An insistent discomfort in my ear, and an odd sensation of falling, slowly ended my neck cramping nap. Palm Springs was slipping into view through the crack in my window shade on the port, and I could see the all too near peak of Mt. San Jacinto slide by to starboard. Coming into Ontario, CA from the north is always a thread-the-needle deal.
The pilot has to fly a glide path that nearly circles back on itself from the original approach. Over Palm Springs, slide by Big Bear, right pitch & yaw towards the valley floor of the Inland Empire; dropping altitude, and shedding airspeed with twists and turns. That’s what’s required, but this guy is having way to much fun!
It reminds me of the milk run flight – the actual dairy product - from Maui to the Island of Lanai back in the 70’s. Lanai was just a pineapple plantation then. For those in the know, it could also be a rather cool retreat at the huge log lodge built there back in the 30’s. In the 70's the lodge was then operated by Dole as a summer employee hostel and cafeteria.
I was dating the dairy owner’s younger son. He would deliver the cans to Maui airport, then ride over to Lanai with the pilot to unload them at the other end. The plane was an old twin-prop WWII transport – don’t ask me what kind. Silvery and sleek, yet bulky looking. Even the finest earplugs, and your hands to boot, couldn’t drown out the deafening noise of those props! Loaded up, we'd taxi to about the halfway point, turn, throttle up, then drive down the runway, and jerk up into the sky. We'd barely get air before we passed over the interisland channel, then over Lanai itself. Because of strong prevailing winds, we'd pull a 180 – both back and down - in order to drop the airspeed to what the pilot jokingly called “crash & burn.” Just when your heart (and other organs) were about to fall from your mouth, he'd set us down like a fixed wing “helicopter” on a patch of red earth smaller than a football field. This was not for the faint of heart - but pilots will understand. They love this kind of shit! So do I.
Sometimes we’d stay for breakfast. They had the freshest free range eggs! You'd often hear a chicken squawking soon after your order was taken. The eggs were most often accompanied by some kind of fish – caught that morning on the rocks below the cliff at the lodge. You could get sausage, but because it had to be flown in, it was more expensive than fish. Dole Executives ate sausage. The “hash” browns were actually raw McDonalds French fries, thawed, cut in half lengthwise, and grilled up with thinly sliced Maui onions and green pepper - if you asked nicely; a greasy mess, if you didn't.
Back on the milk plane with full stomachs, the return flight was a breeze. No need to take off really, the strip ended at the cliff’s edge, so you were “airborne” no matter how fast you were going at the time.
As our path into Ontario International Airport settles down to business, the landscape immediately below our plane changes from employee filled industrial boxes as far as the eye can see, to green manicured grass and blinking blue lights on sticks. I find myself instinctively placing my hand on the tray table I'd pressed against the seat ahead. Good timing! Just at that moment the rubber met the road. I flashed on that TV commercial for Bridgestone Tires where the 747 lands on a clutch of what look like monster truck tires. Emerging from the cloud of burning rubber, a pilot type enters the stop-action shot and says he wouldn’t want to trust his passengers to anything else. So, little plane o’mine, are they Bridgestone or are they Memorex?
My instincts are rewarded, and my bracing hand prevents me from being pushed violently forward, as our pilot demonstrates he still has a little left in him. He’s chosen to hit the runway at a speed one would think not in the best interests of building much of a frequent flyer clientele. His need for speed is quickly reversed as he slams on the air brakes. The roar of the reversing engine thrust sets off the "warning baby" like a smoke alarm. As we turn for the terminal, I silently compliment him for what could be described as a nicely executed airplane version of the classic police car spin out. Like I said, pilots love this shit.
I’m on the ground and heading for baggage claim. My brother is late. He's usually standing at the bottom of the escalator but, today, he’s nowhere to be seen. I got my bag in under 15 minutes of stepping off the plane – and that’s only because the walk is longer from Southwest's gates than from Alaska’s. My brother is still not visible. I nervously pace the White-Zone-For-Loanding-And-Unloading-Passengers-Only. All the other people seem to have family and friends! He sent me a confirming e-mail, for crissakes! E-mails are the truth, right? Don’t we all believe that?
It’s been over 30 minutes now, and I finally fall on mercy of the smartly uniformed Customer Service volunteer. She looks to be about 90 years old. White haired and frail looking, she lets you know with a glance that she expects you to stand up straight and eat your vegetables! Her name tag says Sonia, but that just didn’t fit. She must be a Maude, or Pearl, or one of those two-part southern names like Betty Joe. Since I had no loose change and only a $50 bill she could not cash, she was kind enough to call my Dad‘s house. He was kind enough to answer on the first ring. My brother would be late, he announced. He’d read my departure time as my arrival and would be at least an hour late. Why don't they have highly visible clocks in airpots? This wasn't Vegas.
After what seemed like an eternity, but actually about 25 minutes later, my brother came sprinting into view. Having abandoned his vehicle in the White-We-Will-Take-Your-Firstborn-Zone, he was frantic that I obey his demand to “Come On! Come on!” as he turned on a dime and dashed back to his beloved – a 1969 fully restored Chevy Camero. I lingered just long enough to make sure he spotted the airport officer coming the other way, then dropped my bag at his feet and got in.
Only 97 miles of California’s finest concrete between me and my destination. Let’s roll!
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Monday, March 30, 2009
On Being in California: Getting There
Travel day: Saturday 3/28/09: I'm headed for my dad's house in Escondido, CA. Been up since 4:30 am, on the road since 6:30 am, and it's about 15 minutes into the flight, and we’re at about 15,000 ft. and those pesky electronic gadets are legal again.
It was 43 and raining in Portland, OR when we took off about 11:00 a.m. and it’s still cloudy even as far south as . . . wherever we are: Salem? Just peeked out the window and see that it is clearing below and we are far above any remaining clouds. Unfortunately, I had to sit on the sunny side of the plane and now I have to keep my window shade down to avoid getting fried!
I’m flying on Southwest for the first time. They had the best prices and availability on short notice to my destination. Their boarding routine is a little odd – you get a number, A or B, 1-75, and you board in numerical order, by the numbers: A 1-30, B 1-30, A 31-50, B 31-50 . . . .until all are aboard. The lower your number the better your chance of sitting where you want – it’s open seating. I was told by a lady in line that, because her husband is a frequent flyer, his numbers are automatically lower. Sure enough, there he was about 45 people ahead of her in line. This SW thing could be interesting, if your marriage was already in trouble.
One surprise; I thought I was boarding a flight that flew straight through to Ontario, CA – my ticket says that. But the pilot announced that we were “on our way to beautiful downtown Sacramento.” Surprise! That was my original destination, prior to my 95 year old father falling on a walk, cracking his rib and causing my brother to call me from the hospital to ask if I could “come down right away.” What is the correct answer to a question like that? The nearly always inaccurate “No problem” seems to work best.
I just looked out the window again, and we are definitely over NE California – probably just over the border. Well, there you go – the captain just announced that we are passing Mt. Shasta. On my side of the aircraft, the terrain is flat and under intense cultivation; lots of square patches in varying shades of green and brown. The front row of the Sierras, straight as a backbone, and fully capped in snow, is running along the visible eastern horizon like one of those white lines they paint on the side of road to keep you in the lane and out of the weeds. I’m currently more about staying in the air, and out of the weeds!
A word about the plane; it’s a Boeing 737, 300 Series. Relatively new, it has large canards at the wing tips and I notice it is very stable in the air. I’m used to whatever Alaska flies, and I like this plane better. It’s a wider body and seats six across, rather that the cramped 4 of the Alaska planes. Make no mistake, we are jammed in here like sardines, it’s just the can that’s bigger. Nice crew, more of them. The drinks are better. I’m having a vodka cranberry blast with fresh limes. Excellent, tangy punch-like taste. Definitely a college crowd Spring Break special. I had the presence of mind to have a really good, sit-down breakfast at the airport, so I haven’t any regrets that they don’ serve food – even though I will miss the “lunch hour” on this flight.
Pilot has announced we are on the glide path to land at Sacramento (my ears told me that!), and I opened my window to look out upon the absolutely beautiful, snow covered peaks below. What a spectacular view. The snow is thin though; clear cuts on the sunny side of the slope are bare ground, and only those on the shady side are still white. One other thing the snow does, other thanlook pretty, is emphasize how many dormant volcanoes are down there. So many peaks have that telltale dimple at the top.
We’re getting lower in the sky. The inevitable crying baby warning has sounded; ears are hurting, and it’s time to put up the tray tables.
It’s about 1:00 p.m., and we are out of Sacramento and above 10,000 ft, so the “electronic gadget” sign if off. Even if one can’t access the Internet from a plane – yet – it still passes the time wonderfully fast to use your lap top to type and prepare emails to send when you do get to a hot spot.
Sacramento from the air is much larger than I imagined. Very distinct “old” and new sections; much like Portland, in that it has at least one river running through it and a number of large bridges. I’ll make it back there in a month or two.
We appear to be flying to the east-south-east, away from population and into noticeably more turbulent air as we approach the snow capped peaks of the Sierras. Oh my God! I’ve got a straight in view of Yosemite! Absolutely breathtaking! Sugar Loaf, and El Capitan capped with a dusting of white. That is quite a gash in the landscape!
Even higher peaks ahead – I have often wished I’d brought a Google type aerial map with me, with signage – so I’d be able to look out the window and know what I was looking at. Yosemite is obvious. But some of the interesting lakes below are not. I’m looking at one very large, very high lake that is obviously still frozen solid. The much higher back row of the Sierras is clearly visible now, and the snow pack looks pretty good. Yet, down below the snow line, all the lakes have that big edge of bare earth, where the water line used to be. From this altitude, that must measure several hundred feet in width, although probably about half that in lake in depth.
My stewardess didn’t collect for my cranberry blast on the first leg, and on the second I ordered another one. She has declined to accept my money at all! Yes! I am a Southwest flier from now on.
A new seat mate took the place of the silent gentlemen on the first leg. This time, it’s a 22 year old college student going home for the weekend. She tells me that she is in her second year of becoming a speech pathology major and very animatedly tells me about her fascination with the field. She just starting out on the independent line of her own life; while I sit quietly contemplating the downward glide path of my own. She could easily be my grandchild, and yet she seems to be perfectly at ease speaking with me as if I were a real human being. Amazing.
My seat mate has slipped into torpor – I used to do the same thing on flights – something about a particular pitch to the droning whine of the engines. Not a bad idea, really. I'll write more when I'm on the ground. Shouldn't be too long now. If I just turn this way . . . .Ah-h.
It was 43 and raining in Portland, OR when we took off about 11:00 a.m. and it’s still cloudy even as far south as . . . wherever we are: Salem? Just peeked out the window and see that it is clearing below and we are far above any remaining clouds. Unfortunately, I had to sit on the sunny side of the plane and now I have to keep my window shade down to avoid getting fried!
I’m flying on Southwest for the first time. They had the best prices and availability on short notice to my destination. Their boarding routine is a little odd – you get a number, A or B, 1-75, and you board in numerical order, by the numbers: A 1-30, B 1-30, A 31-50, B 31-50 . . . .until all are aboard. The lower your number the better your chance of sitting where you want – it’s open seating. I was told by a lady in line that, because her husband is a frequent flyer, his numbers are automatically lower. Sure enough, there he was about 45 people ahead of her in line. This SW thing could be interesting, if your marriage was already in trouble.
One surprise; I thought I was boarding a flight that flew straight through to Ontario, CA – my ticket says that. But the pilot announced that we were “on our way to beautiful downtown Sacramento.” Surprise! That was my original destination, prior to my 95 year old father falling on a walk, cracking his rib and causing my brother to call me from the hospital to ask if I could “come down right away.” What is the correct answer to a question like that? The nearly always inaccurate “No problem” seems to work best.
I just looked out the window again, and we are definitely over NE California – probably just over the border. Well, there you go – the captain just announced that we are passing Mt. Shasta. On my side of the aircraft, the terrain is flat and under intense cultivation; lots of square patches in varying shades of green and brown. The front row of the Sierras, straight as a backbone, and fully capped in snow, is running along the visible eastern horizon like one of those white lines they paint on the side of road to keep you in the lane and out of the weeds. I’m currently more about staying in the air, and out of the weeds!
A word about the plane; it’s a Boeing 737, 300 Series. Relatively new, it has large canards at the wing tips and I notice it is very stable in the air. I’m used to whatever Alaska flies, and I like this plane better. It’s a wider body and seats six across, rather that the cramped 4 of the Alaska planes. Make no mistake, we are jammed in here like sardines, it’s just the can that’s bigger. Nice crew, more of them. The drinks are better. I’m having a vodka cranberry blast with fresh limes. Excellent, tangy punch-like taste. Definitely a college crowd Spring Break special. I had the presence of mind to have a really good, sit-down breakfast at the airport, so I haven’t any regrets that they don’ serve food – even though I will miss the “lunch hour” on this flight.
Pilot has announced we are on the glide path to land at Sacramento (my ears told me that!), and I opened my window to look out upon the absolutely beautiful, snow covered peaks below. What a spectacular view. The snow is thin though; clear cuts on the sunny side of the slope are bare ground, and only those on the shady side are still white. One other thing the snow does, other thanlook pretty, is emphasize how many dormant volcanoes are down there. So many peaks have that telltale dimple at the top.
We’re getting lower in the sky. The inevitable crying baby warning has sounded; ears are hurting, and it’s time to put up the tray tables.
It’s about 1:00 p.m., and we are out of Sacramento and above 10,000 ft, so the “electronic gadget” sign if off. Even if one can’t access the Internet from a plane – yet – it still passes the time wonderfully fast to use your lap top to type and prepare emails to send when you do get to a hot spot.
Sacramento from the air is much larger than I imagined. Very distinct “old” and new sections; much like Portland, in that it has at least one river running through it and a number of large bridges. I’ll make it back there in a month or two.
We appear to be flying to the east-south-east, away from population and into noticeably more turbulent air as we approach the snow capped peaks of the Sierras. Oh my God! I’ve got a straight in view of Yosemite! Absolutely breathtaking! Sugar Loaf, and El Capitan capped with a dusting of white. That is quite a gash in the landscape!
Even higher peaks ahead – I have often wished I’d brought a Google type aerial map with me, with signage – so I’d be able to look out the window and know what I was looking at. Yosemite is obvious. But some of the interesting lakes below are not. I’m looking at one very large, very high lake that is obviously still frozen solid. The much higher back row of the Sierras is clearly visible now, and the snow pack looks pretty good. Yet, down below the snow line, all the lakes have that big edge of bare earth, where the water line used to be. From this altitude, that must measure several hundred feet in width, although probably about half that in lake in depth.
My stewardess didn’t collect for my cranberry blast on the first leg, and on the second I ordered another one. She has declined to accept my money at all! Yes! I am a Southwest flier from now on.
A new seat mate took the place of the silent gentlemen on the first leg. This time, it’s a 22 year old college student going home for the weekend. She tells me that she is in her second year of becoming a speech pathology major and very animatedly tells me about her fascination with the field. She just starting out on the independent line of her own life; while I sit quietly contemplating the downward glide path of my own. She could easily be my grandchild, and yet she seems to be perfectly at ease speaking with me as if I were a real human being. Amazing.
My seat mate has slipped into torpor – I used to do the same thing on flights – something about a particular pitch to the droning whine of the engines. Not a bad idea, really. I'll write more when I'm on the ground. Shouldn't be too long now. If I just turn this way . . . .Ah-h.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
I hate biographical detail. There are, however, a few things I can tell you without much risk, and they are:
I was born in CA in a year beginning with the number 19. I am unmarried and have no natural children. I knew Walt Disney and worked for him as one of the first 10 tour guides at Disneyland in the 60's. Working at Fender Guitar, I watched Hendrix test a custom made Stratocaster in the warehouse out back. My dad was a designer of the cryogenic hydraulics necessary to operate the landing gear on the 6th Surveyor to the moon, and I watched that happen, at Jet Propulsion Laboratory.
While living in Hawaii, I probably rode the same bus along Queen Street in Honolulu that would have carried Barack Obama, traveling between his grandparents home and Punahou School. I was once disguised and flew in a C-130 from Hickam AFB to Guam and back, on a dare from a group of master sergeants, just before the fall of Saigon. A regular at the polo fields of Mokuleia, I met their RHs Phillip and Charles on more than one occasion. Both of them smiled at me repeatedly.
I moved to Oregon in 1986 and went into hibernation. My rebirth occurred sometime in early 2007, then I became aware of the existence of a uniquely delightful silver-haired young man whom we all know and admire. I want to thank whoever was responsible for that discovery, as it sparked my interest in living a life I believed was closed to me. It wasn’t, as it turns out. I’m feeling much better now.
I was born in CA in a year beginning with the number 19. I am unmarried and have no natural children. I knew Walt Disney and worked for him as one of the first 10 tour guides at Disneyland in the 60's. Working at Fender Guitar, I watched Hendrix test a custom made Stratocaster in the warehouse out back. My dad was a designer of the cryogenic hydraulics necessary to operate the landing gear on the 6th Surveyor to the moon, and I watched that happen, at Jet Propulsion Laboratory.
While living in Hawaii, I probably rode the same bus along Queen Street in Honolulu that would have carried Barack Obama, traveling between his grandparents home and Punahou School. I was once disguised and flew in a C-130 from Hickam AFB to Guam and back, on a dare from a group of master sergeants, just before the fall of Saigon. A regular at the polo fields of Mokuleia, I met their RHs Phillip and Charles on more than one occasion. Both of them smiled at me repeatedly.
I moved to Oregon in 1986 and went into hibernation. My rebirth occurred sometime in early 2007, then I became aware of the existence of a uniquely delightful silver-haired young man whom we all know and admire. I want to thank whoever was responsible for that discovery, as it sparked my interest in living a life I believed was closed to me. It wasn’t, as it turns out. I’m feeling much better now.
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