of blue smoke round his head – then responded, “Well let me enlighten you, old dear. Among both Saudi men and women there’s this mad dash for the loo...where they shed their thoubs and abayas for Gucci and Chanel.
Saudis at the start of a flight.
Saudis one hour prior to arrival.
Upon arrival at their Western destination, all decked out in Western duds, they’ve effectively shed Islam along with their Arab clothing. Allowing them to smoke, eat pork, dance, drink, gamble and screw themselves blind. Imbibing in all the forbidden fruits denied them here in the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia.”
After taking another drag on his pipe, Brian then said, ”Conversely, when they return to the Kingdom, off comes the Western clothes in favor of their Arab threads...enabling them once again to enter the austere Islamic world of self-denial and piety. It’s all for show, chaps...a total sham...the very height of hypocrisy.”
“So why do they bother with all this religious s-stuff in the first place?” I asked.
“To soothe their inferiority complex,” Brian answered.
“Forgive me for b-being so dense, Brian, but you’ve lost me,” I admitted.
“Not to worry, old man,” Brian said. “Let’s get back to basics. When’s the last time you saw a Catholic or Protestant Church...or a Buddhist or Jewish Temple in the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia?”
“Are you kidding?” I replied aghast. “N-Never. I’m told you can be arrested by the muttawwiun, or m-morals police, for just having a Bible!”
“Exactly my point,” Brian said. “There’s no religious tolerance in the Kingdom, which is the result of paranoid overkill from the Saudis’ insecure feeling of inferiority. On the other hand...by a Saudi immersing himself in Islam he’s allowed to feel superior to the infidel. It saves face...and therein lays the purpose of the exercise.”
Brian put down his pipe and took a sip of green Arabic coffee, before continuing, “In true Islamic fashion that Saudi Captain in command of flight one six three saved face tonight. As did the Saudi Fire Chief...resulting in the death of three hundred people.”
After another reflective drag on his pipe, Brian added, “They forgot that aviation doesn’t tolerate saving face, chaps. In flying it’s either black or white...there are no grey areas for negotiation. Either you have enough fuel to make the trip...or you don’t have enough fuel. Either the weather is good or it’s bad. Either you have a fire...or you don’t have a fire. There’s no room for wishful thinking, hypocrisy or saving face. When you ignore this fundamental truth...regardless of how much you lie to yourself to the contrary...aviation always rears up and severely bites you in the bum. Apparently, as she did tonight.”
All three of us fell silent after that - lost in the gravity of the situation.
Later that morning, as the sun’s white-hot disc was breaking through the haze on the horizon, Brian and I found ourselves launching off Runway One at Riyadh. The Saudis had finally reopened the airport for air traffic – at last we were on our way to Jeddah.
Right after we rotated and broke ground with a positive rate of climb, I retracted the landing gear and discovered SAUDIA Flight 163 out my right side window. The TriStar still sat on the taxiway that paralleled our runway – with its passenger cabin roof melted from the cockpit to the vertical tail - resembling a bizarre, charred, giant convertible with its top down.
Seven emergency vehicles were parked in a line, side by side, behind the TriStar’s left wing tip. Beyond these vehicles a band of 18 wild camels roamed freely - four of which dragged ropes trailing in the sand behind them - remnants of their previous captivity.
The air stairs were in place at the TriStar’s R-2 Door, with a dozen Red Crescent ambulances and vans parked helter-skelter around the bottom of the air stairs – receiving bodies. Twenty ambulance attendants in white moved among the ambulances, air stairs and inside the charred fuselage – collecting bodies. In spite of a light veil of grey smoke rising from inside the gutted fuselage – stacks of charred bodies could be detected at all four forward doors - where the doomed passengers fought and attempted to claw their way out.
Becoming sick to my stomach, dear reader; one jarring thought crossed my mind: Ahlan Wasahlan (Hello and Welcome) aboard Saudi Arabian Airlines. Do you feel lucky today?
After my departure more air stairs were brought in to speed up body removal.
Later that day a stewardess on a departing DC-8 snapped this photo.
During a very long time the TriStar sat like this at Riyadh Airport.
For years after this accident, wild stories made the rounds of the airline industry, as to what caused the fire on SAUDIA Flight 163. The most common was a Pakistani attempting to make tea with a compact gas stove. To make matters worse, SAUDIA refused to issue an accident report to the pilots - only adding to the mystery. Ultimately, all these floating, wild tales on the airline gossip grapevine were proven totally untrue.
It wasn’t until the early ‘90s, when I happened to catch an excellent BBC documentary on SAUDIA Flight 163, while residing in Singapore, that the mystery was cleared up for me. Evidence indicated the fire had started outside the aft bulkhead, of the C-3 baggage compartment, in the TriStar’s tail section.
The fire on the TriStar started in this area.
Apparently, an electrical bundle of wires was erroneously attached here - at the factory - to the bend of a metal tube transporting hydraulic fluid. At length, due to vibration and drastic swings in temperature, a hairline crack developed at the bend in the metal - hydraulic fluid then sprayed out of this fracture, under a force of 3,000 psi, creating a fine, oily mist. An electrical spark, from the wire bundle, probably ignited this spraying oil - producing a blowtorch of flame.
As for the Saudi Captain not initiating an emergency evacuation – evidently he had given up. On the cockpit voice recorder, the captain began chanting his death prayer – despite needing to complete the emergency checklists. The female purser came to the cockpit, on three occasions, and asked the captain if they should prepare for an emergency evacuation. Continuing to chant, the captain ignored her each time.
As for the doors not opening, once again I’ve heard many explanations: from the cabin was pressurized to bodies being piled up against the doors. In response to this, may I add this observation: Lockheed came out with a whole new door design for the TriStar.
Boeing 747 L-1 Passenger Door.
Douglas DC-10 L-1 Passenger Door.
Unlike the tried and true Boeing or Douglas design, Lockheed’s door went up inside the cabin’s roof. It was normally operated electrically, or, in the emergency mode, by a handle that released a huge spring which shot the door upward into the roof. In both instances, the door needed to move inward, before moving upward on its tracks and rollers. However, new designs always have teething problems.
Lockheed’s complicated mechanism sliding the door upward into the TriStar’s roof.
In the year following SAUDIA Flight 163’s accident, one of SAUDIA’s TriStars landed at Cairo, where smoke was spotted by the flight attendants coming off a wheel. The flight crew stopped the aircraft and initiated an emergency evacuation. Much to the crew’s surprise, merely half the doors opened using the emergency mode. The other four stubbornly remained sealed shut. SAUDIA then implemented a maintenance program - cleaning and greasing the rollers and tracks – plus exercising the doors in the emergency mode regularly.
As a result of this incident, dear reader, in true pilot-black-humor, we nicknamed the TriStar the “Crypt.” Because once you’re sealed in there...you ain’t never gettin’ out, baby.
1980 proved to be an unlucky year for SAUDIA and the TriStar. In addition to SAUDIA Flight 163’s bizarre fire, on 19th August, there was another freak TriStar accident on 22nd December of the same year. SAUDIA Flight 162 departed Dhahran International, Saudi Arabia, on that date for Karachi, Pakistan, with a full load. Upon climbing through 29,000 feet, a retracted main gear tire exploded inside its wheel well, creating a hole in the fuselage, which in turn caused an explosive rapid-decompression. Unfortunately two hapless passengers, having released their seatbelts, were sucked out the hole and dropped in the Persian Gulf – becoming a seafood buffet – their bodies never to be located. An emergency descent was initiated, followed by a successful landing at Qatar's Doha International Airport.
A badly designed flange on the wheel’s hub was at fault, ultimately causing Lockheed, B.F. Goodrich and the FAA to be blamed for this accident.
Lockheed ceased production of its L-1011 TriStar in 1984; never to construct another airliner again.
As for me, even though I was never checked out on the TriStar, I thoroughly enjoyed traveling on it. I remember one trip in particular, in the spring of 1981, when I zipped out of the Kingdom on my days off to catch the Paris Air Show. I rode in a TriStar’s cockpit, on the number one jump seat directly behind the captain’s chair. Dissimilar to Boeing’s notoriously cramped cockpits, I found this cockpit exceedingly spacious and the jump seat actually comfortable. Plus the key feature – that literally knocked my socks off – was the large observer’s window next to my jump seat; allowing me to see ahead, behind, straight up, or straight down. This especially became amazing at sunrise, when we reached the Alps. Being late spring, most of the snow had melted at the lower altitudes, revealing deep, lush, green valleys, with jewel-like villages clinging precariously to the sides of dramatically steep mountains. The beauty of which was staggering.
I found the TriStar’s cockpit much more spacious than the cramped Boeing cockpits.
And this is the view of the Swiss Alps that jump seat window gave me!
No wonder Heidi was so happy to join her grandfather in the Alps, dear reader. At last I got the big picture. In spite of its penchant for killing passengers and crew, I loved the TriStar, and truly miss flying on it.
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