Northern Light
N47°19.61′ W175°30.00′
1610 ZULU
Morning light fills in the eastern skyline, washing out the darkness of the night we’ve been traveling through for the past seven hours, erasing the stars and planets in its path as it climbs upwards from the horizon. The initial hints of pale yellow give way to golds and then reds, and then finally, the hot white light that spills over the edge of the world, chasing the last of the night away just in time for the sun to break the line that separates the seen and unseen world. Counterintuitively, the Relief Officer and I increase the brightness of the displays and instrument backlighting, as the dimmed lighting, set five hours ago by the other crew on board, is overpowered by the sunlight.
One thousand miles behind our tail, the Kuril Islands—trailing off the southern point of Russia’s Kamchatka Peninsula, still sit under a darkened sky full of stars, much as they did when we passed to their south a few hours ago, skimming along at the very edge of US airspace. Now to our north is nothing but the cold waters of the North Pacific Ocean and—just barely visible on our display screens, and well beyond the abilities of human sight—the scattered islands making up the Aleutian chain. In the sudden warmth that fills the cockpit as the sun spills over the horizon, I watch as the series of pixels representing Adak Airport, the western-most landing strip in the US, moves across the screen.
On the other side of the cockpit door, the other half of our crew—a captain and another FO—are sleeping, or watching movies, or maybe reading—while waiting for their turn to come back up front and fly the final portion of our arrival into Seattle. Hours ago, after departing Korea, they climbed us out over Japan, dodging the leading edge of a tropical cyclone, while the RO and I attempted to get some sleep before our four-plus-hour watch assignment began. Looking across the cockpit at the RO, as he sips coffee and blinks rapidly in the bright light of day, I realize that he probably didn’t fair any better than I did in the getting sleep department. The clock shows another two hours before the other crew is due back up front.
In the warm glow of the rising sun, I stretch my legs out towards the rudder pedals and arch my back against the seat, doing my best to keep the blood flowing and the muscles loose. Ten miles off our left wing, the fresh daylight reflects off the skin of a Philippine Airlines jet, the only other airplane we’ve been sharing the airspace with for the past few hours. Due to each company using slightly different routing software, despite starting to our south (Manila instead of Korea), and ending to our south (San Francisco instead of Seattle), they are currently farther north than we are. At some point down range, our paths will cross as they head back down towards warmer latitudes.
Due to a solid Jetstream (and the government contract we are on for this flight), our dispatcher has planned us at a rather slow airspeed, and so our neighbor to the north pulls steadily away towards the now bright blue horizon. Before they drop out of radio range, the RO calls them and asks how their ride has been. We’ve been in and out of the bumps for almost the whole flight, and despite climbing and descending several times haven’t found a smooth altitude yet. The other plane is either already too far away—or not paying attention to the radio—as despite several calls, there is no response. The RO shrugs and then steadies the cup of coffee on his tray table as we roll through another pocket of turbulence. I flex may hand next to the side stick, just in case, and then check the clock. Only another 85 minutes until I can take a nap.
