Peaks in the Darkness
S15°45.70′ W149°51.56′
0740 ZULU
We lost the last of the daylight just as the latitude readout clicked down to zero, with nighttime equatorial thunderstorms firing up along the fresh black line of the horizon. During the hour prior to that, the sun’s last rays wrapped themselves around the curve of the earth, fading westward like a receding tide, the reds and oranges losing their luminance and luster with each passing minute. The last moments of the day were a curtain of black, star-flecked sky above a faint orange glow so hard to see that even after blinking repeatedly in the soft and comfortable darkness of the cockpit, I wasn’t sure if it was still there, or just a memory of things seen.
Two hours later, the daylight is nothing more than a memory. The night sky has filled in the entire bubble of our world, and I’ve spent the miles watching the stars rise upwards on invisible strings as we drift southward. The Captain, closing in on mandatory retirement at a speed that must feel almost overwhelming, has been indulging my sky watching and kept the overhead light off and the display screens dim. Now, with us approaching our top of descent and the busy work of landing the plane somewhere just beyond the darkened horizon, I lean back in my seat and stretch. This trip is an overnight turn and after landing we’ll still have another six hours of flight northward—back across the equator— before our day will end.
To help in that venture, we have a second crew on board. They’ve spent this flight in the back, napping, reading, or perhaps watching movies. They will be responsible for flying us homeward through the early hours of the South Pacific morning. Due to policy, though, we need a third set of eyes on the flight deck during take off and landing, so at least one of them will be joining us shortly, and I will spend the return leg’s takeoff and landing—plus an hour or so of cruise while that crew get in an additional, short rest break—sitting up here for them.
The interphone chimes, announcing the second crew’s cockpit entry for our landing. Minutes later, the cockpit feels crowded after the semi-solitary hours spent watching the light fade into night and the legion of stars swirl overhead. Both other pilots will be upfront for landing—despite the requirement for only one—as they haven’t been to Tahiti before and want to watch the arrival. This is normal, and on past flights I’ve found myself sitting in the second jumpseat as part of a heavy crew during landing, even when not required, to both see the sights and to experience the peculiarities of a specific place. Although Tahiti has relatively advanced air traffic control services, I’m thankful for the extra sets of eyes—and ears—especially since the other FO is a native French speaker.
We are cleared towards an initial fix and given a descent. I spin in the lower altitude, and the autopilot dutifully follows along. A different runway than originally planned requires me to brief the arrival again, but with very little traffic, good weather, and a charted approach that connects the runway with the high altitude airway we’ve spent the last five hours navigating, it’s a simple process. Ahead in the dim light of a waning crescent moon, the spiky peaks of Moorea rise from the inky black tropical waters. We arc around the western end of the island and join the final approach as the scattered lights of the island of Tahiti wink in the distance.
My wife and I spent a week here several months ago, and I am suddenly reminded of us sitting on the porch of our rented apartment in the humid darkness of the tropical night, eating bread, cured meat, and cheese—Tahiti is part of French Polynesia after all. We watched the evening arrivals glide across the invisible sea, the rumble of their throttled back engines carrying across the water and up the jungle canopy-covered valley below us. I shake my head and my focus comes back to the cockpit and the approaching runway lights. The sea spray-filled air hangs heavy in the night, despite the light breeze blowing in from the water and I blink several times as the ground lighting softens in the haze. In the distance, off our left wingtip, the peaks of Moorea silently watch our passage.
