For the pilots

[trof]

Corny, but pretty much true.
trof

PILOTS

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 theDC-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 regress.

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
India.

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.