Absence Makes The Heart Grow Fonder

And the Homecoming Sweeter.

Among the various fascinating denizens of the air sharing our friendly skies, there are a great many creatures of habit — but perhaps none quite to the degree of the common airline pilot. This species, to which I belong, takes great pride and comfort in its everyday routines, the highly scripted rituals of flight and furrow, heavens and hearth. Which explains why I am feeling distinctly out of place as I enter the Boeing 757’s expansive cockpit (newly clean-shaven, polyester uniform a bit too pressed and starched) after a six-week absence.

The captain, a silver-haired, strong-jawed man who was very likely born with four stripes on his shoulders, turns from his freshly prepared nest to exchange introductions and pleasantries. As I settle into the right seat, he naturally inquires about my home domicile. This is normally a bit of light getting-to-know-you chitchat while each pilot begins their preflight flow patterns — but the revelation that I live on a sailboat and have spent the past six weeks sailing the Bahamas drives the conversation into high gear. I suppose it raises all sorts of red flags: Here is an outlier, a possible creature of non-habit, perhaps even one of those wild-eyed renegades who still occasionally finds their way into airline cockpits despite management’s best efforts. Either that or my elder counterpart is genuinely interested in my sea-gypsy existence; either way, he peppers me with questions as I try to re-acclimate myself to my workspace and re-establish my old preflight routines. My head swims, but it’s OK. I know from experience that this is the toughest part. Before long, everything will click, I’ll get back in sync, and in a leg or two it’ll be as though I never left.