Floating on a Puddle
S28°10.60′ W163°2.49′
0645 ZULU
We track southwards in a puddle of dim orange light that permeates the solid layer of clouds just below us. The sun dropped below this layer several minutes ago, leaving behind a de-saturated gray sky rapidly embracing the night. This light seems to lap around the edges of the plane however, spreading outward across the tops of the clouds, moving along with us until it fades and eventually vanishes in the near distance. For several miles I stare out the glass and wonder where the orange glow is coming from before finally realizing what the light show is—courtesy of Pythagoras, the ancient Greek philosopher who died almost 2500 years ago.
The layer of clouds below is thin enough so that when I look down through it I can see the glow of the sun still shining below it. However, when I look forward and down at an angle, the distance through the clouds is much greater—the C2 portion of the famous equation—and it’s enough to block the sunlight. I marvel at this for several minutes, debating on telling the FO—I’m working as relief officer on this trip—but decide against it as he seems engrossed in sipping his soda and reviewing some company memos.
We’ve spent the last hour deviating around a large swath of weather about 800 miles north of New Zealand. Hot equatorial air that had been baking under the hot sun all day finally had had enough and had begun rising upwards, dragging moisture from the water with it, forming massive thunderheads that are now poking up into the stratosphere, well above our cruise altitude. Thirty minutes ago, just north of Tonga, the radar was indicating a clear path to the west. After requesting and receiving clearance to head that way, the picture on the display rapidly changed, and with a new clearance in hand, we turned towards the southeast. That has worked well for us so far, and the display now shows clear sailing—err flying—ahead.
The clouds drop away, revealing another layer far, far below. The sun has set beyond the lower layer now as well, but with nothing but the horizon line blocking its rays, the sky is now a deeply saturated watercolor of light. The ride smooths out. A few hundred miles back I’d called the flight attendants and advised them of the potential for bumps. They have one more meal and beverage service to do before we land and I’d promised to let them know when we were clear of the weather. That accomplished I lean back in my seat and stretch out my legs. It’s been a long flight down, starting with a delay at the gate, and I’m looking forward to getting out the plane in the next hour or so.
The Captain returns just before the last of the light fades from the sky. I move back to the center jumpseat and start loading charts and approach plates on my tablet. I’ve never flown into Auckland before, and although both the Captain and FO come here regularly, I want to be somewhat useful as well. The latest weather comes off the printer, and the FO sighs as he reads about low ceilings and heavy rain at the airport. I see him take one last look out the window at the faint, dim glow still hovering at the horizon before he leans forward and starts getting ready for the upcoming approach.
