The ground staff may shrug when they meet us on such days.
Their work is, of course, much easier without passengers, but they do not appear to like it, either. Flights with no passengers are often flights with no cabin crew either, and so one of the pilots must help close the door on the empty and silent main deck, before heading upstairs to join their colleagues in the cockpit.
Takeoff on an empty plane is different, too. The jet feels unnaturally light.
On an empty flight it is a pilot who must walk through the cabin to conduct the routine safety checks that are normally performed by the cabin crew. On the , this means a long and lonely walk away from my one or two colleagues in the cockpit, downstairs and all the way back, past hundreds of empty seats that may be dressed and ready—magazines, toothbrushes, and headsets laid out—for the passengers that are not there. Outside I can see the peaks of the snowcapped Sierra Nevadas streaming past in the gathering dusk. But breaks are short enough without sightseeing, and so I lie down to sleep.
The plane has been flying toward the night of the north and the east, and so it is dark outside and nearly dark inside as well. Scattered oval pools of cold moonlight spread across the cabin floor and roll gently back and forth over the carpet with the sway of the vessel in the high wind. No curtains are drawn between the cabins, and as I look down the full length of the main deck, only a few splashes of light dot the shadowy abstraction of the aisles. Another copilot once told me about a flight he made on a large aircraft, undergoing tests, that had no interior features yet—no seats, no galleys, no divisions between cabins or decks.
He said that, from inside, you could see the fuselage flex and twist in response to the maneuvers of ordinary flight. The phrase souls on board comes to mind, an antiquated term that is still heard in aviation when an air-traffic controller, for example, wishes to know the total number of persons, passengers and crew on an aircraft.
Yet I can't help but wonder. Takeoff on an empty plane is different, too. Languages Add links. Many tens of thousands of passengers and crew have flown on this plane and will fly on it; no one who saw only the map of us, the far-scattered constellation of our present locations on the earth, would ever guess that what we had in common was one airplane. So, "souls" effectively communicates the number of living humans on board. In Matthew Jesus states "Do not be afraid of the those who kill the body but cannot kill the soul. We would never know anything of the donor or of the recipient and our role in the gift was entirely incidental.
Many tens of thousands of passengers and crew have flown on this plane and will fly on it; no one who saw only the map of us, the far-scattered constellation of our present locations on the earth, would ever guess that what we had in common was one airplane. I change out of my pajamas in front of the banks of unshuttered windows, which for once open onto a night no less lonely than that inside the cabin.
I walk upstairs and make my way carefully down the dark aisle of the upper deck. The cockpit door has been open the entire flight—there is no reason to close it tonight—and from the end of the upper-deck cabin the softly glowing cockpit screens are as welcoming as a hearth.
The primary reason is probably that it ensures there is no confusion between passengers, crew, or infants. Technically, "passengers" is the. Strictly speaking "souls on board" has a different meaning from all of your other constructions. "There are on board" can't be turned into a.
I walk past the empty seats and through the open door. The mug of tea my colleagues have made for me is steaming in a cupholder by my seat. As I walk in I say: Guess who? And the captain laughs, because tonight there is no one else in the world it could be.
Why the Is So Revered by Pilots. We opted for flight following, figuring that we would be free to choose our own course and not have to fly any ATC-dictated doglegs out of our way. And just last week, we flew back from another trip to Burlington VT, via a different set of controllers, on instruments, since there was a big fat cloud layer at about 6 thousand feet.
Here are a few from our recent days in the air. Surprising pilots : Exchanges with the ATC are predictable. The language is spare, almost catechismal in its patterns, and it leaves little room for ambiguity as you would hope! Talking with the ATC is one of them. What is not reassuring, is when the formulaic exchanges veer off script. For example, on an August day, with some scattered storms around the Midwest, we were flying down the east coast of Lake Michigan, veering south around Chicago and heading west to South Dakota.
We heard an ATC speaking distinctly, insistently to a clearly lost pilot:. I tried to follow the exchange of numbers, which are important! It went something like this:. As Sunday approached I was watching the forecasts. There was some optimism in the public weather forecast, some pessimism in the marine forecast issued for boaters, and not much definitive to be gleaned from the aviation weather maps.
My fingers were crossed.
The incoming plane was a Twin Otter from Air Tindi, and the Twin Otter on floats can handle some big waves and swells, but I knew there was a good chance that even if the day was warm and sunny, a southerly wind here could make us cancel the flight and the party. It is a little-known fact of wind and wave physics that in autumn, when both the air and the water are colder than in summer, a given strength of wind, say 10 knots, will generate a bigger and more powerful set of waves and swells.
The reason is that both the air and the water become denser as they cool. The cold wind pushes with more force and the cold waves formed by the dense water have more mass and momentum — the water weighs more and so does the air. I am a little out of my depth here, but that is how I understand it. It is a concept I believe, because I see it borne out every fall when colder air pushes on cold water and creates bigger, more powerful waves than at any other time of the year. The mild sunny weather that made last Sunday so nice came at the price of a breeze from the south.
Big waves and swells are the bane of floatplane pilots. As I have written before, a floatplane is a marvelous and useful contraption, but in truth it makes a very poor boat. It is only a small exaggeration to liken a Twin Otter on floats to a small schooner, complete with topsails, perched on a pair of oversized canoes. On the morning of the big day I snuck out from the house with the portable satellite phone, to pass the weather along to my old friend Mike Murphy, who was to fly the plane in from Yellowknife.
He was concerned by the southerly breeze and the waves it would generate here.
When the plane appeared overhead Kristen was out picking berries, taking advantage of the only warm sunny morning we had seen for weeks. The Twin circled several times, as Mike and Joe looked over the options.
Between the two of them, and with another life-long pilot, Kim Zenko, sitting back among the passengers, there were something like 60, hours of bush-flying experience looking down and assessing the wind and water situation at that moment.