So there was Allen Paulsen, who had sold Gulfstream Aerospace for $600 million — give or take — enjoying his spoils by watching his thoroughbred leg it out for the lead. The thunderous sound of some of the world's fastest and most expensive horses powering down the homestretch competed with the raucous cheering of the high-stakes crowd for top decibel honors. But above this exclusive din — literally above — a nasal drone drifted into earshot. At the penultimate moment in the race, Paulsen could contain himself no longer. Involuntarily, he released his gunsight-sharp gaze on the ponies and glanced skyward to check out the small, single-engine airplane crossing overhead.
That story was told to me recently by someone who swore he was at the horse race and stood near Paulsen. He remembered the incident after his wife noted that he and I and my friend Doug all looked up simultaneously when an airplane flew over the poolside cocktail party that the four of us were attending.
It was a nighttime party, and the only things we could see that identified the sound as coming from an airplane were position and strobe lights moving across the heavens. In other words, there was nothing very interesting to look at. No matter. We looked just the same, and will again.
Paulsen, the pilot at the cocktail party, Doug, me — and you, probably — we're all afflicted with an uncontrollable urge to look up at every aircraft we hear, no matter what else we're doing. Our wives or husbands, children, friends, business associates, and fellow cocktail-party guests all look at us with baffled amusement. Why, they wonder aloud, is it necessary for you pilots to look up at every aircraft you hear, regardless of how big, small, loud, quiet, fast, or slow? What's the big deal? If you've heard and seen one airplane in the air, you've heard and seen them all.
Why, indeed. The explanation for our distracting behavior is simple. We like airplanes. If you like cathedrals, you'll look at every one you drive past. It's no different for those of us who are smitten with flying.
Looking up at every airplane is a sure sign that we're into flying full-time. Even if we're not actually flying, we're always thinking about it. It's a mild form of visualization that helps keep us sharp mentally.
Looking up, the questions begin to flow. How high is it flying? Is the pilot struggling against a headwind, or enjoying a relaxing push from a tailwind? What's the routing? There are no published airways within the square piece of sky framed by my office window, so the airplanes that I hear and see when I'm sitting at my desk must be guided by area navigation systems, most likely GPS or loran. Where is the pilot headed? Is there business to attend to at the destination, or a just-completed deal at the departure?
Are there passengers aboard? Perhaps it's a flying family returning home after a warming South Florida vacation. If it's a business jet, I wonder if the owner is a person rather than a corporation, and is that wonderfully fortunate individual in the left seat of the jet at this very moment? I sure would like to be.
We want to be up there exercising our skills and abilities, serving as pilot in command of a powerful mach-ine taking us on distant adventures. Seeing an air-plane fly past is a re-minder that the world is on the move, and we'd like to be moving with it.
Just now I was daydreaming, looking out the window, and noticed a single-engine Cessna off in the distance, flying right to left across the pane of glass. We have a rare overcast today, the detritus from a low-pressure system skirting us to the north. The clouds are soft and seemingly out of focus; it's difficult to judge the ceiling. But seeing the Cessna silhouetted against the cloud cover provides some context. I estimate the bases to be at 7,000 feet. The Cessna is headed northwest. I wonder, will it fly into the weather to the north, or is the pilot VFR?
At night I can peer through the sliding glass doors on the north side of the house that lead out to the backyard, and almost always see a bright spot of light in the distance. It's moving toward me almost imperceptibly. It's an airliner on approach to Southwest Florida International (RSW).
The standard routing has RSW in-bounds descending south of Tampa as they track southeast along Florida's west coast. When the prevailing northeasterly breeze is blowing and Runway 6 is active, the airliners pass east of my house, still descending, on an extended base leg for the visual to 6 (VMC is de rigueur in this subtropical part of the world). Midway over Estero Island to the southeast, they turn final. During the winter tourist season, RSW-bound airliners cross my office window and sliding glass doors left to right with regularity.
I can't recall leaving an airport in a car and not slowing to watch an airplane take off or land. We like to watch because the takeoff says something about the airplane's performance, while the landing says something about the pilot's. But, be careful about judging someone else's landing too harshly. Let he who is without a bounce, a premature flare, an unchecked descent, or a nosewheel-first touchdown, cast the first aspersion.
Whoops, I hear an airplane now....
...I'm back. I had to get up out of my chair and crane my neck to see it out the window. It was a 727, banking to the east. Must have been leveling and turning to a downwind for 24. Yep, the wind's out of the southwest today, so they're using 24. Wonder if the captain in the left seat or the first officer in the right is flying. Probably calling right now for flaps 5, slow to 180....
