Fried Sky with a Side of Regret.


Night falls slowly, painfully on the flight deck westbound. Chasing the sun but losing, sunset grudgingly unfolds in slo-mo, Pat Summerall running color commentary: “Oh my, that’s not how it’s supposed to happen.” A burning lip flecked with cobalt, shafts of charcoal stolen from the blue promising a stormy beating for a landscape miles away, yet you know, feel, what you can’t see. Darkness comes in withering shades and declining latitudes, searing the horizon, azure overtaking the florid arc as if the smoldering, sighing sun just didn’t give a damn anymore.

Entropy flies in the cargo belly: chickens–baby chicks breathing through air holes in cardboard cartons, never imagining themselves winging 500 knots across the ground–and radioactive material (aft compartment), tagged bags and other stuff, plus a tissue sample on dry ice rushing to doctors on the sunset coast, deciding if someone in the eastern darkness can live or die, or so the cargo folks told me.

Not really more sanguine upstairs in the pressure hull defying the -60 degree stratopause inches away, with a meager partial pressure of oxygen that would instantly start the blood bubbling and the gas escaping crushed lungs in a fog. Never mind, eyes on the prize, 250 degrees true, beyond the jagged threshold of the Rockies and Sierras. Less than an hour to go.


While I’m ten stories forward of the aft jumpseat confessional, I’m aware of what’s unfolding nonetheless. One just left her husband, the other just got left. Forward galley, well he’s an old friend, a gay guy with a good head on his shoulders and compassion enough to care how hard relationships, same sex or otherwise, can be when the wreckage piles up.

And we both have Old Testament faith in flightcrew clannishness: we’ll get through whatever together, day, night, a few thousand miles or continent, even an ocean away; the jumpseat and crew van and the gawd awful bidsheet that binds us hot forges a flightcrew stronger than we could ever be alone. So we never really are–and the two pros will smile and work that coach cart, they’ll do the giving that they always do, with stronger hearts regardless of the weight they’re bearing.

Me, up front, I’m just the timekeeper, shoveling coal to stoke the boiler fire and constantly questioning the course I’ve set: can we get the chickens and tissue and broken hearts and shattered dreams to the far coast with fuel burn I counted on? Does the X-Ray vision of the radar and the wind plot say that the wedding gown carefully, almost religiously stowed in the forward closet will make it timelessly to the reunion with the soul-sister maid of honor waiting to pick up the bride in the City by the Bay?


Flex. Breathe, flex again; crank the rudder pedals back, unfold the six foot scrunch another inch, strapped in just the same. Breathe. Force the HEFOE litany carved in stone an age ago: “hydraulics, electric, fuel, engines, oxygen,” amen. Simple, my part as captain is: keep us flying forward, rightfully, safely. Be the faceless guy in the locomotive cab of the wailing freight train, dragging an ice trail across the night sky, contrails silhouetted in moonlight like silver rails against a shadowy landscape thundering below: dusk left and right, darkness behind–we sail on ahead nonetheless.

Crossing the last waypoint before arrival and descent, claim that inward smile: job done, promises kept; plans worked, fuel plenty, brides, chicks and heartbreak alike–delivered. From here it’s only about negotiating the descent, the approach, landing and taxi in. Cake. And folks will either be happy or not, but you did what you promised them. Chicks will either recognize a new coast or they won’t, someone in New Jersey will get good news (I hope) or bad, and somebody’s big day will lead to a lifetime of heartache or not. And the heartbreak cabin crew will be replaced by another eastbound, instantly bound by the Gilligan’s Island of flight crews: castaways, for better or worse, on a thin air island eight miles above and a world away.

Dec 334

Yet in the end, it’s not regret, really, that darkens your sky, but in a way it is: can’t be sure how any of what we landed just now turns out afterward, though I’m not sure I’m supposed to know. Back off; take a deep breath and set out once again on the ironclad litany for the eastbound flight, the homeward leg. Regret can wait; another worthy ark of eastbound hope and dreams and everything in between sails on at brake release and pushback in an hour. Claim a breath, a moment of peace, then get your head back in the game: details, captain, and promises you must keep for the hundred some souls on board.

Keep ’em, every one, defy the sunrise alone. Careful, truthful, the sky is the footpath home.

cockpit night


15 Responses to “Fried Sky with a Side of Regret.”

  1. Randy Sohn Says:

    Chris, try’n to remember, been a l-o-n-g time now, IIRC when I had human organs for a transplant, someone met me in the cockpit and personally gave them to me, my custody, I put them on the jumpseat and someone met me immediately upon parking and took them in his personal care. Wish that typing wasn’t such a chore, a long story about a sick girl in DTW.

    • Yes Randy, have had eyes packaged in dry ice and other organs on board. Apparently there’s a lab in SFO that does a lot of tissue testing, and we carry a lot to and from. Strange irony to have that, plus radioactive material, and a pallet of baby chickens on board.

      You just never know …

  2. Randy Sohn Says:

    Well, you’e right about that that you just never know! Had a bunch of ramp guys open a DC-6’s cargo hatch in Cochabamba,Bolivia one time and then they broke a cardboard box full of baby chicks. Little yellow chicks all over the ramp and in the grass. I got out and helped catch all we could but I simply refused to go off the ramp into the grass, I’m scared of snakes (venomous types). “Sorry ’bout that”.

  3. […] the life of an airline pilot, travel. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own […]

  4. Tim Perkins Says:

    Okay, this type of elegant writing deserves a wider audience. Please submit this to a national publication of some sort so that millions of eyes can breathe in the images, not just hundreds.

  5. Chris, you should get a PhD in literature. Oh wait! You have one. I really enjoy reading both your “this is my job” works and you’re more “poetics” essays. Thank you for the good readin’ thru all these years.

  6. Bill Bridges Says:

    Chris, as always thanks for sharing. Any time you can get Randy to contribute you know you’ve done a good job.

  7. Awesome writing and as always, awesome observations on your world. Glad you are in the cockpit and glad that you share your experiences with us.

  8. 777-300 CAPT Says:

    Had a feeling when the [a small syringe having detachable nozzles for fluid injections, used chiefly for vaginal lavage and for enemas] “FmrFreightDog” on APC hated your stuff that I’d like it. I do. He’s a has-been/wannabe, APC is full of them. Keep up the posts.

  9. You are approaching the greatness of another aviator and blog writer who lost his life two years ago, Capt. Carol “Lex” Lefon, USN (RET.) He was working with a company that did tactical training for the military when his Mirage 2 got below minimums when the local conditions went south fast. Lex was pure gold. You sir, are damn near to it. Thank you for a very nice bit of prose, sir.

  10. Just did OMA-ATL-SAV today. I can’t fly anymore without thinking your thoughts. You are an artist, and an engineer–the best of both.

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