warm like home

"...cleared to marrakech via flight plan route, climb and maintain flight level two eight zero..."

the night air is sweltering and stilled as we turn onto the runway and back-taxi into position to hold. the city sleeps now at 2:30am but here we are making a hell of a lot of noise; 1200 horses attached to the cowling, all raring to go.

"wind calm, runway zero four, cleared for takeoff."

runway lights speeding by, the swiss miss protesting against her captivity to gravity, slowly and surely overcoming her shackles with nothing more that the purity of speed. nothing but that sweet caressing ribbon of air humming over her wings; finally released into the longest night.

climbing northwards, steering towards polaris; rising high above those dunes full of secrets. murmuring amongst themselves, those shape shifters; whispers carried by the tinkling of sand grains taking flight on the wind. what will they share with each other? the direction of their intended aggregate advance? the ambiguous and secluded locations of the wells?

moving together with the mass awareness of a flock of gulls; with the wordless telepathy of a school of silverfish: their communications veiled in mystery. guarding the knowledge of the true value of water in the sahara.

i hang in a dream, suspended in my thoughts; listening to the steady reassuring purr of 760 degrees centigrade and 1700 prop rpm pulling us through the inky brine towards the dawn that must surely come.

how do we appear to that caravan of camels, passing far below? endlessly trudging onwards to the next oasis? can they too hear our lady of pratt and whitney's deep trustworthy lullaby, the droning hum of pure craftsmanship? can they spy our tiny meek anti-collision lights flashing, or are we too well camoflauged against the spray of stars? a lonely craft, flinging its way across the frozen vastness of interstellar space. i feel a deep kinship with the camels and their riders; fellow voyageurs in this night.

we have nearly 13 flight hours ahead of us on our way to germany, so i take the chance to trade places with the relief pilot for awhile and rest. head to the back and lay down. dream of the hott severe frauleins and cold hefeweizens that surely await. but for now, i'm content to drift over the deserts of mali and mauritania.

i awake a couple of hours later to the faithful sunrise painting the snowy atlas mountains a soft watermelon hue. head back up front. gaze into the haze below and see the earth-colored sprawl of marrakech in the distance.



we get vectors for the ils to runway 10. the approach controller hands us off: "contact marrakech tower...."

"as-salaam alaikum marrakech tower, november alpha sierra 5 miles out on the ils 10."

"wa-alaikum salaam november alpha sierra. cleared to land runway one zero."

we take on jet fuel and crew meals, stretch our legs. another 6 hours still to go. some of the guys head to the edge of the flight line to have a cigarette. i feel sorry for these men: dead leaves are more powerful than them.

we launch again, retracing a portion of st. exupéry's toulouse-dakar air mail route: up to casablanca and then on to tangiers. the hills turn from olive-brown desert to lush marijuana green, and up ahead i spy land's end. as we launch out over the strait of gibraltar, casablanca gives us a final instruction: "call sevilla."


"muy buenas sevilla, november alpha sierra flight level two niner zero."

st. exupéry knew this route well. he knew its peaks; he knew its storms. he was familiar with the best altitudes for favorable winds. deviations to take when the route became obscured by fog. possessing the intimate knowledge of a lover, he stored in his mind the location of every fang of rock hidden in the cumulus and every soft field available for an emergency landing. st. ex knew where to look for the nighttime beacons that could guide aviators safely back to earth, before the days of advanced instrumentation. he was a part of that world-class generation of pioneering aviators: a true flyer. in the days before pilots became more like accountants; babysitting electronics, an excess of automation divorcing modern minds from the thousand tasks required of their forefathers.

off the starboard wing, the sierra nevada rise above granada. my other home. nauseating pangs of homesickness course through my intestinal tract.

españa. como le echo de menos.


memories of the girls in their swirling dresses, dancing flamenco against the backdrop of the alhambra and snowy veleta. everything igniting with an obscene display of color; painted by golden shafts of slanting sunset rays. me, sitting in my circle of spanish, french, and argentine artisan amigos as the sweet nectar of alhambra beer glides down my gullet. later, nights of preparing a humble meal together, always accompanied by intense conversation and smooth rioja red wine or steaming-hot moroccan mint tea. it seems like a lifetime ago.

i'm jolted out of nostalgic reverie with instructions to call the next station.

"muy buenas madrid....."

over the pyrenees, over the tiny village of santa cecilia de jaca. bowled over by the memory of riding a bus here so many years ago, on my way for three weeks' trekking through these gorgeous summer peaks. sitting next to an old woman on the way; striking up a conversation and listening to her tell me about the camino de santiago. the way of st. james. and me, knowing what i must do, following what even my dim lizard brain comprehended as the universe's guidance: i stepped off the bus and turned west, abandoning my mountain plans and instead walking across spain.


france is under heavy overcast as i check in with the next controller.


"bonjour bordeaux, november alpha sierra flight level two niner zero."

"bonjour november alpha sierra, cleared direct didot."

passing over toulouse, and in the distance mt. blanc is looming up through the overcast. a hulking mass of frozen rocks stretching up to 15,700'. it calls to mountaineers like the bare-breasted sirens of ancient greece. i sense a distinct change in the gravitational fields swirling belowdecks; in the vicinity of the ol' sea monster.


we are switched to marseille control. off the left hand side is lyon, at the confluence of the rhône and saône rivers. birthplace of antoine st. exupéry in 1900. i'm headed to lyon for my r & r just as soon as i deliver this aircraft. genève and lac leman appear in the forward windscreen. another handoff.

"grüezi suisse control, november alpha sierra flight level two niner zero."

with swiss efficiency, we are rerouted direct to the final waypoint in the controllers airspace.

drifting over the land of cheese and chocolate, memories of trekking solo through the alps 10 years ago. wandering these hillsides amongst the cows, their bells tinkling; powerful jaws ripping up the sweet clover with that deeply satisfying organic sound of tearing grass. living for weeks with nothing but a backpack and some bread and gruyère. zigzagging from interlaken to zermatt, following valleys up and down, having no plans or expectations. it was that summer when i first learned to ask for more; when i left my home country for the first time and embarked on the journey to find my own way; free from the distractions of comfort and security.

i wonder if the swiss miss senses that she is close to her own birthplace? like a kitten adopted before it is weened, will she remember and recognize her mother after years of separation? does the place where you are formed become seared into the blueprint of genetic memory? and although she has spent most of her life in the desert, does the sight of these alpen snows stir something timeless inside her?

the legendary matterhorn and north face of the eiger pass silently under the right wing. muted signposts marking the way home.




and reliably, steadily all the while, not one hiccup from our lady of pratt and whitney. only the constant reassuring resonance of a purrin' turbin'. although the pilatus is assembled in switzerland, she has many foreign components: the engine is canadian, the avionics american. a rich genetic tapestry is a great strength.

the swiss controller, a female, yodels her final instruction to me in flawless english: "november alpha sierra, descend level one four zero, contact langen radar, good day."

i twist a couple knobs and watch the digital numbers scroll over to the new frequency.

"guten tag langen radar, november alpha sierra level two seven zero for level one four zero, information foxtrot."

"guten tag. you vill descend to level vun vun zero. you vill turn left heading tree five zero fur zie ils runway 07. say your speed."

"210."

"you vill do 230. turn left tree four zero. traffic at 9 o'clock, vun thousand below... descend level 4000 altimeter 29.96... turn right zero tree zero, join zie localizer, cleared ils runway 07, maintain 180 knots until 5 mile final, contact zie tower on 119.7."


it's a smooth landing as the sun sets behind us; i'm already dreaming of the hot pretzels and cold dunkels i'll soon be enjoying. the mighty atlas, sierra nevada, pyrenees, and alps all in one day. arabic, spanish, french, and german in my ears. the plane and the planet. we park the bird and head to our home for the night.


******


now that i've been a nomad for so many years, i feel that all these places and experiences have helped make me into who i am today. and although my fuselage may be primarily american, there are also many other component pieces from faraway lands: irish roots, caribbean tradewinds, african rhythms coursing through my blood. a spanish heart. a gypsy soul.

i've worn the soles now on these shoes,
from place to place drifting like the dunes.


regardless, i know that i can always turn on my beacon and anti-collision lights, blast off, and still be at home anywhere amongst the stars.