"Houston, we have a problem"
On a recent trip from work, I was sent from Florida to Providenciales in the Turks and Caicos islands (past the Bahamas). We flew out to the islands empty and were bringing back four passengers and an infant. We were slated to fly back over Nassau and Freeport and then turn north to clear customs and get fuel at Wilmington, NC and continue on to the New York City area.
The flight to 'Provo' - as it's called by the locals - was beautiful and uneventful. We left Daytona Beach and turned southeast over the almost black depths of the Atlantic. Before long, we leveled off over the Bahamas and the water shallowed out and turned into a bright turqoise Carribean blue that swirls just off the island shores, taunting the dark, brooding Atlantic. The sky below us was dotted with small, bright fair-weather cumulous clouds and we were on our way.
We were issued descents from air traffic control out over the ocean with no land in sight, and were vectored onto a final approach that flew us over a sparkling lagoon before touching down in the warm island air. It was a welcome change from a cold, dry upper midwest winter.
A local woman greeted us as our engines spooled down and we quickly completed our customs paperwork, ordered fuel for our trip back and put our passengers' catering onboard for the return trip. An hour later, our passengers arrived at the airport. We loaded up their bags, fired up the converters and shot back off into the cloud speckled sky. Northwest bound, we were speeding towards Nassau and climbing to 40,000 feet above the ocean surface. This was the life.
That was about to change.
150 miles from the Florida coast, we heard a sudden, loud whistling sound coming from behind our seats. Both the captain and I exchanged glances and then looked back. With no obvious signs of a problem (other than the persistant and loud whistle) we turned our attention to our pressurization gauges. The cabin was climbing, indicating a loss of pressurization, but it was at a measly 100 feet per minute and we had no other indications of a problem. About that time, one of our passengers came forward to get a drink out of the galley and ask about the sound. She held her hand up in front of the door and when asked, confirmed our suspicon that air was leaking from it. We informed air traffic control that we had a pressurization problem and required a decent and a turn towards West Palm Beach, FL. I flew the plane while the captain contacted our company to coordinate our diversion and handle customs and the re-accomodation of our passengers on another plane. After being bounced back and forth between our flight planning and dispatch departments, we were informed that West Palm was not a great place to divert to as a water spout (see also: tornado over water) had been spotted just offshore. The company strongly suggested we head instead to Fort Lauderdale. At 15,000 feet above the [shark filled] ocean, with the cabin mostly depressurized, the whistling noise finally stopped.
We landed in Ft Lauderdale without incident and although US customs was unhappy about our barely-announced arrival, we were allowed back in with a minimum of strip searches. Our passengers were accomodated on a plane that happened to be in Fort Lauderdale anyway, my captain hopped on an airliner to head home to Conneticut as his workweek was just ending, and I got a ride to the hotel. Another day in the neighborhood.
As it turns out, the five week old infant slept through the whole thing.
The flight to 'Provo' - as it's called by the locals - was beautiful and uneventful. We left Daytona Beach and turned southeast over the almost black depths of the Atlantic. Before long, we leveled off over the Bahamas and the water shallowed out and turned into a bright turqoise Carribean blue that swirls just off the island shores, taunting the dark, brooding Atlantic. The sky below us was dotted with small, bright fair-weather cumulous clouds and we were on our way.
We were issued descents from air traffic control out over the ocean with no land in sight, and were vectored onto a final approach that flew us over a sparkling lagoon before touching down in the warm island air. It was a welcome change from a cold, dry upper midwest winter.
A local woman greeted us as our engines spooled down and we quickly completed our customs paperwork, ordered fuel for our trip back and put our passengers' catering onboard for the return trip. An hour later, our passengers arrived at the airport. We loaded up their bags, fired up the converters and shot back off into the cloud speckled sky. Northwest bound, we were speeding towards Nassau and climbing to 40,000 feet above the ocean surface. This was the life.
That was about to change.
150 miles from the Florida coast, we heard a sudden, loud whistling sound coming from behind our seats. Both the captain and I exchanged glances and then looked back. With no obvious signs of a problem (other than the persistant and loud whistle) we turned our attention to our pressurization gauges. The cabin was climbing, indicating a loss of pressurization, but it was at a measly 100 feet per minute and we had no other indications of a problem. About that time, one of our passengers came forward to get a drink out of the galley and ask about the sound. She held her hand up in front of the door and when asked, confirmed our suspicon that air was leaking from it. We informed air traffic control that we had a pressurization problem and required a decent and a turn towards West Palm Beach, FL. I flew the plane while the captain contacted our company to coordinate our diversion and handle customs and the re-accomodation of our passengers on another plane. After being bounced back and forth between our flight planning and dispatch departments, we were informed that West Palm was not a great place to divert to as a water spout (see also: tornado over water) had been spotted just offshore. The company strongly suggested we head instead to Fort Lauderdale. At 15,000 feet above the [shark filled] ocean, with the cabin mostly depressurized, the whistling noise finally stopped.
We landed in Ft Lauderdale without incident and although US customs was unhappy about our barely-announced arrival, we were allowed back in with a minimum of strip searches. Our passengers were accomodated on a plane that happened to be in Fort Lauderdale anyway, my captain hopped on an airliner to head home to Conneticut as his workweek was just ending, and I got a ride to the hotel. Another day in the neighborhood.
As it turns out, the five week old infant slept through the whole thing.
posted by Shahv at 8:29 PM
1 Comments:
I just noticed that you'd linked to my little blog. I don't mind at all - I find Police City highly amusing.
I'm not sure who has the bigger set, amigo. The people I deal with at work are almost always in a good mood and the plane is just a bunch of metal and plastic that launches itself through the air at several hundred miles per hour. You said it yourself in Police City - as a motorcycle cop, you're garunteed to go down eventually. There's a good chance I can avoid that in my line of work.
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