Blame It On The Brussels Sprouts

A bad way to end a good flight.

- Les Abend

 

As is my normal custom on a two-man crew, I offer to perform the walk-around inspection when it’s the copilot’s leg. I enjoy the stroll, fresh air, and re-engagement with the parts and pieces of the airplane — a reminder of just how big the machine is that I fly.

On this particular occasion, performing the walk-around was not an exercise of sound judgment for an experienced captain. The sky had unleashed an annoying drizzle over London Heathrow Airport. Sadly, I was aware of the forecast before leaving JFK the morning prior. Certain that I wouldn’t melt (although I didn’t share the same confidence with the new uniform material), my walk-around of our 777-300 progressed without issues.

An enthusiastic crew chief intercepted me as I scanned the intricacies of a GE 90-115B jet engine. He thrust a printout of the restricted-articles form into my hand. Nothing unusual. Just some dry ice.

The crew chief’s expression held a wry grin. With a thumb pointing at a cargo pallet containing green plastic bags sitting atop a loader at the aft end of the airplane, he asked, “You know what that is, captain?”

I smiled and shook my head.

“Brussels sprouts,” the crew chief responded with British flair. “Hate the damn things.”

“I love Brussels sprouts. Can you grab me a bag?” I asked.

The crew chief’s grin broadened. He said, “They’re yours when you get to New York.” He turned and walked away toward the cargo loader.