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     So far I fit the Presidential “family” akin to a kidskin glove – which was turning out to be old home week.  For I kept bumping into pilots I had flown with at Air Florida.  Apparently when Air Florida cashed in its chips, some of the guys went to Midway out of Chicago, while others ended up here with Presidential. 

     In a nutshell, dear reader, although the pay was poor, compared to SAUDIA, on the other hand I was settling in nicely with my new life - thoroughly enjoying the people, the flying and the layovers.  Prompting me to faithfully say my “Now I lay me down to sleep” prayers each night; praying like hell this dice-shoot would have a future.

     Tonight was the Fourth of July.  And as we drew abeam of the Statue of Liberty, Carlyle informed approach control we were at “The Lady” - whereupon they cleared us to continue our descent.  Our call sign was “Washington Eagle” – and at that same instant New York Bay exploded!

     The bay seemed to be filled with all manner of watercraft that night, both commercial and civil, and from these boats, ships and barges, fireworks shot skyward – towards yours truly!  Along with the occasional distress flare!  Though I was several thousands of feet above it – in all my life I’d never witnessed such an impressive display!

     I swear to Christ, dear reader, it was as if “The Lady” was welcoming me back home!  My eyes actually filled with tears – making it difficult to read the flight instruments.  Perhaps my new life in the States will pan out after all.  That was the hope I carried in my heart.

     Continuing on up the black Hudson River – dazzled by the massive amount of lights issuing from New Jersey on my left and Manhattan to my right – a rather odd thought occurred to me.  “What would I do if I should lose both engines at present?”  At our low altitude attempting to reach an airfield was impossible.  Touching down in either congested Manhattan or New Jersey was out of the question.  The only course of action at this stage was ditching in the Hudson!

     Following this thought, dear reader, I chided myself for dreaming up such dilemmas.  Ditching in the Hudson indeed!  What a ludicrous solution.  Little did I imagine that 23 years later a US Airways Airbus 320, launching out of LaGuardia, would do exactly that – saving all souls on board.

     With both engines dead, Capt. Sully lines up on the Hudson for landing.

 

      Sully’s decision to land on the Hudson saved all passengers and crew.

     Off to my right, in the heart of lit up Manhattan, I observed a long dark rectangle – resembling a black bottomless pit.  This was Central Park.  Plus, as it was such a clear night, I could also make out Rikers Island beyond in the East River, and, southeast of this island, LaGuardia Airport.  To save time we requested the “Visual Approach,” and were cleared for its execution.

     My route to LGA (LaGuardia Airport).

     Upon coming up abeam of the north end of Central Park, I turned right and headed for the south shore of Rikers Island - New York City’s infamous main jail complex.  This set me up for a Final Approach to Runway One Three (130°/310° magnetic, SE/NW) at LaGuardia (or “La Garbage” – as we pilots referred to it).

     Touching down on RWY 13 at LaGuardia Airport.

     At this period LGA was notorious for being cramped, dirty and with poor service.  Hence we civilian pilots called it “La Garbage.”

     Whereas ex-Naval Aviators referred to it as USS LaGuardia.  Because its short runways, surrounded by water, reminded them of an aircraft Carrier.

      LaGuardia Airport at night.

     Sensing I was a returning American prodigal son, dear reader, I executed one of my smoother landings on that magical night.

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