Layers Like An Onion
N37°12.56′ E126°54.18′
1925 ZULU
We descend into the top of the layer, the round orb of the sun burning like an ember of coal as it is filtered by the clouds until it fades away to nothing. I push the sunshade up from where it has been covering the front window for the last nine hours—too quickly, as seconds later we pass through a momentary break in the clouds and the full glare of the sun fills the cockpit. The Captain has wisely waited to move his, but after we enter back into the soft gray and dimming light of the clouds, he too pushes his sunshade up. Behind me, I hear the Relief Officer zip his sunglasses into their case.
The flight has been bumpy for the past few hours as we crossed over southern Japan and the Tsushima Strait, but now, with the engines rolled back and the altimeter slowly unwinding, the ride settles, and a tired stillness overtakes the three of us. Despite the just over three-hour rest breaks we each got, it has been a long flight west, and even though 35,000 feet below us it’s just getting to be dinner time, our body clocks are rapidly approaching 11pm. With that in mind, I contemplate grabbing a snack from my bag, but instead settle for a quick swig of water.
We cross the coastline—at least on the map, as we are still inside an indistinct and fuzzy gray bubble—just as the latest weather report rolls off the printer. Thirty minutes ago, Incheon was reporting 10 miles of visibility and a high layer of clouds, giving us the impression that we’d soon pop out of the bottom of the layer as we descended towards the field. The RO tears the paper free, glances at it and grunts, and then hands it to me. I scan through it, taking a few seconds to find the relevant pieces of information as they are in a different order than the US weather reports I’m used to.
The airport is now reporting 3000 foot ceilings and restricted visibility due to haze. It’s also only 40 degrees out, with a north wind gusting to 20 miles per hour. The weather is still good enough for us to continue with the plan already in place, but instead of a scenic flight across Korea, we’ll be in the clouds for a bit longer than expected. I pass the weather report over to the Captain, who glances at it, grunts as well, and then puts it on the tray table in front of him. We’ve apparently reached the point of the flight where a combination of boredom, hunger, and confinement has reduced us to communicating like cave people.
Minutes later, despite the field weather report, with the altimeter reading 7000 feet, we drop from the base of the cloud layer just over 20 miles from the airport. We emerge into a haze and dust-filled monochromatic world, the flat light of the sun blocked by several thousand feet of clouds barely giving any depth or texture to it. Below us, the indistinct urban sprawl of Korea stretches into the distance. I stare out my side window at an auto test track complex as it slides by and disappears underneath the wing like it was never there. When I look forward again, the shores of the Yellow Sea—a mixture of marshes and industrial build-up—emerge from the gloom ahead.
We go feet wet and cross the Sihwah seawall where it connects Daeboo Island to the mainland. Ahead, the red and white ferry to Jeju Island—a sole dash of color in a palette of gray—works its way outbound against a rising tide. The passage down to Jeju will take this ferry another 13 hours whereas the remainder of our journey will be measured in minutes. I look to the northeast where the murky outlines of high-rises dot Songdo, their shapes softened in the haze. Somewhere in that sprawl is our old overnight hotel. We’ve recently moved to a new location, right next to the airport. I stare forward now, towards the unseen but approaching airfield. Below us, the ferry drops out of view beneath our nose as we descend lower into the haze, both of us heading towards places we can’t yet see.
