The plane bucked and kicked at first, and rocked and rolled. We were finally being tossed about by angry gods, a child’s toy in a whirlpool. My two companions’ snores continued from under their blankets. Saint Elmo’s fire was dancing off the windscreen, and it’s strange blue light traveled between the flight guidance controls and my hands when I reached for a switch or control knob.
I’m flying while weighing the degree of perceived danger against my ego-driven need not to wake Captain Saroyin. I decide that I can handle it, the hell with those guys.
The mechanical bull in Gilly’s Saloon in Texas was tamer than our ride became. Turbulence in aviation is measured in very specific terms. Light, moderate, heavy, severe and extreme, all have their meanings. Light is that uncomfortable chop we’ve all experienced, while extreme means the plane can no longer be controlled. We were in moderate and severe. Not once did my two fellow travelers open their eyes.
About four hours into the ride, we finally emerge into calmer air. I had been so busy flying, trying to control the airplane, navigate and call in position reports, that I never noticed how desperately I had to pee.
Now in smooth air, I reach over and wake up the Captain, indicating that I have to jump back to relieve myself. He might have sat up, I don’t honestly remember, so great was my need to go.
As the flight attendant opened the cockpit door for me to get back onto the flight deck, I used my body to block her view of the two corpses up front, swaddled in their shrouds… nobody’s awake, nobody is flying the airplane.
Now, with the luxury of an empty bladder and a full cup of coffee, I check the fuel balancing and fuel used, satisfying myself that our fuel burn is on flight plan.
An hour and a half later, having crossed the equator heading towards five-south, we’re approaching storms again. The Sleeping Beauties, as I was now thinking of them, were still out cold. I alerted the purser to put all the carts away, and to have all the flight attendants once again buckle in, since the approaching storms appear even more intense than the previous mess had been.
I had my hands truly full this time. We gained and lost a thousand feet of altitude at a time as the heavy rain and hail beat the plane, a maddened Gene Krupa on a set of steel drums. At the worst of it, flying in turbulence with Saint Elmo’s fire dancing around me, I am deviating as best I can. The Captain pokes his head out and opens one eye. The eye looks at me, at the flight control panel, then withdraws back under the covers. I guess I’m doing okay.
Flying is described by some pilots as hours of boredom, punctuated by moments of extreme terror. This night became hours of terror, punctuated by moments of boredom!
I started a decent about twenty minutes out of Sydney. I was about to wake the Captain, when Saroyin suddenly sprang up, folded up his camping gear, grabbed his DOP-kit, and went back to the lay.
Five minutes later, now level at 5,000 feet, I’m on a radar vector to intercept the localizer for the ILS at Sidney. Captain Saroyin returns to his seat, adjusts himself in, and says, “I have it.” He is shaved, smells of shampoo, his damp hair is combed back, he has brushed his teeth and he is in control.
A few minutes later we land in Sidney, eleven hours and twenty minutes after take-off, and the Captain has said a total of six, count ‘em, six words to me. He and the Engineer have been awake about fifteen minutes.
On the crew bus to the hotel, I exhaustedly sink towards oblivion. In my last moment of consciousness, I overhear my two crewmates planning to meet to play tennis in half-an-hour’s time. It turns out that these two guys are tennis freaks who buddy-bid, and pull this shit all the time.
It’s no fucking surprise to me that they call him Psycho Saroyin. We lived through my virgin flight, and although we were never in imminent danger, no sane pilot would allow an experienced man to handle that load by himself, no less a novice like me. For my part, I was wrong to allow my stubborn pride to win that particular game of “chicken.”
My flying rust disappeared fast, my spooling-up process was so accelerated that I never wanted anybody else to touch anything in that airplane but me. As it turned out, I had no worries in that department, since those two guys pulled the same stunt on me heading back for Honolulu a few days later.
Jurgenson
Jurgie, Captain Gary Jurgenson, is a pussy-hound pilot who adopts a smooth, shy persona. His little boy face, and Clark Kent style haircut, portray an innocence that allows him to get away with anything. Before every flight terminating with a hotel layover, Gary would disappear from the cockpit for the half-hour before departure, trolling through the school of passengers that swirl near the gate, he would eventually show up in the cockpit with his catch of the day.
The attractive blond woman taking the jump seat today, whose name I’m told is Beth Wagner, is returning to Guam from Tokyo. Jurgie had done it again, here he is, radiant and shyly making the introductions. Miss Wagner, is an Air force Officer, no less. Gary instructs her on the proper use of her seat belt and oxygen mask, and jumps into his Captain’s seat.
Although the FAA strictly forbids any unauthorized people in the cockpit during any phase of flight, Jurgie always has a companion on the jumpseat for every take-off and for every landing on every leg. It’s amazing. One report, one mention of this behavior, and his career is over, along with we fellow crewmembers who were present during the occurrence, us; but he’s even got us mesmerized, cobras facing ferrets. Jurgie is so blasé about the matter, he has never risen a hint of resistance. It’s my leg back to Guam, so as we take off north from Narita, I’m busy flying the Narita reversal. I’m tuning VOR’s, setting radials, talking on the radio, doing it all because Gary’s busy pointing out the sights to our guest, as usual when he’s entertaining an attractive guest, he’s paying no attention whatever to the flying.
We are finally established on the airway and at altitude, so Gary asks me to show Miss Wagner the plane, indicating with a sweep of his hand all the “buttons and bows” up front.
The light test is always impressive, since holding the switch to the test position illuminates all the red, green, blue and amber lights up front, so I show her the “Christmas Tree.” Beth Wagner, underwhelmed, just yawns.
“Gary,” I say, “Allow Ms. Wagner to sit in your seat for a moment…” Gary and Beth switch seats, and we position her into the Captains seat, close to the yoke, the steering wheel, so to speak.
“Would you like to see the world’s largest vibrator?” I ask. She beams, “Yes.”
“Put your hands on the yoke,” I instruct, showing her my hands now on the steering-wheel.
As she puts her hands firmly on the yoke, I reach up and test the stall-warning system. The entire yoke and control column in front of both flying pilots vibrate and buzz vigorously in her hands. “You are now holding an 800,000 pound vibrator, the world’s largest.”
Without hesitation, Miss Wagner shoots back, “May I have a moment to reposition myself?”
We fall over, and we know that Jurgie has caught another live one, and will likely mount his catch in his hotel room later in Guam.
Rita Sex
Filthy Farnsworth, Jerry Lovell, and I were heading for Sidney. As usual, we would be staying for a few days at the Sheraton Wentworth, a stately, five-star jewel which is only a block from the Circular Quay, the Rocks, and the Opera House. The rest of the pattern would be two days in Papeete, Tahiti, then back to Sidney for two days, then a return to Honolulu.