Cockpit Confessions of an Airline Pilot

fly turns to Brisbane or Sydney, and back to Auckland. Two more days on the ground, then fly back to Honolulu.

During a layover in Auckland, Ed drove us to a restaurant in the Mission Bay area, the swank section of town, for some Italian food. I thought Malone was an Irishman, but it turned out that he was an Italian, (MaLo-Nay).

The restaurant was honest-to-god called The Mafia, and Cheech and Guido are the proprietors. Funereal, in double-breasted, sharkskin suits, they greet Ed at the door like a lost brother. As we’re ushered to a booth, it’s hard to miss the baby grand piano in the middle of the floor.

A Chinese woman is playing music from an Italian opera. A tuxedoed, Chinese gentleman is standing next to her, singing arias in Italian. Our Paisans explain that these people are refugees from China, and they don’t speak a word of English. They are, however, classically trained musicians.

Here we sit in New Zealand, manging fine Italian food in The Mafia restaurant, and two Chinese people who don’t speak a word of the local language, earn their keep singing and playing Italian opera. Welcome to Puccini’s Twilight Zone.

Half-way through my eggplant parmagiana, I ask the waiter for extra napkins and a pen, forever conducting my business on paper napkins. Hiding what I’m doing from Ed, I write out a contract between myself, Stephen G. Keshner, as Agent for the Chinese couple. The document guarantees, for a fifteen percent commission, that I will have them on the stage of Carnegie Hall, in New York, within two years. Further, the gentleman must sing under the name Refugio Chinko. I sign as agent at the bottom of the contract, draw lines for Refugio’s signature, and for that of a witness.

Between sets, I demurely carry the “writing” and the pen over to the lady pianist, showing her where to sign, as if asking for an autograph. Smiling, she signs her name in both Chinese and English characters. Next, I perform the same ritual with my new client, the singer, who also graciously signs his name, again both in Chinese and English.

Returning to the table, I produce the executed document for Ed Malone. I am now the proud agent for Refugio Chinko, promising to get my talented discovery onto the stage of Carnegie Hall.

We toast to the success of my new career, and ordering some more Chianti Ruffino, we finish our meal, con gusto!

Ed also had shares in two warbirds, a Trojan and a Harvard, hangared at Ardmore airport, near Auckland. It seems that New Zealand’s laws, unlike those in the U.S.A., prevent frivolous liability lawsuits. As a result, the cost to own a plane is very reasonable, and for about $8000 kiwi dollars apiece (about $5000 US), Ed had a share in these two airplanes.

Since we had a few days off in Auckland on each trip, we would tear up the skies in his aircraft…great fun! Also, the local warbird enthusiasts have a clubhouse on the field in which the hospitality and beer flow freely.

The Revolution

Darius “D.B.” Swayde grew up dirt poor in Hardscrabble, Texas, a white, trailer trash community. “As kids we amused ourselves by taping two cats tails together and tossing them over a clothesline. Them cats hung by their tails on either side of that line and tore each other up. My dad near beat me to death when he found out we were doing that, and we used our own pet cat. That cat near died.”

D.B.’s sharper than a tack, but he talks 1-ah-k t-h-i-s, a lazy drawl, coming across as slow farm-boy….watch your wallet.

D.B. supported himself, and his youthful flying habit, by playing drums in a rock and roll band, and doing crop-dusting, lying to the planes’ owners about his flying experience… “shit man, if you survived, you knew a little more!”

Hired at a young age by Texas International (eventually to become Continental Airlines), D.B. was a Co-Pilot. “Man, felt lahk I’d cut a tall hog high on the ass!”

Darry and his Captain, another Texan, often flew turns, Houston to Guatemala City and back. Day after day, same guys, same route, and, it seemed, the same crew of Flight Attendants in the back.

One morning, down in the operations room, they’re going over their preflight paperwork, checking the weather, their fuel requirements, and the NOTAMS, (Notices to Airmen) describing anything out of the ordinary. Normally they are re-fueled at the gate in Guatemala City, before taking on their Latino load of passengers bound for Houston. Today’s NOTAMS indicate a change in the normal fuel operation. Instead of refueling at the gate down there, they must taxi empty over to the other side of the field, refuel, then return to the original gate and pick up their passengers. Also mentioned are fires and smoke close by the airport. Piles of tires and trash are being disposed of by the City. About half way down to Guatemala, these two miscreant pilots look at each other, smile and hatch a scheme.

There are three flight attendants working in the back of their DC-9. D.B. and his Captain call up their Senior Momma, the head flight attendant, and soberly explain that they’ve just been notified by Air Traffic Control there’s a revolution going on in Guatemala, the rebels have the airport surrounded, and the airport is under siege.

Since they’ve passed the ETP (equal time point), the point of no return, they must continue on to Guatemala City. “We’ve got no choice but to go on and land.”

They instruct her to get the passengers off as quickly as possible, once at the gate….'and then we’re just going to get out of Dodge.” Then they want the flight attendants to slam the door, get down on their bellies under the seats, and keep their heads down. Our two hero pilots will get them the hell out of Guatemala City, hopefully before the rebels have taken the airport and shot up the plane! “Don’t worry, we’ve both been in combat before.” She goes rushing out of the cockpit.

As expected, not two minutes later, all three flight attendants are crowded inside the cockpit. They’ve been briefed by the senior flight attendant. They are fearful, but they know what to do. The pilots are busy, but allow the girls to stay in the cockpit on descent, and as they get in range, they point out the smokey fire-fights and the rebel locations, surrounding the airport. The girls are fascinated, and scared shit-less.

Landing smoothly and pulling quickly up to the gate, the Captain yells back, “ OK, get ‘em off, get em off!”

The flight attendants stampede their passengers out the door. D.B. hollers out, “Close it up! Close it up! Now get down! Get down under them seats!”

The three flight attendants, scrunched down on their bellies beneath the seats, are crying their eyes out. The two pilots behind the closed cockpit door are crying too, while laughing hysterically as they taxi across the field to get refueled for the trip back to Houston.

Fifteen minutes later, when the truth comes out, the remainder of the flight is taken up with vigorous oral sex between the pilots and flight attendants.

“Fuck you, Darius!”

“No, fuck you! “

D.B.’s Mid-life Crisis

D.B. and I are together all month, based in Guam, flying to Saipan to Narita or Nagoya and back, every other day.

Geri and I have known D.B. and Lois, his Flight Attendant wife, for years. She’s the big-hearted, adventurous type. We’ve attended their “orphan Thanksgiving” parties, for people with no family on Oahu, many times.

Beautiful Tumon Bay is always sunny and hot. At the Tree-Bar, poolside at the Hilton Hotel, D.B. and I are drinking Jack and Coke. D.B.’s mournfully focused on a table of six young Japanese girls, obviously on holiday here in tropical Guam, clerical types escaping the harsh winter in Narita. They are all giggling, drinking “whiskey,” which to the Japanese is any alcoholic drink except beer.

D.B.’s first sexual encounter, at about age eleven, was at the instigation of an older neighbor boy who took