I showed up in DC at an hour usually reserved for raccoons and regret—5:30 a.m.—for a flight to Kansas City, which was only the beginning of this majestic loop-de-loop across the middle bits of America. From Kansas City, I hopped a flight to Milwaukee where a 3.5-hour layover waited for me like a bored TSA agent.
There, I stretched out beneath the warm glow of a flickering CNN Airport News Network screen, reporting with great irony on how regional pilots are overworked and underpaid. Sully got name-dropped—as always—while experts explained how the industry is propped up by “commuter pilots,” which I’ve been for over a decade. I stayed with the regionals while others chased shiny jets and got furloughed when the majors tossed their routes back to us like hot potatoes. When I got hired in 1999, my “region” was Pennsylvania. Now it’s the lower 48.
Eventually, it was time to board the leg back to DC. Thunderstorms were playing red rover with the East Coast, so we loaded up extra fuel and took the long way around—swinging south, eyeing a westward approach. We passed over the coal mines of West Virginia when DC shut down the arrival corridor. We were told to hold. We held.
Storms were now practically sipping coffee over DCA as we were cut loose to loop further south and try the old sneak-in-through-Virginia move. It didn’t work. The field was already wearing a full-blown weather hat by the time we got close, so it was a hard 180 back to Richmond. Just before we turned, the approach controller assured us we’d be the last to get in—“probably.” Not exactly confidence-inspiring.
We landed in Richmond just ahead of the parade of other diversions. First in means first for fuel, first out. Yay, us?
But of course, the storms weren’t done with us. They settled in cozily between Richmond and DC. That meant another scenic detour—this time west to Roanoke, then north, then east, then probably back to the womb. A 20-minute flight turned into an hour-long aerial barn dance.
Meanwhile, the clock laughed at us. Legally, we can only be on duty for 14 hours. It was 8 p.m., and the math wasn’t mathing. No way we’d make it back to Milwaukee in time to land legally. So the 76 poor souls waiting for us in DC—blessed with delays and false hope—watched us turn the plane off and walk out to the employee lot.
I kept my head down, trying to hide the quiet joy that I was finally going to bed. Not to a hotel. Not to another gate. But bed. Mine. With pillows. And no holding patterns.