The unrelenting monsoon rains have begun their seasonal assault on India, dampening my spirit and adding fuel to my desire to leave. Bombay may not be the wettest spot in the world, but it is not far from it. Cherrapunji, northwest of here on the southern slopes of the Himalayas, boasts an average annual rainfall of 482 inches and an all-time record of 905 inches.
It is raining so heavily that it would almost be easier to swim from the terminal to the aircraft. Any three raindrops would fill a coffee cup. It is so hot and humid that unfolding the wilted charts in the cockpit requires the same care you would use to unravel cooked spaghetti.
We taxi cautiously between two rows of blue lights that look like indigo lanterns floating on a black lake. The runway lights, however, have not survived the deluge; sheltered flare pots line the runway. As the aircraft gathers speed, the flickering candle lights become indistinguishable blurs. Visibility through the wall of rain is less than half a mile, and we curse the windshield wipers, which are more noisy than effective. The wings soon flex their muscles, and we are airborne in a flying Noah’s Ark.
Having risen above the wet, lumpy cumulus, we are sailing on velvet air beneath a canopy dotted with distant diamonds. We are strangers flying over foreign lands, but these celestial compatriots of the night sky accompany us wherever in the world we wander and provide comforting familiarity. Polaris winks from starboard, the Southern Cross watches from port and the constellation, Leo, motionless at our zenith, stalks prey in his heavenly hunting ground.
The flight to Tel Aviv takes 6 hours 25 minutes, 90 minutes longer than would be necessary if Middle East nations could live in peace.
Because we are headed for Tel Aviv, Israel, it is neither kosher nor allowable to take the direct route via Iraq, Saudi Arabia, and Jordan. Instead, we must fly 850 miles out of the way via Iran and Turkey, giving the Arab kingdoms a wide berth.
In this region, flight planning is determined as much by political climate as by winds and weather.
Once, on an Athens-to-Bombay nonstop, we were cleared across Arab countries. Approaching the Mediterranean coast of Lebanon, Beirut Control asked for our aircraft registration number presumably to verify that our airplane was neither of Israeli registry nor had been a recent visitor to the Holy Land. No one seems to know how the latter is determined.
After passing Beirut, the one-time Riviera of the Middle East, we gazed upon Damascus, the world’s oldest, continuously inhabited city. Moments later, we pointed the nose toward the expansive bleakness of Saudi Arabia. There were only a few electronic navaids in the Arabian Desert, but they were widely spaced and no more reliable than a politician’s promise. Pilotage is impossible unless you can tell one dune from another in this uncharted ocean of sand. One must either have an experienced camel driver or, like us, have a pair of Doppler radar units to do the work. Instrument flying below 10,000 feet is risky because the minimum terrain-clearance altitudes had yet to be determined in this high-rise desert at that time.
The navigation chart was a mass of “unsurveyed” notations. It seemed paradoxical that we are so intent on mapping the moon’s surface when so many areas of our planet required similar attention.
The safest way to cross the Arabian Peninsula was to follow the 1,000-mile-long pipeline from the Mediterranean to the oil-rich Sheikdom of Bahrain. At night, burning natural gasses from nearby oil wells are like airway beacons that illuminate the route from one horizon to the other.
Communications, on the other hand, were difficult or impossible over large areas of the desert. While side-stepping some electrifying thunderstorms southwest of Baghdad, we tried repeatedly to obtain a routing change from Basra Control, but our calls went unanswered. Nor were any aircraft within radio range to relay our request. We felt more alone over Saudi Arabia than over any of the world’s oceans.
Our shadow streaks across the tiny Sheikdom of Oman, and soon we are over the barren, mountainous spine of Iran. The right wing tip points toward sunlight reflected across the Soviet border from the Caspian Sea, the world’s largest lake, 5 times larger than Lake Superior. As we stare upon a world seemingly uninhabited, it becomes difficult to appreciate the reality of global overpopulation. From our perch, it seems that most of the Earth is undiscovered, untapped, untouched.
The flight engineer calculates the amount of fuel remaining while monitoring a special HF frequency and listening for news of disturbances in the Middle East. Should another Arab-Israeli conflict develop while en route to Tel Aviv, we would divert to Nicosia, Cyprus. On the VHF receiver, we overhear an Air France pilot relaying a clearance in English from Tehran Center to a Soviet flight en route from Moscow to Karachi. It underscores the cooperation and camaraderie that exists between the pilots of all nations. If only those on the ground could get along as well.
During a lull in cockpit activity over Iran, I daydream about the fabled past of this land, where Scheherazade held King Shahriar spellbound for a thousand and one nights with tales of Sinbad, Ali Baba, and other mythical Arabian heroes. Iran, known as Persia in ancient times, tickles the imagination with visions of flying carpets, Aladdin’s lamp, and harems of exotic women who danced behind diaphanous veils and knew how to hold a man’s attention by never revealing too much.
The passengers are awakened by our announcement on the public-address system that we are over Cyprus. Staring through wispy cirrus that seems to disappear as we approach it, the passengers gaze upon the one-time “prison” where the British detained thousands of Jews to prevent their immigration to Israel.
In the cockpit, the landing at Tel Aviv’s Lod International Airport is routine, but to some Jewish passengers it is like seeing their newborn child for the first time. The touchdown on Israeli soil triggers cheers and applause that echo throughout the cabin, a spontaneous flood of emotion from people who have struggled for centuries to make this moment possible. An elderly couple bolts from the aircraft and weep uninhibitedly as they fall to their knees to kiss the cold tarmac apron. Israel, the Promised Land.
It is miraculous that general aviation can survive, much less thrive, in a country where such stringent security measures must be enforced. But thrive it does, as if to illustrate the Israeli adage that anyone who does not believe in miracles is simply unrealistic.
Flying a lightplane in Israel is not without frustration. Flights may be conducted only within narrow corridors and at specific altitudes. An ATC clearance is required regardless of the weather. The busy general aviation airport at Herzliya has a control tower but is closed on Saturdays when it is needed most because controllers are home enjoying the Sabbath.
There is an adage saying that the most dangerous phase of flight is the drive to and from the airport. Nowhere is this truer than in Israel. The Israeli driver is a breed unto himself and drives as if he were on his way to Damascus in a Sherman tank. We survive another taxi ride from Tel Aviv to the airport and scan the en route weather across Europe to London.
We pull our contrails over the jagged coast of Greece. It lies fragmented at the base of the Balkan Peninsula like the ruins of an Athenian temple. Soon we are over the Ionian Sea, passing south of Albania, and are amused by Albania’s charted warning that aircraft trespassing through its airspace may be fired upon without warning. What will they fire? Spitballs? Albania is a barren, primitive land without military capability.
It can be challenging to fly across Europe. The rules change every time we cross a border, which is frequently. Just when you become accustomed to the heavily accented English of one nationality, we switch to another. (The French controllers seem most difficult to understand.)
A flight across Europe, though, is more than conforming to regulation and chasing needles in the sky. It is sailing above a fairyland of castles, cultures, and contrasts. A glance in any direction finds a scene lifted from the pages of history. From our vantage point, we also see signs of man’s race to extinction. The spa
rkling blue of the Danube River may have inspired Johann Strauss to write a classic waltz, but were he alive today, he would have to call it The Dirty Danube. Stretches of the river are so polluted that they are fire hazards.
London’s Heathrow Airport is the busiest and often the foggiest in Europe. A “pea souper” at Heathrow can be so thick that a pilot could get lost for hours trying to taxi to his gate. To make things easier, the British cleverly installed a unique guidance system. Working like the track switcher at a railroad yard, the Heathrow ground controller leads a pilot to his gate or wherever else he needs to go by turning on only the appropriate taxiway lights.
The wings sag under the load of 80 tons of fuel, flexing resiliently as the aircraft is taxied onto the runway for the last and longest leg of our global odyssey, a 6,000-mile shortcut across the roof of the world, an aerial Northwest Passage to Los Angeles.
Takeoff thrust is applied and 4 flaming Niagaras strain to overcome more than a third of a million pounds of inertia. The Boeing 707 yields grudgingly and accelerates slowly. The nosewheel tires bump and thump, betraying surface imperfections on the 12,800-foot-long runway. The aircraft seems to demonstrate little will to fly.
In the cabin, an attentive flight attendant sits in her jump seat facing her passengers. Having been on many polar flights, she is accustomed to this necessarily long takeoff, but the concern written on the passengers’ faces reveal that they are not. She reaches for the public-address microphone and announces with a smile, “Ladies and gentlemen, you can help by lifting your feet.” Obediently, hundreds of feet rise, and the Boeing pushes the ground away at nearly 200 mph.
We are over Scotland heading north-northwest along the great-circle route to Los Angeles. Behind us are the spider web of European airways and the incessant chatter of VHF communications. Ahead is peace and quiet, the serenity of watching ice floes, brilliant white drifting on black, frigid water. The High Arctic, where visibility can be so good that it hurts your eyes to look that far.
Thirteen miles south of Iceland, a plume of sulphuric smoke rises from Surtsey, a volcanic island that recently emerged from the icy waters. After crossing the Denmark Strait, we interrupt the cabin movies so that our passengers can gaze at the spectacle passing below. Greenland is the world’s largest island and has the most inappropriate name. Jagged peaks cast ragged shadows across the 2-mile-thick icecap. Fingers of glacial ice probe for the sea, grinding down mountains that stand in their way, the same awesome, slow-motion process that carved the continents.
We cross the Davis Strait, aiming for Frobisher on Baffin Island in extreme northeastern Canada. As our distance from the Magnetic North Pole shrinks, the compasses become unreliable and fluctuate wildly or point east when they should point west. For the next 2 hours, directional guidance will be provided by a pair of polar-path gyros with very low precession rates.
From above, the Arctic has a fearsome, almost inviting beauty, yet to survive on the ice would test the limit of human endurance. A pilot forced to land on an ice shelf would have to be familiar with several bizarre rules of Arctic survival. There is, for example, the danger of touching extremely cold metal with a bare, moist hand. The skin can freeze instantly to the super-cold metal, and the only way to remove it without leaving behind several layers of skin is to warm the contact area with urine. If both hands are stuck, it would be handy to have a companion nearby.
Abandoning the aircraft in search of assistance is always risky but especially in the Arctic. Scientists believe that someone attempting to walk across the white wastes without an aiming point will invariably travel in a large circle in the direction of his shorter leg.
There is an incongruity about the treacherous Arctic that makes flying there most pleasant. The north polar region is a vast desert, characterized by light winds, low humidity, infrequent and thin stratoform clouds, and little rain or snow. By contrast, a flight across the United States presents far greater problems: fronts, thunderstorms (which are unknown in the Arctic), tornados, strong winds, and all sorts of precipitation. When clouds do form in the Arctic, they seldom are higher than 10,000 feet. Winds aloft seldom exceed 30 mph at any altitude.
Our track angles southwest and leaves behind the white wilderness. We cross the griddle-flat tundra, a treeless expanse covered with flowerless plants, a marshy wasteland frozen rock-hard much of the year.
We then cross the tree line, the northernmost limit of the coniferous forests that girdle the globe in these latitudes. Mt. Rainier soon pokes its lofty head above the clouds, welcoming us home.
We now have 19 days to recover from this journey and prepare for our next 11-day global odyssey, but our Boeing 707 is given no such relief. Within a few hours and with a fresh crew, it will begin another 23,423-mile flight around the world.
I advanced the thrust levers of the Boeing 757-200 and a pair of flaming Niagaras propelled TWA Flight 347 along Runway 30L at St. Louis with 76,400 pounds of enthusiastic thrust. This was not the beginning of an ordinary flight; it was the beginning of the end of my career with TWA. In two days, I would be 60 years old. By federal mandate, I would be an ancient pelican, an airman too old to continue life on the flight deck of an airliner.
Irrespective of being forced out of the left seat, good fortune smiled at me during my last flight. It was Father’s Day, June 21, 1998, and no father could have received a finer gift. My son, Brian, was seated to my right. He had begun his career with TWA in 1989. Having him follow in my footsteps and being my first officer during this final flight was so much more meaningful than ribbon-wrapped ties that somehow never got worn. It was an affirmation that he approves of who I am and what I have done with my life. No father could ask for more.
In the passenger cabin was another son, Paul, who works for Jeppesen and recently earned his commercial pilot certificate. Seated nearby was eight-week-old Brett, Brian’s son and my first grandchild, who was making his first flight as I was making my last. He was nattily dressed in a miniaturized pilot’s uniform complete with shoulder boards, wings, a tie, and a photo I.D badge, which were artfully handcrafted by Brian’s wife, Lynn. Such lineage suggests that there will always be a Schiff on a seniority list somewhere.
Barry, Brian and Brett Schiff (aka BS1, BS2 and BS3, respectively).
Also in the cabin were my friends Glen Beattie, Erik Bernstein, Mick and Mary Ann Jennings, Bruce Kaufman, and Doug and Sue Ritter, who had purchased tickets to share in the celebration.
We reached our assigned cruising altitude of 35,000 feet 21 minutes after liftoff. I relinquished control of the airplane to Brian, took a deep breath, and gazed out the left cockpit window. Not much below seems to have changed during the past 34 years. The small towns and farms of central Missouri still dot the rolling terrain as far as the eye can see.
Aviation, however, has changed since I was hired by TWA in 1964 to fly the right seat of a Lockheed Constellation:
•In those days, the captain was an absolute dictator; there was no crew-resource management, and what he said was law even if it led to carnage.
•During my first checkout in a jet (the Boeing 707), there was no 250-knot speed limit below 10,000 feet, which made the experience all the more thrilling at low altitude (especially when maneuvering to avoid general aviation traffic).
•Kerosene cost only ten cents per gallon. Fuel burn was of little or no consequence, so we flew across continents and oceans at high speed with three or four engines. Airline survival today depends on efficiency, which is why twin-engine airplanes cruising more slowly are the rule rather than the exception.
•Economics and advanced technology did away with the flight engineer, although I remain convinced that removing the third crewmember from the cockpit was not in the best interest of safety.
•During the early years of my career, stewardesses passed out chewing gum and small packets of cigarettes with every meal.
•There was no sterile-cockpit rule, and pilots were allowed to talk to one another when below 10,000 feet. Not only is this now banned, but airliners are also equipped with cockpit voice recorders that can snitch on a violator. (When the CVR was introduced, we were convinced that the chief pilot had a receiver in his office with which to monitor cockpit conversations as they occurred.)
•Pilots used to walk through the cabin during flight to socialize with their passengers or assuage their fear of flight. Current regulations forbid a pilot to leave the flight deck except in response to a “physiological necessity.”
•We were allowed to invite passengers to the cockpit during flight. (My favorite visitor was John Wayne.) Today, the FAA bans this courtesy on U.S. air carriers. Foreign airlines are not so restricted.
•There used to be good-natured kidding between pilots and “stewardesses.” The same thing today can result in a sexual harassment suit.
•The cockpit used to be a club for white men only although not by design. Thankfully, the flight deck door is now open to increasingly more women and minorities.
Although I concede that most of these changes are beneficial, I cannot allow this opportunity to pass without commenting on the intrusive security screening to which crewmembers are now subjected when reporting for duty. Although such humiliation while in uniform might pacify the public and the FAA, there isn’t a pilot I know who couldn’t smuggle arms aboard his aircraft if he were so inclined.
Another significant change involves passenger attitude. When I first walked in public while in uniform, I could see heads turning in my direction and sense respect for my profession. It made me feel proud. That is when taking an airline flight was an adventure. But as the magic carpet began to evolve into an airborne conveyer belt, passengers began to view airline pilots more like bus drivers.
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