FEBRUARY 19, 2024 – (Cont.) It soon came to pass that Tom Kimer and I were aboard a Northwest flight bound for LaGuardia. It was an evening trip—several years before complimentary meals in coach were discontinued. After our onboard repast, I pulled out a legal pad to outline a strategy for our “cats and free-range cattle” session the next day.
“We’ve got to get control of the meeting, Tom,” I said. “Since I’ve been designated as the fall guy up there in front of the bondholders the day after, I’ve got to know what I’m going to say—before I have to say it. And the last thing we want to have is for that bondholder meeting to descend into chaos with me going down first.”
Tom was in complete agreement.
“Given all the meetings I’ve sat through at the bank,” I said, as I doodled nervously on the first page of the legal pad, “and from my early meetings of our lake association, one thing I’ve learned is that to control a meeting, you’ve got to control the agenda . . . which means you’ve got to have an agenda.”
“You’re right about that,” said Tom[1]. With that, I tore the doodle page off the legal pad and with his able assistance, worked out an agenda for our group meeting the next day. That confab was scheduled to prepare for the meeting the day after. By the time we began our descent into the New York area, I was feeling more confident that the cats and free-range cattle could be corralled.
My self-assurance was disturbed, however, by the “ping” of the seatbelt sign and the captain’s voice over the intercom. “This is Captain ___________. I’ve turned the seatbelt sign on a little ahead of schedule due to some chop that’s been reported ahead of us. Also, on account of strong surface winds we’ve been put into a circling pattern to space out traffic into LaGuardia. We’ll keep you updated as we get more information.”
For some reason, in recent years I’d developed high anxiety about flying, despite having been a regular (and completely worry-free) air traveler all my life to that point. (Light) “chop” I could handle, but I didn’t react well to the notion of “strong surface winds,” especially at night. I instinctively pulled my seatbelt tighter.
When we were still circling a full half hour after our scheduled arrival time—with no sign of civilization below us, thanks to the cloud cover and no additional information from the captain—my thoughts started going a bit rogue. How much margin had been figured into our fuel load? Was our interminable circling a function of the traffic ahead of us or the hope that the “strong surface winds” would abate? If it was traffic, how did the fuel margins compare among all the aircraft competing for landing slots? Who among pilots and air-traffic controllers was responsible for making that calculation? Were outbound flights being allowed to leave? If so, by how much were they delaying inbound flights? What were the meteorological factors that created and sustained surface winds?
As these thoughts troubled me, flight attendants walked the aisle to make sure everyone was belted in and that food trays were “in the upright position.” What was a routine part of every flight, I noticed, was occurring at a non-routine time.
After an eternity of infinite circles, we felt the aircraft descend into the lower cloud deck—and “chop” of a sort that elicited a growing number of involuntary yelps and shouts and even an occasional scream. I’d never been aboard a flight with a passenger who screamed. I worried that the fates were hurling some ugly end to my life—because the bondholder meeting would’ve been so much worse. I wanted to tell Tom Kimer that I was “scared sh_ _ less,” but when I noticed his tight grip on the armrest, I decided to remain “scared silent.”
Little by little we worked our way into the line-up of planes trying for the runway at LaGuardia. On our final approach the plane started to wobble violently from side to side. By then, half the plane was screaming. A couple of people started crying. I’m pretty sure everyone else wanted to join them but were too scared to do so. The ground—er, water—drew nearer, nearer, as our wings kept wagging.
Finally, we were over the very end of the runway, just past the water’s edge, when suddenly the plane leaned hard to the right—our side. We were sitting right over the wing, and I was looking out at it at the very moment of that violent shift. I was certain the wing would scrape the tarmac, sending up a shower of sparks as the fuel tank exploded. Time to kiss it all good-bye!
Except . . . the wing didn’t hit the ground. The wheels did, and the cockpit crew worked the brakes and thrust reversers. The plane shook as it decelerated rapidly, pressing us passengers against our seatbelts, and in proper course, turned off the runway. As we taxied to our gate, I got a solid laugh out of Tom by saying, “The bondholders can do whatever the hell the want.”
As we deplaned we noticed the cockpit crew had not opened their door to say farewell to the passengers. “I’m guessing they wet their pants,” said Tom.[2] Before we left the gate area we heard that our flight had been the last one allowed in. All three major airports serving New York had been shut down because of the “strong surface winds.”
It was nearly midnight by the time we found our way to our hotel just south of Central Park. By the time I flopped into bed I felt a little as if I were an infantry soldier who’d survived D-Day. Good for me. The next day—or by that time, the same day, nine hours later—Tom and I would have to join the other “cats and free-range cattle” to map out final battle plans for the whole reason we’d risked our lives landing on the beach: the bondholders meeting. (Cont.)
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© 2024 by Eric Nilsson
[1] One of many shared interests was that each of us spent much time at our respective lake home. Often over lunch Tom and I would trade stories about cabin projects—mishaps, as well as successes—and lake association meetings.
[2] We both learned afterward and independently of each other that landing in a strong cross-wind is not that unusual. The proper method of dealing with such conditions is to “crab” the plane (tilt side to side) on final approach. For well-trained pilots, this is a perfectly safe maneuver. For uninformed passengers, it’s scary as hell. Many years later my good friend and retired Delta 757 pilot, Joe Craven, told me that for him the maneuver was actually “fun,” as well as safe.
