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      Over the next five years I‘d transit Dubai many times, however one particular visit stands out in my mind, for it was so nuts.

     I was departing Dubai one night for London, with an Aussie Captain and a Chinese Flight Engineer.  A van was supposed to transport us to our 747, but it was tardy and we got tired of waiting for it at Flight Ops, especially since we were on a second floor, and could see two SIA 747-312s parked side by side in the distance on the ramp outside.  So we took a vote and decided to hoof it.  Having previously checked our suitcases with the rest of the crew, all we had to lug was our heavy flight cases. 

     As we commenced our 747 safari, the Aussie Captain, one of these impatient, high strung types, wearing Coke-bottle glasses, who seemed to have a live wire shoved up his anus,  proceeded to charge ahead of the F.E. and myself at a trot - leaving us far behind in his dust.

     Arriving at the first 747, the captain climbed up the long flight of air stairs, attached to the back of a truck, and upon reaching the top, waited impatiently for me and the F.E. at the opened L-1 Door.  This door led to first class at the front of the aircraft. 

     In the meantime a bus load of passengers arrived, and ultimately assembled at the aft air stairs that led to coach class at the rear of the 747.  There were roughly fifty to sixty of them.

     As the F.E. and myself reached the air stairs leading up to first class, an object in the periphery of my vision stopped me cold.  It was the nose wheels‘ open doors.

     Bear with me, dear reader.  We had been assigned a 747 with the registration of N122KH.  “N“ indicates a U.S. registration.  That’s because most of SIA’s aircraft were leased from a bank in Wilmington, Delaware, U.S.A.  As they were leased, this allowed SIA to continually exchange them for newer models.  Which made us pilots very happy, as we weren’t stuck with flying worn-out, 17-year-old pieces of junk, like the United and American Airlines pilots were saddled with.  In addition, SIA was in the habit of placing the last two letters of the 747’s registration on the nose wheels‘ doors.  For they were always open when the nose wheels were down and locked, making the letters easy to read at a distance.

     And that’s what froze me to the ground; the two black letters on the white, left nose wheels‘ door.  I remembered the 747’s registration on our flight release ended in the letters “KH.“  So why did the letters on this 747’s nose wheels‘ door indicate “KP“?

     I‘ll tell you why, dear reader, our hyper, tunnel-visioned Aussie Captain had taken possession of the wrong 747!  And this is when it got really weird – if not flat-assed comical.

     So I looked up at the captain still in the open doorway, and I motioned for him to come back down all those stairs.

     I didn’t want to yell, dear reader, for fear I’d upset the knot of passengers attempting to board this aircraft.  I mean, Christ on a cracker, how can one place any faith in a captain that can’t find the right, monstrous 747, even with his Coke-bottle glasses?

     Much to my surprise, and amazement, the Aussie Captain shook his head in the negative; then impatiently motioned for both of us to climb the air stairs immediately and join him!

     Then the Chinese F.E. gets in on the act, and we both motion for the captain to come back down the stairs, and join us instead.

     Once again our dauntless leader shakes his head in the negative; impatiently motioning for us to climb up the air stairs and join him!  My F.E. and I can’t believe what we’re seeing!

     By now, dear reader, if it wasn’t so preposterous, I’d be laughing my ass off!

     Consequently I have little choice, I cup my hands and yell, “You’re on the wrong airplane!“  My Chinese F.E. yells the same thing.  Many passengers turned and did double takes on me, my F.E., and my captain at the top of the air stairs. 

     In reality I felt sorry for those passengers, dear reader.  I shudder to imagine what they were thinking and feeling.

     After a full minute of standing in that open doorway, our thick-as-a-brick captain finally got it through his noggin that he was staking a claim to the wrong 747.  Reluctantly he performed the long walk of shame, down all those stairs, and joined us.  We located our 747 parked next door.  At last we were on our way to London.

     This wouldn’t have happened, dear reader, if Dubai had proper jetways and gates to report to.  At length they would remedy this primitive condition.

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     After two boring days of Arab culture, cuisine and smuggling - experiencing my first visit to Dubai - we got out of there on the last day of August, 1987.

     During our seven hours and eighteen minutes in the air, we crossed the Arabian Sea, the entire continent of India, the Bay of Bengal, then down the throat of the Malacca Strait; arriving on schedule at the island city-state of Singapore, off the southern tip of Malaysia.

The Malacca Strait.

     Following our arrival, John Maguire was happy to sign me off for my first officer check ride.  A few days later I performed my check ride - a round-robin to Taipei and back - with the chief pilot, Capt. Edward Tan, and was signed off for line duty.  Subsequently, I was on my own, authorized to accept any trip, anywhere as first officer.

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