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Amsterdam's Coat of Arms.
Amsterdam Airport Schiphol (Luchthaven Schiphol) has six runways
and is eleven feet below sea level. What
an excellent environment for a flood!
Coming from Bombay on 8th March 1989, it
was my leg and I encountered a horrendous wind, coming off the North Sea, upon
making the approach to Schiphol. The
Tower’s ATIS (Automatic Terminal Information Service – a taped broadcast)
informed us it was blowing at a constant 30 knots, with gusts up to 45 knots!
Fortunately it was blowing out of the
north, and Schiphol Approach Control cleared us for the ILS Approach to Runway
One Right (010°/190° magnetic, NE/SW); which gave us pretty much of a headwind
despite bouncing my 747-312 as if it was a Cessna 150! In fact the gusts were so great it kept
uncoupling my autopilot; forcing me to fly the entire approach by hand.
When we got on the ground, the adventure
with the wind didn’t end there. It was
just beginning. They closed the airport,
and since all the jetways were filled up, Ground Control had us park on an
open, empty freight ramp. I parked my
747 directly into the wind, before setting the brakes and shutting down all
four engines. Now the APU (Auxiliary
Power Unit - a miniscule jet engine in the tail) was running everything.
The ground crew drove out a single air
stairs attached to a truck, setting it up at the L-1 Passenger Door. Buses for the passengers also arrived. And at the same time Ground Control put out a
general radio broadcast that the wind was up to a constant 45 knots (52 mph)! Meaning we can’t open the L-1 Door! Why?
You may well ask. Because the L-1
opens out, and backwards, and is limited to a 40-knot wind (46 mph); anything
above that Boeing won’t guarantee structural integrity.
So there we sat for well over two hours,
unloading passengers and crew, in bits and drabs, subject to the whims of the wind
off the North Sea.
On the other hand, I enjoyed the layovers in Amsterdam – a quaint city with “oldy-worldy” buildings, bridges, canals and boats.
An immaculate, picturesque city
designed for walking and biking (except for the electric “stealth” trams that
would sneak up from behind and almost flatten me).
On a layover in mid-June of 1990, I was witness to a major miracle in Amsterdam. The cockpit crew and I had flown in from Cairo, and hot-footed it down to our favorite bar for supper. This place had an immense selection of outstanding beers, along with amazing, massive BBQ ribs and potato salad.
As usual the joint was filled up and we
got the last table. While attacking “me”
ribs, this lanky-American, college kid, in horn-rimmed glasses, saunters up to
our table. By his backpack, he’s
obviously doing the “required” European safari.
Having the only empty chair, he asks to join us – we give him the “nod”
– he dumps his pack on the floor and sits.
After which he says, “You gentlemen may be interested in this.” So he bends down and from his pack, he pulls
out a large, dirty, torn chunk of concrete with red paint on one side, and
plops this nasty thing on the table next to my ribs!
I mean, dear reader, after all; what the
fuck? I’m trying to eat here!
Before I can sock him in the chops, he
holds up a hand, and says, “Gentlemen, please believe me, this is a piece of
important history.”
And you know what, dear reader, the college kid was right. He had come from a giant party the night before, where people nicknamed “Mauerspechte“(wall woodpeckers), were using various tools to chip off souvenirs as they tore down the Berlin Wall!
This filthy chunk of concrete was from that
wall. For 29 years I had grown up with
that fucking Berlin Wall – watching people getting butchered attempting to flee
its prison. I honestly felt I’d never
outlive its presence.
The following year, 1991, there was
another miracle I thought I’d never see: the “Dissolution of the Soviet Union.”
Moral of the story, dear reader: Sometimes if one will simply hang around, and
outlive everybody, miracles can happen.
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