The Old Pro
You see them at airport terminals around the world. You see them in the
morning early, sometimes at night. They come neatly uniformed and
hatted, sleeves striped; they show up looking fresh. There's a brisk,
young-old look of efficiency about them.
They arrive fresh from home, from hotels, carrying suitcases, battered
briefcases, bulging, with a wealth of technical information, data,
filled with regulations, rules.
They know the new, harsh sheen of Chicago's O'Hare. They know the
cluttered approaches to Newark; they know the tricky shuttle that is
Rio; they know, but do not relish, threading the needle into Hong Kong.
They respect foggy San Francisco. They know the up-and-down walk to the
gates at Dallas, the Texas sparseness of Abilene, the Berlin Corridor,
New Orleans' sparkling terminal, the milling crowds at Washington. They
know Butte, Boston, and Beirut. They appreciate Miami's perfect weather,
they recognize the danger of an ice- slick runway at JFK.
They understand about short runways, antiquated fire equipment,
inadequate approach lighting, but there is one thing they will never
comprehend: complacency. They remember the workhorse efficiency of the
DC-3's, the reliability of the DC- 4's and DC-6's, the trouble with the
DC-7's. They discuss the beauty of an old gal named Connie. They
recognize the high shrill whine of a Viscount, the rumbling thrust of a
DC-8 or 707. And a Convair.
They speak a language unknown to Webster. They discuss ALPA, EPR's,
fans, mach and bogie swivels. And, strangely, such things as bugs,
thumpers, crickets, and CATs, but they are inclined to change the
subject when the uninitiated approaches. They have tasted the
characteristic loneliness of the sky, and occasionally the adrenaline of
danger. They respect the unseen thing called turbulence; they know what
it means to fight for self-control, to discipline one's senses.
They buy life insurance but make no concession to the possibility of
complete disaster, for they have uncommon faith in themselves and what
they are doing. They concede that the glamour is gone from flying. They
deny that a man is through at sixty. They know that tomorrow, or the
following night, something will come along that they have never met
before; they know that flying requires perseverance. They know that they
must practice, lest they retrograde. They realize why some wit once
quipped: "Flying is year after year of monotony punctuated by seconds of
stark terror."
As a group, they defy mortality tables, yet approach semi-annual
physical examinations with trepidation. They are individualistic, yet
bonded together. They are family men, yet rated poor marriage bets. They
are reputedly overpaid, yet entrusted with equipment worth millions. And
entrusted with lives, countless lives.
At times they are reverent: They have watched the Pacific-sky turn
purple at dusk. They know the twinkling, jeweled beauty of Los Angeles
at night, they have seen snow up on the Rockies. They remember the vast
unending mat of green Amazon jungle, the twisting silver road that is
the father of Waters, an ice cream cone called Fujiyama. And the hump
of Africa. They have watched a satellite streak across a starry sky,
seen the clear, deep blue of the stratosphere, felt the incalculable
force of the heavens.
They have marveled at sun-streaked evenings, dappled earth, velvet
night, spun silver clouds, sculptured cumulus: God's weather. They have
viewed the Northern Lights, a wilderness of sky, a pilot's halo, a
bomber's moon, horizontal rain, contrails and St Elmo's Fire.
They have learned to accept these challenges everyday, they have
realized a complete removal from earthy attachments, and they have
reveled in a sense of high suspension.
Only a pilot experiences all these. It is their world.
Unknown origin, God Bless
You see them at airport terminals around the world. You see them in the
morning early, sometimes at night. They come neatly uniformed and
hatted, sleeves striped; they show up looking fresh. There's a brisk,
young-old look of efficiency about them.
They arrive fresh from home, from hotels, carrying suitcases, battered
briefcases, bulging, with a wealth of technical information, data,
filled with regulations, rules.
They know the new, harsh sheen of Chicago's O'Hare. They know the
cluttered approaches to Newark; they know the tricky shuttle that is
Rio; they know, but do not relish, threading the needle into Hong Kong.
They respect foggy San Francisco. They know the up-and-down walk to the
gates at Dallas, the Texas sparseness of Abilene, the Berlin Corridor,
New Orleans' sparkling terminal, the milling crowds at Washington. They
know Butte, Boston, and Beirut. They appreciate Miami's perfect weather,
they recognize the danger of an ice- slick runway at JFK.
They understand about short runways, antiquated fire equipment,
inadequate approach lighting, but there is one thing they will never
comprehend: complacency. They remember the workhorse efficiency of the
DC-3's, the reliability of the DC- 4's and DC-6's, the trouble with the
DC-7's. They discuss the beauty of an old gal named Connie. They
recognize the high shrill whine of a Viscount, the rumbling thrust of a
DC-8 or 707. And a Convair.
They speak a language unknown to Webster. They discuss ALPA, EPR's,
fans, mach and bogie swivels. And, strangely, such things as bugs,
thumpers, crickets, and CATs, but they are inclined to change the
subject when the uninitiated approaches. They have tasted the
characteristic loneliness of the sky, and occasionally the adrenaline of
danger. They respect the unseen thing called turbulence; they know what
it means to fight for self-control, to discipline one's senses.
They buy life insurance but make no concession to the possibility of
complete disaster, for they have uncommon faith in themselves and what
they are doing. They concede that the glamour is gone from flying. They
deny that a man is through at sixty. They know that tomorrow, or the
following night, something will come along that they have never met
before; they know that flying requires perseverance. They know that they
must practice, lest they retrograde. They realize why some wit once
quipped: "Flying is year after year of monotony punctuated by seconds of
stark terror."
As a group, they defy mortality tables, yet approach semi-annual
physical examinations with trepidation. They are individualistic, yet
bonded together. They are family men, yet rated poor marriage bets. They
are reputedly overpaid, yet entrusted with equipment worth millions. And
entrusted with lives, countless lives.
At times they are reverent: They have watched the Pacific-sky turn
purple at dusk. They know the twinkling, jeweled beauty of Los Angeles
at night, they have seen snow up on the Rockies. They remember the vast
unending mat of green Amazon jungle, the twisting silver road that is
the father of Waters, an ice cream cone called Fujiyama. And the hump
of Africa. They have watched a satellite streak across a starry sky,
seen the clear, deep blue of the stratosphere, felt the incalculable
force of the heavens.
They have marveled at sun-streaked evenings, dappled earth, velvet
night, spun silver clouds, sculptured cumulus: God's weather. They have
viewed the Northern Lights, a wilderness of sky, a pilot's halo, a
bomber's moon, horizontal rain, contrails and St Elmo's Fire.
They have learned to accept these challenges everyday, they have
realized a complete removal from earthy attachments, and they have
reveled in a sense of high suspension.
Only a pilot experiences all these. It is their world.
Unknown origin, God Bless