My eyes open. Where am I? I think to myself while searching the darkened room in an effort to survey my surroundings. Am I in Seattle? Mexico? Miami? The last of the blackness fades and I discover myself laying in a twin bed. It's Atlanta, the room I've rented for use when I can't get home to St Louis or have to come to work a day early. It sure beats spending money on a hotel room. Do I have a trip today, I think to myself as my attention is once again drawn to the loud chimes in the room. It's not my alarm. It's a phone call. Oh, I'm on call.
"Hello?" I strain into the phone trying to feign alertness. It clearly hasn't worked. I can hear confusion in my own voice. The woman on the other end relays the bad news.
"Mr. Boyes. There is a trip on your schedule," she informs me and drones on about details that almost put me back to sleep. They've had an equipment substitution. A MD88 broke somewhere and they are using a spare 737 and reserve crew to cover it.
I'm not flying to any exotic location today. I'm not crossing the majestic Rocky Mountains nor am I going to fly into the deep blues of the Caribbean. Birmingham, Alabama. Today, I get to be the 'Bama shuttle, the 30 minute wonder. Well, the 30 minute wonder times 4. I get to do the Atlanta to Birmingham round-trip, twice. And, today, that is fine with me. It's the last day of 6 on call. I just want to go home.
****
"Climb checklist," the captain announces as we both reach to flip switches and press buttons.
"Climb checklist. Altimeters:" I call out awaiting his response.
"Standard, cross-check." He says, pointing at all three altitude measuring devices in the airplane.
"Climb checklist, complete." I say putting the checklist away and, in a single motion, grabbing my coffee and bringing it to my lips. It's leg 3 and we are on our way back to Birmingham for the second time. The cruise portion of the flight is short, but long enough for me to reflect on how smooth everything has been. I look down to check my watch. Even with the long line in Atlanta on the first flight, I could still make my commute flight home. No granola bars or overpriced airport food or cold leftovers for dinner tonight! I am looking forward to a hot, home-cooked meal with my wife.
A short 15 minutes later, we are bouncing through the clouds getting vectors for landing. I can't but help but notice the weather has appreciably worsened compared to the first trip of the day. A tropical storm is making landfall on the Louisiana/Texas border but its squid-like rain bands haven't made it all the way out to central Alabama. At least, they hadn't as of almost two hours ago.
It's quiet on the radio. The voice of the controller cuts through the silence infrequently and only to give us instructions. It appears as if, at least for the moment, we are alone out here. Birmingham approach frequency is the yin to Atlanta's yang. "Cleared for the approach and contact tower," the controller tells us. I repeat it back and am reaching to change the radio's frequency when she interrupts the silence again. "Oh and before you go..."
It's quiet on the radio. The voice of the controller cuts through the silence infrequently and only to give us instructions. It appears as if, at least for the moment, we are alone out here. Birmingham approach frequency is the yin to Atlanta's yang. "Cleared for the approach and contact tower," the controller tells us. I repeat it back and am reaching to change the radio's frequency when she interrupts the silence again. "Oh and before you go..."
Usually statements like that are innocuous. Usually it's followed by some kind of advisory to let us know it's bumpy ahead or previous airplanes have reported wind shifts, or even asking for how flight conditions are at our present altitude. But this is "Go Home Day." It's the pilot's version of break a leg. A good pilot never says, "hey guys, it's go home day! It's been a smooth trip and this will be more of the same! Maybe we'll get in early." Many pilots even hesitate to think about it being Go Home Day until they're are sitting on their front porch having a beer. If you do, you risk summoning the Go Home Gremlins and they are vindictive little bastards. Some of the weirdest things that have ever happened to delay me have happened on Go Home Day. And it's not just me. One particular pilot has made a comedic video about a day in the life of pilots. Fast-forward to the 3:00 mark for the example of Go Home Leg.
I'm not sure what the Captain or I did to summon the Go Home Gremlins, but they showed up nonetheless. "Oh and before you go, multiple tornadoes have been reported west of the airport. Have a good day." I didn't immediately respond. Did I hear her correctly?
"Um, roger...did you say tornadoes?" I ask looking over at the Captain. "Did she tornadoes?"
"That's affirmative. Storm spotters have spotted tornadoes about 10 miles west of the airport." She repeats almost annoyed that I bothered to clarify her previous statement. We are 5 miles east of Birmingham flying west at 160 mph. That's nearly 3 miles every minute. Quick mental math puts us 4-5 minutes from them. It's even closer if they are moving our direction.
"Alright, well, could you at least tell us what direction they are moving?" I ask her trying to help the Captain figure out if we just need to get the hell out of here. She replies back that they are moving to the north, away from the airport. I look to the Captain, and in an agitated tone say to him, "Christ, I'm glad they waited until we were almost on top of them to let us know. Thanks for the 'heads-up'."
Just as I finish my thought, we break out of the clouds and survey the airport. The surface is clear. There are some low clouds off to the north and a rain shield west of the airport obscuring the normally-visible downtown buildings. One last peek at the on-board radar shows nothing of serious concern within 10 miles, so we make the decision to land and do so uneventfully.
After a brief wait for the ramp personnel to come park us, we arrive at the gate and I pull out my cell phone to check the radar. I immediately see the cell to the west and, as described, it is moving to the north and away from the airport. In fact, most of the severe weather is west of the city, moving north. Slightly relieved, I look over to the Captain and show him my radar. He takes a quick glance and in stands up to greet the disembarking passengers, "Well, let's board up and get out of here. I don't want to be here when those things move this way."
Quickly, we both work through our duties to configure the airplane for the return trip to Atlanta. Unlike the more relaxed demeanor we both displayed before the previous 3 legs, this time, it was all mostly done in silence. We finished our tasks and all that was left was to finish boarding the airplane. There was palpable tension throughout the airplane but everyone pretended to ignore it.
The flight attendants, who were just starting their day on this particular leg, told us they were in the gate area when a tornado announcement was made before we landed. They were informed that they were not currently going to the shelter but where to go if they had to shelter. As people boarded, everyone tried to make small talk and treat this as every other normal flight but, deep down, I could feel the nerves and prying eyes as more people than usual looked into the cockpit. Who are these guys? Will we be safe?
One of the questions I get the most is, "have you ever been afraid in an airplane." Of course, the answer is always "no." At no point in my career have I been afraid for my life, which I know is the question they are asking. I've been afraid of getting lost when I was a brand new private pilot. I've been afraid of students flying solo for their first time as instructor. And I've been afraid of not passing check-rides as an airline pilot. Not once, however, have I ever been afraid that I wouldn't make it through the day. Today, was no different, but for the first time, I felt a new kind of anxiety and it happened right after the boarding door closed.
The gate agent handed us our paperwork, gave us the obligatory "have a good flight," and left to close the boarding door. I pulled out my cell phone one last time to check the radar. A new purple box had formed southwest of Birmingham and was pointed right at the city. I clicked on the box and read it to the Captain. "A tornado warning has been issued for Jefferson County. A tornado producing storm was located..."
"Where is it?" the Captain asks, interrupting me. I tell him it looked like it is about 10-20 miles south of us and moving towards us at 30mph. "Alright, well, we will be long gone before it gets here," he says less confidently than he has all day.
I feel my heart rate increase. I just wanted to get in the air. Once airborne, we would be fine. Tornadoes and their associated systems are small. At between 375 and 490 mph (our climb and cruising speeds), it's easy to get away and around them. While we are on the ground, there isn't anything we can do. If we don't get out of here before the storm gets here, the airplane could be damaged requiring inspections. More generally, I just don't want to be around when there are tornadoes. "Alright, call for taxi" he instructs. I more than gratefully comply.
I feel my heart rate increase. I just wanted to get in the air. Once airborne, we would be fine. Tornadoes and their associated systems are small. At between 375 and 490 mph (our climb and cruising speeds), it's easy to get away and around them. While we are on the ground, there isn't anything we can do. If we don't get out of here before the storm gets here, the airplane could be damaged requiring inspections. More generally, I just don't want to be around when there are tornadoes. "Alright, call for taxi" he instructs. I more than gratefully comply.
"Taxi to runway 24 via echo. Just got off the phone with Atlanta. Due to flow, the best wheels up time we could get you is 10 after the hour. Time now, 38," ground control advises us. Like a punctured balloon, I feel the wind rushing from my lungs.
I look over at the Captain as he stares straight ahead, face tense. "You've got to be shitting me," he let out in frustration. "First they slam dunk us head first into tornadoes and now won't even fight to get us a better wheels up with more inbound? Send a message to dispatch and then call ground to see if we can get some priority."
To: Dispatch
TORNADO WARNING SOUTH OF BHM. WHEELS UP IN 30 MINUTES. CALL ATL AND GET PRIORITY PLZ.
I hit send. My next call was Birmingham ground. "Ground. Could you give Atlanta a call and get us some priority. Another tornado warning just popped up south of here and we'd really like to not be here when it gets here." There was a brief pause before they replied with a short "standby."
The silence of the next few minutes is painful. While I was doing as he asked, the Captain had pulled up to the runway and had been using the on-board radar to find a good path out. The winds won't allow us to take off away from it all, so we are going to have to take off west toward the weather before turning back to the east. And it's my leg. I reach into my bag and grab a piece of gum, needing something to do so I could stop fidgeting.
The radio comes alive again. "Okay, the best I can do is 50. Be ready to go right at that time." Ten minutes waiting is better than 30. It would undoubtedly be a long ten minutes though. Once again, we return our gaze to the on-board radar as the Captain speaks up. "Okay, We'll decide for sure once we line up, but right now, let's see if we can make an immediate left turn back to the east."
As shocking as it sounds, turning toward the incoming weather really is the best course of action. The storm is still an uncomfortably comfortable distance to the south. Looking to the north and west, a grey curtain of rain from thunderstorms moving to the north obstructs any possible exits We reconfigure the takeoff power to full power and wait the last few minutes until our window opens.
As shocking as it sounds, turning toward the incoming weather really is the best course of action. The storm is still an uncomfortably comfortable distance to the south. Looking to the north and west, a grey curtain of rain from thunderstorms moving to the north obstructs any possible exits We reconfigure the takeoff power to full power and wait the last few minutes until our window opens.
I look at the clock. Three minutes to go. "Check your phone one more time for me," the Captain says. A quick check raises my hopes. It's still south and would continue to be by the time our wheels leave the ground.
Right on schedule, tower clears us for take off. The Captain aligns us in the center of the runway and gives me control of the airplane. "Your controls. Let's go home."
I advance the throttles. The engines, having waited patiently for this moment, let out deafening roars so loud that it can be felt deep within my chest. Beneath the roaring, the mechanical groan of the turbines resonates throughout the cabin and we begin to rumble down the two mile long concrete strip. At 150 mph, I pull back on yoke, lifting the nose into the air. A second later, ,we are airborne. As I turn back back toward east and get the aircraft pointed in the direction of Atlanta, I look outside and see breaks in the clouds and blue skies beyond. I reach up, turn the autopilot on and smile to myself. Tornadoes. Well played Go Home Day, well played.
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