Cockpit Confidential (42 page)

Back in chapter one, I explained that hours aloft, rather than distances covered, is the more accurate way of measuring aircraft range. But flying times are fickle, so nautical mileage is the best metric for this question.

Until recently, Singapore Airlines held the number-one and number-two slots, using an all-business class configured Airbus A340-500 from Singapore to Newark (8,290 miles) and Los Angeles (7,260 miles). These are the longest scheduled nonstops on record. (Yes, Newark and LAX are 2,100 miles apart, but their distance from Singapore differs by only half that much—a function of great circle trigonometry.
See great circles
.) They were discontinued in 2013, however, and the baton passed to Qantas and its 7,455-mile nonstop between Sydney and Dallas–Ft. Worth.

The following list is subject to change as airlines revise their schedules, but here are the longest scheduled passenger flights at press time, measured in nautical miles. Bring a favorite book (preferably this one), and leave your circadian rhythms at home:

 

1. Sydney–Dallas: 7,455 (Qantas)

2. Atlanta–Johannesburg: 7,335 (Delta)

3. Dubai–Los Angeles: 7,245 (Emirates)

4. Manila–Toronto: 7,145 (Philippine Airlines)

5. Dubai–Houston: 7,095 (Emirates)

6. Dubai–San Francisco: 7,040 (Emirates)

7. New York–Hong Kong: 7,015 (Cathay Pacific, United)

8. Doha–Houston: 6,995 (Qatar Airways)

9. Dubai–Dallas: 6,990 (Emirates)

10. New York–Johannesburg: 6,925 (South African Airways)

 

Notice that three of the top ten are flights between Texas and the Middle East. That's oil for you.

Quaint seem the days, forty or so years ago, when Pan Am executives sat in their Park Avenue skyscraper, scratching their heads over ways to make a 747 reach Tokyo without refueling. Thanks to aircraft like the 777 and A340 (
see long-range jetliners
), almost any two commercial air markets in the world are linkable in a single fell swoop. We haven't just closed the technological gap, we've closed the imagination gap as well.

One holdout, at just under 10,000 nautical miles, is London–Sydney, called the “grail route” in some circles. Using a 747-400, Qantas once tinkered with this elusive prize and discovered it could, under optimum conditions, make the run without having to pit stop. But this was so pushing the envelope that it proved a real teeth-chatterer for the carrier's crews and dispatchers, who were forced to juggle the logistics of fuel, weather, and diversion planning with utmost attention and accuracy. Not to mention it being untenable for advertising: “Qantas to London. Nonstop. Sometimes.”

Boeing's 777-LR once made an 11,600-mile promotional flight, and on paper would seem capable of handling the journey. But just because a plane can do such things in a publicity stunt doesn't mean it can do them in regular scheduled service. You have ETOPS restrictions (extended range operational legalities for twin-engine planes) to deal with, local airspace constraints, wind patterns, seasonal weather variations, and so on, all affecting flight times. And that two cities
can
be connected means little to an airline unless there is an exploitable market to justify connecting them. London–Sydney is not the longest possible flight, but it may be the longest possible flight guaranteed to provide a steady supply of passengers. More formidable pairings are at least conceivable, should demand exist. The most intriguing of these are São Paulo–Tokyo, Auckland–London, and Buenos Aires–Tokyo, all clocking in at a shade under 10,000 nautical miles. Shattering the 10,000 frontier—Buenos Aires–Seoul, anyone?—remains, let's just say, a long-haul longshot.

My personal record for time spent on a plane is a relatively modest fourteen hours and forty-six minutes, aboard South African Airways flight SA202 from JFK to Johannesburg in May 2000. SAA uses an A340 on that route today, but it was a 747 at the time. I know the flight was exactly fourteen hours and forty-six minutes long because there was a digital timer bolted to the bulkhead, triggered by retraction of the landing gear to provide a minute-by-minute update. Watching the hours tick by seemed a tortuous proposition, until a certain passenger was bold enough to tape a piece of paper over the clock.

All airliners wear registrations (numbers or letters that also indicate a plane's nation of origin) on the rear fuselage, but some also carry names. If a plane has been christened in honor of a place, person, or thing, look for titles on the forward fuselage. I'm quite fond of this practice. It makes flying a touch less impersonal and a touch more dignified. And any airline that bothers to name its planes, I feel, is one that takes its mission to heart.

Turkish Airlines names its spotless Boeings and Airbuses after Anatolian cities. You can ride aboard the
Konya
, the
Goreme
, or the
Isparta
. Flying Virgin Atlantic, which styles itself a bit more provocatively, you might have a seat on the
Tubular Belle
, the
Barbarella
, or maybe the
Varga Girl
. You can ride the
St. Patrick
to Dublin on Aer Lingus, no surprise there, or try your luck on a Syrianair 747 called
Arab Solidarity
. For a while, Air Namibia was flying a 747 named
Welwitschia
, homage to a strange desert succulent that grows in the Namibian wilds and can live for centuries. On that fifteen-hour South African Airways flight to Johannesburg that I described earlier, I rode the
Durban
, then the
Bloemfonetein
on my return (cities in South Africa). If unsure, I needed only to check the wooden plaque near the upper deck stairs emblazoned with a crest and scroll. I thought the plaque added an elegant, ocean liner sort of touch.

I miss the Austrian carrier Lauda Air, now part of Austrian Airlines, which remembered artists and musicians with the
Gustav Klimt
, the
Miles Davis
, and a 737 named
Frank Zappa
. KLM is probably the closest in terms of creativity: cities, birds, authors, and explorers all have their namesake blue-and-white Boeing, while the airline's MD-11s are named for famous women, including the
Florence Nightingale
, the
Marie Curie
, and the
Audrey Hepburn
.

On the other hand, enough already with jetBlue's insufferable, too-cute riffs on the color blue. I don't advocate hurling tomatoes at Airbuses, but here are some deserving targets. I can live with
Idlewild Blue
and even
Betty Blue
, but
That's What I Like About Blue
,
Fancy Meeting Blue Here,
or
Bippity Boppity Blue
are too much to take. What was I just saying about dignity?

Some years back, United named several jets in honor of its highest-mileage frequent flyers. Imagine
not
getting an upgrade on the very plane with your name on its nose.

At Pan Am, each aircraft sported a distinctive
Clipper
designation, a carryover from the airline's grandiose earlier years when its flying boats pioneered routes across the oceans. There were nautical references—
Sea Serpent
,
Mermaid
,
Gem of the Ocean
—including a particular fascination with waves—
Crest of the Wave
,
Dashing Wave
,
Wild Wave
. There were nods to Greek and Roman mythology,—
Jupiter
,
Mercury
,
Argonaut
—and the inevitable heaping of faux-inspirational piffle—
Empress of the Skies
,
Glory of the Skies
,
Freedom
. A few of them made you wonder if Juan Trippe and his boys weren't tippling too much scotch in the boardrooms over on Park Avenue:
Water Witch? Neptune's Car? Nonpareil? Young Brander?
Turns out those were taken from old sailing vessels.

When Pan Am 103 was blown up over Scotland in 1988, the only part to remain somewhat intact was the forward fuselage, from the nose to roughly the first set of cabin doors. It was crushed when it landed, on its side, but still looked like a piece of an airplane, which is more than you can say for the rest of the jet. This piece was widely photographed and became a news icon in the days and weeks that followed. There it was, on the front of every newspaper and on the cover of
Time
and
Newsweek
, and it is easily found on the Internet today. The photo shows detritus and debris everywhere, wires and scraps of metal, all surrounding this impossibly still-dignified chunk of a Boeing 747, dead as a doornail. There's the blue stripe, the paint barely scratched. And there, just above the oval cabin windows in frilly blue lettering, you can still read clearly the words
Clipper Maid of the Seas.

The experience of air travel is unique in that people subject themselves to a long string of mostly anonymous authorities. From the moment you step through the terminal doors, you're hit with orders—stand here, take your shoes off there, put your seat belt on, do this, put away that—and a flurry of information. Most of it comes not face-to-face, but over a microphone, delivered by employees, seen and unseen, in a vernacular that binges on jargon, acronyms, and confusing euphemisms. There are people who make dozens of air journeys annually and still have only a vague understanding of many terms. To help, I've compiled a glossary, focusing on those expressions most easily misunderstood or not understood at all. In no special order:

 

Example:
“Flight attendants, doors to arrival and crosscheck.”

Meaning: Occasionally heard as “disarm your doors and crosscheck” and announced by the lead flight attendant or purser as a plane approaches the gate. The intent is to verify disarming of the emergency escape slides attached to the doors. When armed, a slide will automatically deploy the instant its door is opened. Disarmed, it needs to be deployed manually. On departure, the slides are armed to facilitate an emergency evacuation. (You might hear this as “doors to automatic.”) Upon docking, they're disarmed to keep them from billowing into the boarding tunnel or onto the apron during servicing. Crosscheck is a generic term used by pilots and flight attendants meaning that one person has verified the task of another. In the cabin, flight attendants crosscheck one another's stations to make sure the doors are armed or disarmed as necessary.

Example:
“Flight attendants, doors to arrival, crosscheck and all-call.”

Meaning: Often part of the arming/disarming procedure, this is a request that each flight attendant reports via intercom from his or her station—a sort of flight attendant conference call.

Example:
“We're just finishing up some last-minute paperwork and should be under way shortly…”

Meaning: Everything is buttoned up and the flight is ready for pushback. Then comes the wait for “last-minute paperwork,” which winds up taking half an hour. Usually it's something to do with the weight-and-balance record, a revision to the flight plan (
see flight plans
), or waiting for the maintenance guys to deal with a write-up and get the logbook in order.

Meaning: the cockpit.

Meaning: The first officer is second in command on the flight deck. He or she sits on the right and is fully qualified to operate the aircraft in all stages of flight, including takeoffs and landings, and does so in alternating turns with the captain (
see pilots and copilots
).

Example:
“We've now reached our cruising altitude of flight level three-three-zero. I'll go ahead and turn off the seat belt sign…”

Meaning: There's a technical definition of flight level, but I'm not going to bore you with it. Basically, this is a fancy way of telling you how many thousands of feet you are above sea level. Just add a couple of zeroes. Flight level three-three-zero is 33,000 feet.

Meaning: A racetrack-shaped course flown during weather or traffic delays. Published holding patterns are depicted on aeronautical charts, but one can be improvised almost anywhere.

Example:
“Sorry folks, but there's a ground stop on all flights headed south from here.”

Meaning: This is when departures to one or more destination are curtailed by ATC, usually due to a traffic backlog.

Example:
“Good news, we've been given an EFC time of 30 minutes after the hour.”

Meaning: The expect further clearance (EFC) time, sometimes called a release time, is the point at which a crew expects to be set free from a holding pattern or exempted from a ground stop.