Tuesday, November 1, 2011

LEAVING ON A JET PLANE


I enjoyed many flights, none more than the one that carried me aloft in a new way, described here. 10/10/2016.



LEAVING ON A JET PLANE

In 1959, I became a small part of Trans World Airlines (TWA) aviation history. On a Friday morning while in New York City, a change in plans allowed me to cancel my flight to New Orleans and fly home to San Francisco the next day. A ticket agent offered me two options. I chose to take the flight scheduled to depart from LaGuardia at 9 a.m. rather than 1 p.m.
You can imagine my surprise when I arrived at the terminal to discover my ride would be aboard a brand new Boeing 707, TWA’s inaugural west-bound non-stop cross country jet flight.
   Before boarding, each passenger received a framed certificate commemorating this event. Mine still hangs on the wall of my den. Almost as an afterthought, the company later mailed me a highly prized egg timer embossed with a TWA emblem. It went missing from my kitchen years ago.
The passenger cabin exuded a new-car aroma. Everything looked spic-and-span, bright and clean. I began to feel a tingle of excitement, hoping the flight would be memorable. As luck would have it, I had a window seat which really pleased me.
The aircraft left on time and ambled along the tarmac at a slow speed. We paused for a few minutes at the end of the runway. The pilot revved up the engines and began the takeoff. A young boy seated behind me yelled out, "Charge!" With that command, the plane soared aloft. His shout of bravado and encouragement matched my emotion perfectly. For that brief moment, I thought of myself as a member of the Light Brigade, about to ride into the jaws of . . . the unknown.
As we flew across the country, the pilot provided a running commentary, relaying our air speed and current location. We flew too high to spot the landmarks he identified below, but I strained my eyes trying to see them. Could that be the Mississippi?
The plane landed on time. We had encountered some minor turbulence on three occasions during the five-hour flight, but I had never experienced a smoother, virtually noise-free airplane ride. I had entered their history book without much fanfare.
Not every passenger enjoyed the flight. The editor of the Wall Street Journal, West Coast edition, sat next to me. He grumbled before, during and after takeoff. The airline had bumped him from first class, even though he had booked his flight months in advance in order to be aboard this initial jet trip. He fumed when I told him that I purchased my ticket just a day earlier, completely unaware of its maiden status.
I had a previous encounter with jet aircraft during my days in the Army Air Corps. In 1947, while stationed at Ladd Field, Alaska, I saw a P-80 Shooting Star jet fighter plane land there on its inaugural flight to the arctic. It approached the field escorted by two P-51 Mustangs. As the three planes flew by the control tower, just a few hundred feet above ground level, the P-80 pilot hit the throttle, streaked ahead and then zoomed straight up into the sky, leaving the escorts in its wake. In that flash of time, I could see that jets had made piston-driven engines obsolete.          
   In the summer of 1966, while living near San Francisco, my wife planned to fly to New York City with our six children, ages 1 to 9, to visit relatives. The fare staggered us. I asked TWA for a discount because of my pioneer experience with the airline. They told me, in polite terms, to “take a hike.” My celebrity status had plunged downwards faster than that P-80 had zoomed upwards.
   It’s regrettable that TWA folded before it could offer me a chance to be aboard its first flight to the moon. Forget the plaque. I could use a replacement for their missing egg timer.    
 
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