Paralleling the Night
N41°44.97′ W135°27.42′
0415 ZULU
The whisky compass swings back and forth in the light turbulence, but in the brief pockets of smooth air, consistency settles at 11 points to the left of due east. The last few hours of flying have been mostly smooth, as we were able to pick our way through a jumble of confused, high altitude winds. Heading mostly eastward, the sun inscribed an arc in the sky overhead like a ball attached to a string tied to our tail. Just over an hour ago there was a barely perceptible shift in the light as the sun dropped towards the horizon, its rays passing through more and more atmosphere as the physics of a globe started to come into play.
Ahead of us, what started as a clearly defined horizon line between the deeply shaded blue sky above and the light blue, cloud-sprinkled ocean below has, in the softening light, now become a fuzzy line in the distance with mirrored blue expanses stretching out from it. Still five hundred fifty miles from the California coast, we turn north towards our destination. Just as we begin our turn, the sun drops over the horizon—shifting, as it does so, from a white, glaring ball of fire to a soft pink shape that is slipping away towards tomorrow. The plane’s wings bank to the left, offering a brief salute to the departing day, and then level out onto our new course.
Flying north, the light bumps continuously shake the airframe. The day to night terminator line lies directly overhead, looking like a long snake of faintly orange-gold tinted darkness running away from us into the distance. Off the right wing, with its green nav light wiggling in the rough air, is a darkened sky acting as the backdrop for Saturn rising upwards into the night. Beyond our right wing, the glowing remains of the day slide away over the curve of the earth.
Time passes. I tap my foot to the beat of a song I heard somewhere but have since forgotten. The terminator line continues to roll across the sky over our head, sliding westward and squeezing out the glow of daylight to the northwest as it does, until there is nothing more than a faint glow of orange on the far western horizon. In the now fully dark night sky, Saturn continues its trek across the upturned bowl above, no longer alone, joined by a multitude of stars that first shimmer and then gain form as the upper fabric of the heavens changes from deep blue to black.
In a darkened cockpit, with the display screens now dimmed, I take a sip of water. The air blowing from the sidewall vent feels colder in the darkness. I look up at the overhead panel, and after a moment’s searching, find the temperature control knob. I give it a fraction of a twist to the right. The air in the cabin seems to instantly thicken and warm, much too fast to actually be from the air coming out of the vent, and I realize that the perceived coldness, much like the concepts of “today” and “tomorrow”, was mostly in my head. We are well past the flight’s halfway point, and in these quiet moments before life gets busy again, guided by the beat of a song I can’t remember, I meditate on the simplicity of our isolated bubble in a sea of darkness.
