Jumpseat- A Tale of Twisted Fate

by E E Valenciana

  I made sure to tell the agent at gate 57 that I was a newly graduated flight attendant. Airline employees make extra efforts to take care of their own. Not only was the lovely lady gracious in her effort to accommodate me but when I gazed at the row stamped on the boarding pass she handed me, it was indeed a First Class seat.

  My first experience in flying with my company was everything I had hoped for and more. The flight crew made the new boy feel just like one of the family. They gave me tips on what to do and where to go in Hawaii. I had my eyes set on the remote island of Molokai, off the beaten track from the hustle and bustle that was Honolulu. But to experience Waikiki and see the sights of Oahu would be a great introduction to the new cultural experience I was undertaking.

  I picked up my rental car at the airport and was surprised by another airline perk, a reduced rate; all I had to do was show my airline ID with my smiling photo and employee number 21196-1. Pearl Harbor and the Arizona Memorial brought to life the visions that were only experienced on the television screen and stories related by my father who served in the Navy during WWII. The beautiful sunset at Waikiki revealed the radiant colors of sun, surf and sky in a way that a boy from smog-ridden Los Angeles never envisioned. Wanting to venture out and experience the true beauty that is the island of Oahu, the next morning I headed out around the back side of Diamond Head and up the coast looking for some good surf, the road led me to Makapuu' Beach.

  The setting was thrilling. With Rabbit Island in the backdrop, eight to ten foot waves were breaking nicely on the clean soft blue water rushing to shore in cascading breakers, one right after another. This was definitely a body surfer’s dream site. Yet, only those with the expertise to navigate these giant walls of tidal waves were the ones who embraced the challenge with eager abandonment. The novice ocean goers like me who were brave enough to proceed out into the swirling waters were destined to eat sand at the depth's bottom, casualties being taught a painful lesson in the power of nature. But still I was determined to pay the price and, within time, started to learn the pathways being paved by those locals who knew every inch of that beach. I would enjoy an exhilarating afternoon of marine activity.

  Being pounded by the surf I soon became exhausted and happily crawled onto the dry sand. I lay there soaking up the radiant sun and breathing the fresh salt air. The waves only grew bigger and stronger as I gazed along the shore. I spotted two individuals about thirty yards out in the water, right at the very linear area where these vicious waves were breaking. At first I thought I was seeing double as the figures were identical to each other in every respect, even wearing the same color swim trunks. Their glowing white, sunburned skin attested to them being visitors to the island as all the locals have a golden brown complexion. It was evident that I was looking at identical twins. I became concerned as the two men were getting crushed by the walls of water time and time again. I also noticed they had muscular builds, which gave me some ease; at first I believed they may have been in some danger. Still, they were exhibiting all the wrong things to do when in the ocean. They were turning their backs to the oncoming waves and by their floundering; I got the impression that they were limited in their swimming ability. But by the look on their faces they seemed to be okay and actually enjoying themselves. I leaped up and dashed into the surf to get their attention and suggested that they either go deeper into the water or come out all together.

  The Byron twins were visiting Oahu from Minot, North Dakota which explained why they were not ocean savvy. They greeted me with great enthusiasm and they explained that they were on the island visiting a former classmate of theirs who had moved to Hawaii and now made the beautiful shores of Waimanalo his home. The pale, sunburned young men were carbon copies of each other in every aspect, even their mannerisms were the same. I couldn't tell one from the other.

  “Do you know the word of Jesus Christ?” One brother asked excitedly. I immediately recognized that the two brothers carried a tremendous exuberance for their faith and belief. Being raised in a Roman Catholic home and schools, I had come to a comfortable understanding of religious theology and different spiritual institutions through my travels. The likable boys quoted scripture and were happily sharing their knowledge with me when a 6'5” lanky figure appeared. His sun bleached hair and tanned lean body revealed that he was a local to these beaches. Lonnie Grimes was the North Dakotan native the Byron boys had traveled to visit. I recognized Lonnie as one of the figures who was ripping up the surf with his expert abilities on the massive waves at Makapuu'. The twins introduced us and invited us both to have lunch with them.

  Four figures politely bowed their heads at the seaside cafe as the twins solemnly thanked the Lord for the delightful meal placed before each man, hungry from our ocean activity. Local resident, Lonnie, seem to take the prayer seriously. I assumed that he shared the same zest for faith as the Byron twins. The great local grinds were heartily enjoyed, complete with the fire and brimstone of a traveling evangelistic tent show. The boys were men of good character and that is all that mattered. On the conclusion of our afternoon the boys wrote down their address and promised to continue to pray for me, an offer I never reject, no matter the faith. Then they were off, leaving me with the tall local body surfer.

  “Where you going now?” Lonnie inquired shyly. A little embarrassed, I hesitated and mentioned I wanted to find somewhere I could grab a frosty beer. Perhaps my desires were hypocritical.

  “It's been a hot day, I think I'll grab a brew somewhere.” At first Lonnie's face registered a bit of confusion.

  “You drink beer?” He asked. I began to feel shame when he continued. “Heck, I was dying for a drink during lunch.”

  “I thought you were as straight as the boys,” I stated. We both started to laugh. He in turn believed that I was also of their religious zeal. “I'm just a regular, ordinary sinner,” I replied. I had made a new friend.

  Lonnie made it a point to mention that there were only seventeen kids in his high school graduating class. Serving a term in the navy as a submariner introduced the landlocked lad to the beauty and aquatic pleasures of the islands. The champion body-surfer and artist owned his own pool servicing company. With hard work the self-made boy from Minot had done well on Oahu. In our conversations I explained my background and my newly acquired position with the airline. I mentioned that I was off to Molokai, anxious to experience the world's tallest sea cliffs. The night before I left, Lonnie presented me with a gift. I opened the aged, wooden box and was pleased to find a wonderful unique instrument. It was an elegant knife, beautifully shaped in its design, with exceptional balance.

  “Every Hispanic needs a knife,” my smiling tanned friend said. I saw that the blade had been forged in Mexico and also that there was one obvious problem. The nice polished handle was married to a row of very menacing brass knuckles.

  “Oh, this is so illegal,” I said while still mesmerized by the craftsmanship of the handsome weapon.

  “I really don't need it,” the North Dakotan native stated. “I thought maybe you would appreciate it more.”

  “Ah, I will my friend, I will,” I replied still fondling the menacing implement. I considered the gift a generous act of Aloha and was very grateful. With the fine instrument buried deep in my regulation suitcase, I departed Oahu and flew to the tranquil isle of Molokai, filled with excitement and anticipation of all the wonderful experiences she had to offer.

  Among the students of Class 2, I was fortunate in that I had savings available to me when the furlough came. I could sustain myself and if I went broke that was okay because I knew the gift bestowed upon us students by our benefactor was a once in a lifetime situation. If I became destitute I could always catch a flight home and be fed. With the flight benefits I explored the far reaches of the airline's regional air space. To the east I flew to Miami and experienced the richness of the Cuban culture. I traveled to Minnesota, to visit Mark and meet his parents. There would be Seattle and Juneau and, when I was running out of
money, I expertly selected flights in which the load of passengers was low so I could enjoy the journey, get a free meal and sometimes see a movie. On all flights I studied the actions and work ethics of my fellow flight attendants. One day on an impulse I caught a flight at LAX to Anchorage. When I arrived I just remained at the airport and proceeded to stand by for the return flight back to LAX. A round-trip, just for fun.

  As promised, in three months Class 2 received the call and reported to our assigned bases. I personally relocated to the seaside community of Manhattan Beach, just minutes from the airport. “Junior” became another important word in my life's vocabulary. When it came to seniority at LAX, I was at the very bottom. Noted as a senior base, it was very clear to me that I would be on reserve, waiting by the telephone for a long time to come. If I wished to secure a line of Honolulu bound flights I had to have at least 30 years of service under my belt to bid for a position. But every once and awhile, employees called in sick, opening up a spot on the DC-10 with a 28 hour layover at the Beachcomber Hotel, smack in the middle of Waikiki. Schedulers would hasten to find a replacement from the reserve list and one who was nearby, hence my decision to relocate to Manhattan Beach.

  Of course the formula could work contrary to one's desires. I could be called out for a Honolulu-bound 10, dressed in my regulation Aloha shirt uniform, suitcase packed with trunks, snorkel mask and sunscreen. At the last minute, they would pull me off the flight, still attired in Aloha and put me on a 737 hopping across the Rockies, ending up in Pocatello, Idaho in the dead of winter. Still, that was okay because I thrived on the randomness of the experience.

  Reality soon set in. It was time for my first monthly weight check. Fate had it that I was assigned Shana James as my F/A Supervisor. Even before I reported to LAX word had reached the kids of Class 2 on who to avoid in the supervisory staff at the base. The petite redhead's name came up more than once. I fasted for two days prior the weight check and limited my liquid intake to minimal. I arrived at the Supervisor's offices adjacent to the flight attendant lounge below the passenger area at Terminal 5. My uniform was immaculate. Shana held my file trying to gain information on her new hire. This first meeting was extremely important as I was just at the start of my probationary period, I could be released from the company for any infraction. I stood on the scale and was a bit relieved to hear her say that she would deduct 2 pounds from the final number to allow for the weight of the uniform. The scale balanced at one hundred seventy three pounds.

  “My, my Edmundo, we are putting on a little weight,” scolded the supervisor. I did not respond. I was happy just to make weight for the month and made no explanation concerning my body structure or muscle mass. Perhaps expressing my lower percentage of body fat would make her understand? No, I decided. It would not do anything but hurt me in this initial encounter. I shook my head like an obedient sheep indicating that she did not have to worry about me. I would have done back flips for her if she had asked at this point in time. I silently vowed to disappear from her view until the following month's weigh in. Besides, I thought if she was in any way displeased with me she would be looking for a fellow named Edmundo. I did not correct her with regard to my name.

  Once on the flight line, you realize maybe for the first time the position is a job. Flight attendants tend to avoid reality because there is nothing normal in the workplace 30,000' above the ground. It becomes easy to create a fantasy in which F/As live a virtual vacation or so they would lead you to believe. The glamor is on the surface. The truth is the vomit and trash that accompany the duties and a chartered flight to Mexico City could be downright mean and vicious. Another fact that caught my interest early on was that Los Angeles International Airport was not a pilot’s concept of the perfect airport. During the Fall Season, the facility could go days bathed in fog causing delays, making flights divert to alternate airports.

  One night we suffered a delay in Acapulco because we had to wait for the Mexicans to supply us with jet fuel. Our 727 was late coming into the airspace over LAX. The thick fog had rolled inland from the Pacific and it suddenly became clear to the crew and me that landing was going to be marginal at best. On final approach, at the very last moment, the aircraft lurched back upward, engines blaring-the cockpit crew decided to abort the landing. We made two more approaches with the same alarming results, turning for final approach and then suddenly dipping into the soup of clouds making it impossible to see. The craft's lights projected out only to be twisted back into us as blinding white glare. The engines would go silent as we sat in our jumpseats gripping and squeezing on the backside of our seat, waiting for that moment when the wheels find the pavement. All at once the roar and high shriek of the jets kicked in, pitching the fuselage upward and I knew darn well that the captain pulled the plug on the deal at the very last second. On the fourth approach, the wheels touched down and the cabin erupted with applause. I was the perfect picture of cool and calm as I thanked the passengers for their patronage as they deplaned. They did not notice that my heart was stuck in my throat. Once the last body was off I approached the cockpit wanting to know more about the situation. The captain’s face was ashen as he rose to leave.

  “Thanks for getting us down captain.” He didn't even look at me when he next spoke.

  “Don’t thank me, in fact thank the first officer,” the sullen aviator walked off. The indication was that we had come close to becoming a major headline on the morning news.

  A junior F/A “on reserve” learns to listen and take directions. With the overwhelming number of flight attendants being women, it made a lot of sense to listen. Not only did one learn the tricks of the trade from one more experienced, but after the meal service on a six hour flight from Honolulu, the gathering at mid galley produced the most interesting gossip one could ever hope to hear. There was the story of little Susie who had been dating a certain pilot based in Seattle. She was thinking of putting in a transfer from LAX to SEA to go live with him but now word had gotten back to her that he was messing around with a young new hire from MSP, Minneapolis/St Paul. Susie was devastated. Of course that pilot's name filled the cabin crew with disdain. Poor Susie was a wreck, or so the gossip related, and she doesn’t know what to do. I had to admit that I truly did enjoy the stories, it was better than the soap operas on daytime television.

  Then there were the diamond rings. They might as well have made it a regulation because the mark of a successful “stewardess,” in a few people's eyes, was measured by the size of that rock on her finger. Many a young lady came to work for the ferries of the sky in the hopes of finding that Mister Right. Numerous doctors, lawyers and wealthy executives flew daily on the company's air routes. If the stars happened to be aligned perfectly an F/A just might happen to be at the right place at the right time and attract the attention of a good catch. Some prospective boyfriends had other incentives besides just a beautiful fly-girl. Spouses of airline employees also flew virtually for free. At the conclusion of a successful mating ritual there was always that ring, the one the flight attendant would flaunt for all in the cabin to see as she worked the beverage cart.

  Sometimes it would be an aviator in the cross hairs of a stewardess, preferably a Captain. But since most of them were senior, a First Officer would do. Because the introduction of men as flight attendants was relatively new, serious relationships between fellow crew members was limited to mostly junior crews. There would be F/As who found true love amongst the group, married and would bid flights together as a husband and wife team. The aim of a young lady working a flight in pursuit of a serious beau was also shared by some of the gay flight attendants. Their hopes also lay with finding that doctor, lawyer or wealthy executive to court.

  Of all the people I worked with I was fortunate indeed to fly with Michael Lottergan, a blonde haired, gay crew-member who was filled to the brim with personality and a good heart. He treated all cabin crew members with respect and made every effort to make the flying experience for the passengers one that the
y would remember. He was a riot to be with, quick witted and always on the go. He was the perfect friend to go out and about exploring a new destination on an extended layover. I had taken a lot of flack, mostly from my brother about the image of the male flight attendant when I was accepted for the position but homophobia was never an issue with me. I may have been confused about many things in my young life but sexual orientation was not one of them. I was heterosexual and the way I looked at it having gay men in the position was less competition for us straight guys.

  “Haven't you ever wondered how it would be with a guy?” Michael asked me in mid-flight, while positioning the meal carts onto the elevator of the DC-10

  “No, I like the soft feel of a woman's bosom,” I relied. He instantly threw out his chest and said,

  “That's because you never experienced the pleasure of a man's firm pecs.” He was so animated in expressing his opinion, I started to crack up. There were those in the company while proclaiming religious authority only saw the gay community as a whole in a negative light. When I saw Michael, I saw another child of God, one who was most likely a person of far better character than I.

  One of the unforeseen results of choosing this occupation was the flirtatious advances I would receive from passengers, both female and male. Of course the female interactions were more easily dealt with. In my best professional manner, I politely informed the male admirers thanks but no thanks. One has the picture of a lovely female flight attendant being courted by a handsome young professional man upon arrival at any given destination. More than often it was the male F/A who rode off into the sunset with the handsome, young professional man.