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Wednesday, April 02, 2008
Freight DogsUsually I'm unimpressed by media coverage of the flying profession, but this article from Men's Vogue Magazine hits the nail on the head. Author Michael Walker takes a close look at the life of a freighter pilot, and, having lived the life for seven years, I can say without a doubt, this is how it is.
Old airplanes, broken or missing equipment, bad weather, middle of the night, fatigue, weeks at a time away from home. This is what being a freight dog is all about. Grounded with a dead starter in Ketchikan Alaska. Grounded with an inop generator in Lusaka, Zambia. Emergency return to Frankfurt, Germany due to a failed inertial reference unit. It's all part of the job description. And hovering over the whole bailiwick like an oppressive task master is the relentless, unforgiving schedule driving you and your crew to move the boxes. Broken airplane? Too bad, move the boxes. Tired? Too bad, move the boxes. Kids have forgotten your name? Too bad, move the boxes. And so it goes.
It's true George Lucas based the Star Wars cantina on pubs around the world where the freighter drivers hang out. I've seen Han Solo and Chewbacca perched on bar stools from the Sandbar in Juneau, Alaska to Fat Boys in Brussels to the Damba Lounge in Accra. These crummy watering holes the world over are like Mecca to freight dogs. There's a Polar 747 crew over there. There's two Gemini MD11 pilots at the end of the bar. Wasn't that so-and-so from Arrow Air smoking a cigarette outside? Sure, I know him. He's a DC-8 driver, right?
It is indeed a tight knit community.
As I sit in my ultra modern Boeing cockpit today preparing to take 140 people to Detroit I am continually aware of the distinct lack of adventure in my job. Then again, that's the way it should be. Airline travel should be, and most definitely is the safest form of transportation in the world. But every now and then, when life becomes hum-drum, I begin to miss those swashbuckling days of driving decrepit freighters around the globe, and a slight smile crosses my face every time I see a ratted out DC-10 stagger into the night sky.
Old airplanes, broken or missing equipment, bad weather, middle of the night, fatigue, weeks at a time away from home. This is what being a freight dog is all about. Grounded with a dead starter in Ketchikan Alaska. Grounded with an inop generator in Lusaka, Zambia. Emergency return to Frankfurt, Germany due to a failed inertial reference unit. It's all part of the job description. And hovering over the whole bailiwick like an oppressive task master is the relentless, unforgiving schedule driving you and your crew to move the boxes. Broken airplane? Too bad, move the boxes. Tired? Too bad, move the boxes. Kids have forgotten your name? Too bad, move the boxes. And so it goes.
It's true George Lucas based the Star Wars cantina on pubs around the world where the freighter drivers hang out. I've seen Han Solo and Chewbacca perched on bar stools from the Sandbar in Juneau, Alaska to Fat Boys in Brussels to the Damba Lounge in Accra. These crummy watering holes the world over are like Mecca to freight dogs. There's a Polar 747 crew over there. There's two Gemini MD11 pilots at the end of the bar. Wasn't that so-and-so from Arrow Air smoking a cigarette outside? Sure, I know him. He's a DC-8 driver, right?
It is indeed a tight knit community.
As I sit in my ultra modern Boeing cockpit today preparing to take 140 people to Detroit I am continually aware of the distinct lack of adventure in my job. Then again, that's the way it should be. Airline travel should be, and most definitely is the safest form of transportation in the world. But every now and then, when life becomes hum-drum, I begin to miss those swashbuckling days of driving decrepit freighters around the globe, and a slight smile crosses my face every time I see a ratted out DC-10 stagger into the night sky.
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