The Pilot

You see them at airport terminals around the world. You see them in the  morning early, sometimes at night. They come neatly uniformed and hatted,  sleeves striped; they show up looking fresh. There's a brisk, young-old  look of efficiency about them.

They arrive fresh from home, from hotels, carrying suitcases, battered briefcases, bulging, with a wealth of technical information, data, filled  with regulations, rules.  

They know the new, harsh sheen of Chicago's O'Hare. They know the  cluttered  approaches to Newark; they know the tricky shuttle that is Rio; they know,  but do not relish, threading the needle into Hong Kong.

They respect foggy San Francisco. They know the up-and-down walk to the  gates at Dallas, the Texas sparseness of Abilene, the Berlin Corridor, New Orleans' sparking terminal, the milling crowds at Washington.

They know Butte, Boston, and Beirut. They appreciate Miami's perfect weather, they recognize the danger of an ice-slick runway at JFK.

They understand about short runways, antiquated fire equipment, inadequate  approach lighting, but there is one thing they will never comprehend:  Complacency.

They remember the workhorse efficiency of the DC-3's, the reliability of the  DC- 4's and DC-6's, the trouble with the DC-7's.

They discuss the beauty of an old gal named Connie. They recognize the  high shrill whine of a Viscount, the rumbling thrust of a DC-8 or 707. And a  Convair.

They speak a language unknown to Webster. They discuss ALPA, EPR's, fans,  mach and bogie swivels. And, strangely, such things as bugs, thumpers, crickets, and CATs, but they are inclined to change the subject when the  uninitiated approaches.

They have tasted the characteristic loneliness of the sky, and occasionally  the adrenaline of danger. They respect the unseen thing called turbulence;  they know what it means to fight for self-control, to discipline one's senses.

They buy life insurance-but make no concession to the possibility of complete disaster, for they have uncommon faith in themselves and what  they are doing.

They concede that the glamour is gone from flying. They deny that a man is through at sixty. They know that tomorrow, or the following night,  something will come along that they have never met before; they know that flying requires perseverance. They know that they must practice, lest they retrograde.
 

They realize why some wit once quipped: "Flying is year after year of  monotony punctuated by seconds of stark terror."
As a group, they defy mortality tables, yet approach semi-annual physical  examinations with trepidation. They are individualistic, yet bonded  together. They are family men, yet rated poor marriage bets. They are  reputedly overpaid, yet entrusted with equipment worth millions. And  entrusted with lives, countless lives.

At times they are reverent: They have watched the Pacific sky turn purple at dusk. They know the twinkling, jeweled beauty of Los Angeles at night;  they  have seen snow up on the Rockies. They remember the vast unending mat of  green Amazon jungle, the twisting silver road that is the father of
Waters,  an ice cream cone called Fujiyama. And the hump of Africa.

They have watched a satellite streak across a starry sky, seen the clear,  deep blue of the stratosphere, felt the incalculable force of the heavens.

They have marveled at sun-streaked evenings, dappled earth, velvet night; spun silver clouds, sculptured cumulus: God's weather.
They have viewed the Northern Lights, a wilderness of sky, a pilot's halo, a  bomber's moon, horizontal rain, contrails and St Elmo's Fire.

Only a pilot experiences all these. It is their world.

 - Author unknown.  Submitted by JJ Cunningham.