Back to reality

I was at the airport in St Thomas, waiting for my flight home when the phone rang. It was the training department advising me that I had been removed from two days of my next trip because my captain had to give IOE, Initial Operating Experience, to another pilot.
Two extra paid days off! I was thrilled.
The shortened trip went without a hitch. Until the last leg, of course.
On our way into JFK, we are told to hold on three different occasions. While my captain flies, I run fuel numbers. Except for the delay, which means I'll miss my usual flight home, we're in good shape. We are soon vectored to the VOR 13L, my favorite approach into Kennedy. Over the CRI VOR, while still in the clouds, tower sends us around because of spacing with the aircraft ahead.
On a long downwind vector, I once again examine the fuel situation. We still have plenty but know that the way things have gone so far today it won't be a quick approach, so I ask the controller what his plan is for us.
"Yeah, I was going to turn you in a second," comes the curt reply.
"Just trying to think ahead and evaluate our fuel situation."
Moments later, we are back on the approach. As we get closer we hear several aircraft ahead going missed approach, meaning they have reached the point on the approach where they either have to see the runway or go around.
We cross CRI lower than usual, as assigned by ATC, then pick up the lead-in lights than run parallel to the highway. My captain points the aircraft's nose toward them while I search for the next set of lights to our right. Nothing.
We go missed, again.
Tower hands us over to approach. I declare minimum fuel and the controller gives us vectors back around.
In typical New York fashion, however, the headings look like they will take us far out and as the weather dips lower and lower my captain and I concur that we have very little leeway left.
"Flight 1234, we are declaring a fuel emergency."
The controller acknowledges our call, asks for the number of souls on board and gives us another vector around for the ILS 13L. On edge, we prepare for the third and what absolutely has to be the last approach.
Minutes later we break out of the clouds at about 700' to the very welcomed sight of runway 13L.
At the gate I weigh my flight options home . It looks like I can make the 5 p.m. flight that leaves from the terminal I am in. Because of the weather and its associated backlog, the aircraft is late getting into New York, so I call another airline to make a back-up plan. Their 7:50 p.m. flight has already cancelled, leaving only one more flight home at 11 p.m. I list for it, just in case.
I bump into the FO flying the 5 p.m. flight and chat with him for a while. We are soon joined by a captain trying to make that flight too. We all exchange stories, commiserate about the commute and try to help frantic passengers whose flights are cancelling or who have missed connections.
Once again, JFK is the center of many's unhappiness.
Two other Boston flights cancel but by 8 p.m. I'm on board the 5 p.m., on our way to 13R. I close my eyes for a second. It's been a long and hectic day, but in just a few hours I'll be home and I can already taste the rum punch I'll have to unwind.
DING.
Through the cockpit door comes the familiar sound of the single chime. It rouses me from my slumber, but it could be anything: the cross-feed might be on because of the single-engine taxi out to the runway or the FO might have changed to thrust setting for take-off. Nothing that would get in the way of my getting home. I lean my head back.
The aircraft suddenly makes a right turn, then another, heading away from the runway.
I turn around and the commuting captain and I exchange a look of concern. Guess we're not going after all.
A hydraulic problem ends up cancelling this flight too and I suddenly see my chances of making it home tonight dwindle. The 11 p.m. flight on the other airline is now delayed two hours and it looks like it'll probably end up cancelling altogether. This could mean having to sleep in the crew room.
An hour later, however, news comes that dispatch wants the crew of the 5 p.m. flight to reposition the aircraft to Boston when the hydraulic problem is fixed. This is my last chance for a ride home. So I wait with them.
Hours later we touch down in Boston. It's late. The airport is deserted and quiet. On the curb, the usual cacophony of buses and cars has been reduced to complete silence. I hop in a cab for the $80 ride to my car and pull into my driveway at 2 a.m.
Ten hours after my work day ended.
It's definitely back to reality...

Paradise

As the 757's door opened, warm air rushed into cabin, carrying with it a hint of the sea and caressing my face softly. I smiled. Jen and I had finally arrived: St Thomas, in the U.S. Virgin Islands. A step closer to our own little corner of paradise for the next four days.

It had been too long since we had done something just the two of us. Years in fact. And with a new baby at home and hectic opposing schedules, stress and exhaustion had finally caught up with us. It was time, I had decided, for that long-overdue and long dreamed-about Caribbean holiday.

A fair amount of research and conversations with friends and colleagues familiar with the region led to the conclusion that St John was the place for us: a less touristy island of 20 square miles, 80 percent of which is protected as a National Park. By all accounts, the beaches were pristine and the people friendly. A true no-brainer.

Outside the open-air terminal, a lady offered travelers free shots of rum. All around us, happy faces wandered about, cold beers in hand. They too had reached paradise, it seemed.

A quick taxi ride later, we were sipping rum punch and pain killers (the drink, of course) on the patio of Tickles restaurant at the Crown Marina, while we waited for the ferry to St John. The lush mountains surrounding us and the bright turquoise waters all around transported us to a completely different world, far far away from the wintery muck of Boston, the diaper changes and the constant logistical headaches both at home and at work.

We missed Ollie very much but as we began to take this beautiful place in we were happy and began to relax.

The ferry ride was a pleasure, taking us past a slew of private islands that pepper the waters between St Thomas and St John. Less than an hour later, the hotel staff greeted us with yet more rum punch. We were in awe: the palm trees, the lush green lawns bordered by wild pineapple and other tropical plants, the white sand and enticing crystalline water of the Caribbean Sea. We swam, had dinner on the beach and sat in the warm evening, surrounded by tikki torches, gazing at solitary clouds floating high above the palm trees in the silvery hue of the moon light.

Pure bliss.

The following morning, we headed to Cruz Bay to rent a jeep and set out to explore the island, which is essentially an imposing mountain jutting from the sea. Driving on the left side of the road took no time to get used to. Negotiating the extremely steep hills, however, was a little more interesting. But reaching high ground was well worth it.

We were now islanders, so we sipped the obligatory mid-morning mango-banana smoothie while enjoying the view above. We (hmmm, well Jen, really...) decided to walk the almost 3-mile long Reef Bay trail, which snakes through the lush forest past the ruins of old Dutch sugar mills. Along the way, we detoured to see petroglyphs, mysterious carvings etched into rock at the bottom of a 40-foot waterfall in the middle of the forest. Sounded phenomenal on paper. While we did see the carvings, the waterfall was unfortunately completely dried up and the most exciting part of the side-trip was an encounter with one of the thousands of mongooses that inhabit the island. The Dutch brought the little guys from Jamaica to kill rats in the sugar plantations, which apparently failed since mongooses hunt by day and rats are nocturnal. They have since taken over the island.

The winding trail finally opened up to the completely secluded Reef Bay, accessible only by foot or boat, where the shallow and warm water is said to be a nursery for baby sharks. While we sadly did not get to see any, the beauty and calm of this remote beach was reward enough.

The walk back up to our Jeep was, well, brutal: steep, hot, rocky. Never ending. Generally unpleasant. But in hindsight, well-worth it.

Still in pain from the previous day's ascent, we enjoyed a relaxed breakfast on a small square by the harbor in Cruz Bay on Tuesday, where chickens and their chicks ran free in the street.

Cute. But being a chicken on St John can apparently be a hazardous occupation.

Our appetites satisfied, we hopped on one of the island's many safari taxis and headed for Trunk Bay, considered to be one of the world's most beautiful beaches. Along the way, we were treated to magnificent views of Honeymoon, Hawk's Nest and Caneel bays, where Laurence Rockerfeller opened his famous eco-friendly resort back in the early 1950s.

As we walked onto the beach at Trunk Bay, I immediately understood what all the fuss is about.

Paradise:

Aside from its breath-taking beauty, Trunk Bay is known for its excellent snorkeling trail. Wasting no time, Jen and I donned our gear and headed out to see what lay beneath those turquoise waters. We weren't disappointed.

Beautiful coral, a completely different world under the surface and home
to a multitude of multi-colored fish...

Such as the Parrot Fish below, whom I stalked all day long. If we held our breath we could hear him chomping away at the coral.

A sea turtle.

The Barracuda below appeared out of nowhere about two feet away from my face as I was scanning the coral for fish. He scared the crap out of me at first but seemed completely unfazed by my presence (or my deliciousness). I reached for the camera to steal a shot, but a wave carried me above the surface and ruined it. I swam after him for a bit to get a closer picture until it dawned on me that I was in hot pursuit of a carniverous fish. Reason prevailed and this is what I settled for:

After a full day of snorkeling, we found the perfect table in Cruz Bay to enjoy the sunset, dinner and a few deliciously refreshing rum drinks.

Sadly the next day was also our last on St John. We headed further up the coast to visit Cinnamon Bay, which was also breath-takingly beautiful.

While the snorkeling was disappointing compared to Trunk Bay, the weather gave us a perfect final day in paradise and I took the opportunity to sooth my badly sunburned back from the previous day's underwater explorations and relax on the warm sand. Soon enough we'd be back to reality, running around like mad people, rejoining the ranks of the everyday drones that we had pitied so much while lounging on the beach without a care in the world. Tomorrow we'd no longer be happy islanders fuelled by rum and sunshine. Tomorrow we'd be back to being suckers with stupid bosses and bills to pay.

But not before making a new friend. Jen named him Stewart.

Furloughs

"At least they're not furloughing, unlike the rest of the industry."
I uttered these words a few days ago, in a nowadays very common company-bashing conversation with a captain. The following day, we heard the news that the company would furlough just under 100 pilots.
It's a tough time for airline pilots. Other bigger and much better airlines than mine have let pilots go, grounded airplanes, shut down bases and cut pay and benefits in recent months. A United Airlines captain riding in our jumpseat told me just the other day that 800 of his colleagues will soon be out on the street as the company has decided to ground all of its 737s.
Nobody is safe. This isn't a situation where the bottom of the regional airline pack is getting pinched. All the big boys, except perhaps for Southwest, are feeling the pressure.
My airline, which typically trails its competitors in terms of effecting changes (good or bad), closed my home base, forcing me and over 200 of my colleagues to commute to work by air. In the current climate, however, I considered myself lucky to still be in a job. The move was also widely viewed as a negotiating tactic gone sour rather than an actual financial necessity.
But now the downturn is at our doorstep. In just a few short weeks, colleagues will be sent to the street at a time when finding a job is tough enough and one flying airplanes almost completely impossible.
Again, I count myself fortunate to not be in that group. However, I can't help but think that this might only be the first wave. With a family to take care of, a mortgage to pay and debt accumulated in the past couple of years due to low pay as a flight instructor and a junior first officer, the prospect of being furloughed is terrifying.
The future remains terribly uncertain for the airlines. While oil prices have dropped to much more manageable levels, passengers aren't flying as much as they used to and as the economy continues its downward spiral, loads will probably continue to drop as well.
Having researched the industry before joining it, I know this is just another cycle (admittedly in the context of the greatest economic slump in decades) in what has to be one of the most volatile lines of work out there. Things will get better, I'm sure of it. One day the airlines will expand again, hiring will boom, upward movement will be restored and with any luck pay and benefits will improve and the battered airline industry will once more be a desirable place to work.
But until then, I fear it's going to be a very bumpy ride.