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     Towards the end of August, 1986, I was scheduled for a Miami layover.  And I looked forward to revisiting some of my favorite haunts from the old Air Florida days.

     It would be a long day: Zipping up to Boston, then back to Dulles, continuing down to Atlanta; afterward proceeding to Orlando and then Miami.

     I swear, dear reader, flying into Atlanta was always a colossal pain.  On every single trip we’d end up in holding patterns at two, sometimes three, different waypoints; while Atlanta ATC struggled to find us a slot in their massively congested air traffic flow. 

      Atlanta Airport.

     It was well after dark when we lifted off at Orlando.  The maximum passenger capacity on our B-737 was 111 – on this leg we were hauling 76.  Being my turn to fly, I anticipated  an easy, short hop down to Miami, as I climbed to 25,000 feet on such a beautifully clear night.

      Orlando is home to Disney World.

      View of Orlando International from the captain’s side window.

Orlando International.

     As usual I was operating as first officer, and my captain was a blond, blue-eyed chap in his early forties, with a wife and a couple of kids, who had also flown for SAUDIA.  Even so, I had never come across him until joining Presidential.

     We also had a “hitchhiker” on the cockpit’s jump seat, which we had picked up in Atlanta, an air traffic controller, and, because he was with the FAA, entitled to free travel in our cockpits.  I felt sorry for him.  Apparently he’d recently gone through a nasty divorce, and was trying reach Miami in time for his kid’s birthday party. 

     He possessed that beat-up, hangdog appearance, dear reader, which only an ex-wife can manufacture.

     All was going well until we passed 20,000 feet.  At which point I happened to glance up at the cabin altitude pressurization indicator on the overhead panel, directly above my head, causing my heart to gradually freeze in my chest, as it dawned on me what it was indicating!

     May I digress a moment, dear reader?  Two of the used B-737s in the Presidential fleet were ex-Lufthansa aircraft.  They did not contain the standard Boeing cabin altitude indicator.  Instead, they had a Germanized abortion that was difficult to read.  Hence it’s taking me a few seconds to decipher what it wants to tell me!

     Visually, I checked it...then double checked it...and ultimately checked it once more.  I kept coming up with the same impossible answer - indicating that the cabin pressure altitude was at 50,000 feet!  This meant that all my passengers and crew were either passed out, or dead, from the lack of oxygen!

     As I wasn’t blacking out and was breathing okay, dear reader, obviously this German cabin altitude indicator was seriously fucked-up!  

     I was already on autopilot, so freeing my hands, I quickly donned my oxygen mask.  Then I glanced at the captain – who gave me a look as if I’d gone bonkers – so I pointed at the cabin altitude indicator.  He had to lean way towards me to see it – looked up and did a double take – then started fumbling with his own oxygen mask.

     While he was doing that, I contacted ATC and requested an emergency descent to 10,000 feet; advising them we had a pressurization problem.  Without delay ATC granted my request.  Clicking off the autopilot – I nosed over and shortly thereafter we were screaming in a dive towards 10,000 feet – requiring me to reduce throttle to stay within our maximum structural speed limit.

     I glimpsed our “hitchhiker” on the jump seat, who was still fumbling with his oxygen mask, attempting to get it out of the stowed position.

      As I leveled out at 10,000 feet - slowing to 250 knots (288 mph), he finally got his mask on.  Just in time to take it off again - seeing myself and the captain stowing our masks.

     As I throttled power back up to maintain 250 knots and 10,000 feet, we all felt a pressurization surge, or bump, to our ears.  Something was most definitely screwed-up with the pressurization.

    Drawing near to Miami, ATC told us to change our radio frequency to Miami Approach Control.  And that’s when I noticed another problem - involving my captain.  As he reached to turn the radio knobs, on the center console between us, his hand was shaking so badly he could hardly obtain purchase!

     Okay, dear reader, so we had experienced a minor emergency, which, by all indications, was an instrument malfunction – not necessarily a real pressurization problem.  No way could we have achieved a cabin pressure altitude of 50,000 feet.  So everything was under control.  We were presently at an altitude where everyone could breathe normally without either pressurization or bottled oxygen – while smoothly cruising up to Miami at 250 knots and 10,000 feet.  In view of this, why was my captain coming unglued with the “shakes?”

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