Rolling Along
N45°43.23′ W127°48.52′
0630 ZULU
A half moon, almost lying on its back, rises from the murkiness of the horizon. Behind it, dragged along by an invisible string, the Oregon coastline materializes from out of the darkness. The view far to the southeast through my front window reveals a smattering of ground lights that breaks up the blackness—which is shifting towards grayish blue the closer to the moon that I look. These lights, clinging to the edge of the land mass we are rapidly approaching, will soon be followed by more and more that keep pulling our attention eastward across the continent towards eventual daylight.
The plane rolls slightly back and forth as the wings pass through a shift in the winds. Nothing will come of it but out of habit I grip the pillar that separates the front and side windshield, my knuckles brushing the glass pane as I do. It’s warm to the touch, the three heated layers of polycarbonate working hard to keep out the negative 54 degree air moving at 450 miles per hour on the other side. The air in the cockpit is comfortable chilly. Like most of us that do the long haul flying, I changed into a warm pullover an hour after departure, both for the warmth and the anonymity it provides during my rest break in the back.
We’ve been in the air for just over four hours now, traversing the mid-latitudes of the eastern Pacific, winging over white puffy clouds that disappear into the darkness as we fly into the night. The halfway point of our flight is still several hundred miles ahead of the plane’s nose, somewhere beyond where the shimmering moon is climbing into the night sky—washing out the stars as it does. For about the tenth time today I check the projected arrival time and see that it hasn’t budged. Wheels down at 5:43 in the morning
This flight requires an extra pilot due to its length. The Captain is currently taking a break in the back and the Relief Officer—another FO whose duties consist of covering for the Captain and First Officer assigned to the flight—is filling his seat. He and I have spent the last hour progressively dimming the instrument lighting—balancing the need to see the displays with not being blinded by them as the ambient light fades—while discussing families, travel, and captains we’d rather not fly with ever again.
I glance at the clock, linked to the GPS constellation and accurate to some fractions of a second, as it continues to spin onward, much as the globe spins below us, driving the darkened landscape, now a constant sprinkling of ground lights, towards an eventual sunrise. We are scheduled to land before sunrise, and with any luck I will be in my hotel room, napping with the blinds tightly drawn, before the weak winter sun cracks the horizon. For now though, I’ve got to stay awake and alert… until my own rest break comes.
