Quarterdeck Lessons

By David Reed

When you’re young, in your very early twenties, and in the United States Navy, you learn to deal with a lot of boredom when standing a watch on the quarterdeck. This is where sailors leave from, and come onto, the ship when

it’s tied up to a dock. There are always three people on watch on the quarterdeck- the Officer of the Deck (OOD), usually a Chief Petty Officer or Junior Officer. What the OOD says, goes. He has the final word on who can and cannot cross his Quarterdeck. Next is the Petty Officer of the Watch. Usually, an E4 or E5 Petty Officer, he gets to carry this very heavy .45 Semiautomatic pistol all the time in a holster. It’s fully loaded, per regulations. Finally, there is the Messenger, a junior ordinary seaman. The Messenger usually runs and gets coffee for the OOD and the Petty Officer.

So, we’re in a foreign port, tied to the dock. I am on the 8 PM to Midnight watch on the Quarterdeck as the Petty Officer of the Watch. Lots of guys (two thirds of the crew, actually) have gone ashore for some evening fun down by the beach bars. It’s been pretty quiet so far. It’ll get busy later when they all come back drunk. We drink a lot of coffee, do a lot of standing about in our dress white uniforms. Around nine o’clock a young fireman, some young junior apprentice, comes up, starts babbling on and on about some nonsense. We all just stand there, staring, listening, not moving. I mean, what can you say? Finally, he walks away. We exchange glances and go back to drinking our coffee.

 Around ten o’clock, a car pulled up quickly on the dark pier below. It’s some local guy it turns out, who really doesn’t like the US Navy being here, and he is so full of alcohol he’s ready to tell us what for. He staggers out of his car, yelling obscenities in his own language at the Messenger who had gone down to the trash dumpster on the dock for a minute. All three of us are like, “what the hell…?” Then he starts coming up the gangway, a big guy, full of piss and vinegar, screaming at us. By pure reflex I find my hand on the gun handle, getting a good grip. Holy crap.

 The man starts yelling at the OOD in the local language, who yells back and holds up his hand for him to stop, but the man keeps coming, angry, yelling. I’m thinking to myself in a blur, what am I going to do? Do I draw on this guy? No, don’t draw unless you’re going to fire, I think; that’s what someone said before. My hand grips the gun handle tighter; it unconsciously eases out an inch. Suddenly he’s near the top, still screaming at us. I’m looking at the Chief, then back at the man, my eyes rapidly moving left and right. My hand wants to pull the gun out now! I fight the urge; still, it rises another inch. I unconsciously take a stance, slightly sideways, feet apart, just like we do at the range. I’m thinking to myself, Stop. Please stop. Stop yelling, stop threatening! I feel the steel gun trigger on my index finger; The voice in my head is yelling silently, “Pull it out! Cock the slide back! Point it at him! Don’t wait!” With every bit of my being, I resist, but I can sense that is about to change at any moment. Get ready, get ready, get ready…

 The angry man pauses near the top, one step from the top rung, still yelling, screaming, making threatening gestures with his fists and his whole body as he does. He’s very, very emotional! I’m very, very scared shitless! I’m so scared I’m in fully automatic mode now, finger firmly on the trigger, keeping the gun barely in its holster. I’m thinking, “I’m gonna have to shoot him, I’m gonna have to shoot him…” I know now what my next move is.

He looks at me, back to the Chief, yells a few more things, then starts to back-up, down the steps. Even as he begins to back up, I’m still in hair-trigger mode. Finally, I start to breathe again.

 The angry man gets back in his car and speeds off. We all stand there, me with a firm hold on that gun handle still. The Messenger comes running back on board. I broke the moment by saying something like, “Damn! I almost shot that guy!” The Chief smiled at me, chuckled. He says to us finally, “It happens sometimes in ports like these. You don’t shoot him unless he steps on board. Then you can shoot him.”

 “Well Chief, I damn near did.”

  He let’s out a deep sigh, then we watch the taillights disappearing. Hand still trembling, I very, very carefully remove my fingers one at a time from the weapon, and put the flap back over it. We go back to leaning on the railing. I lean back against the table, stare out into the darkness, heart pounding in my chest. We all just stand there for a minute, nobody saying anything. Then just like that, everything was normal again. Calm, quiet discussion about what happened. More coffee, please, Mike. I consider the fact that this man didn’t have a weapon in his hand; was unarmed as far as I knew. I could have just knocked him down to the deck and held him until the Master-At-Arms showed up. But when there is a gun strapped to your hip, and a man is screaming at you from eight feet away, that’s not what you’re thinking. You’re thinking this gun is going to protect you. Stress has a way of making you take the easy way out. Yet, I will forever remember that, for one terrifying moment, I held this man’s life in my trembling gun hand. For just a very few moments, a complete stranger stood on the brink of violent death, with my finger on the trigger of his eternity.

 It was these thoughts that ran through my mind every time I stood another watch on that Quarterdeck. Life and death decisions. His life; his death. We stare into the abyss, not knowing what’s coming in the next minute, blissfully unaware. Tonight, though, I have learned an important lesson: There are things that will come out of the abyss at you, terrifying you, forcing you to make hard decisions fast, decisions that can cost someone their very life. When you’re twenty-something, life is all about lessons.

 

Late One Night

By David Reed

 It's 1985 and I find myself in north Florida fresh out of the Navy and with the flimsiest of flying jobs. I am 31 years old, and hopeful; I just couldn't hardly pay the electric bill. I wasn't sure this flying idea was going to work at all.

The people I worked for, this couple, they had a really nice airplane, called a Beechcraft Baron 56TC. In the small airplane world, it's a rocket built like a tank. The business was called Capricorn Aviation because the owner was into astrology. Now, we had this contract with some other business that, if one of their airplanes broke down, we'd fill in for them. Didn't happen very often, but when it did, I could pay part of one bill.

One Saturday night, everyone is gone to the party restaurant, while I'm finishing up at the airport, the on-call guy. That's means no drinking, you. I'm sitting in this small trailer, doing paperwork, when the phone rings. It's the boss, Mrs. Fletcher, at Bennigan’s.

"Sunstrand wants us to take some stuff down to Orlando Executive, Kale Aviation. It's coming to the airport, be there in maybe ten minutes. Take the Baron if you want."

First thing I do is file a flight plan. Here to Orlando Executive Airport is less than an hour, plenty of gas, get on the desktop and file it. Second thing was something else. See, there was this girl, Karen Fisher. She was working on her private pilot license thanks to dear old Dad's money, and I was her instructor at Capricorn Aviation. Flight plan filed, I next called Karen on her cell phone. She answered. I told her what I was doing and "...if you want to go along, you gotta be here in like ten minutes."

Shot in the dark for me, for sure. I never thought for a second she would show up. For one thing, she was only like 18 years old and it was a Saturday night. Still, if she wants to seriously become a pilot then this is a great opportunity. Or not. As I'm pre-flighting the Baron, this car comes racing up, screeching to a dusty halt a few feet behind the airplane. Holy cow, it's Karen! I'm......speechless.

We shared a smoke, then sure enough this little truck pulls up and hands us a small box. Off we went, flying in clear skies down to Orlando Executive Airport. In about 45 minutes (too soon- Karen was always a funny girl to be with) we landed, taxied to Kale Aviation. Some guy in a small truck took the box and we were done.

I showed her where we get free coffee in the crew lounge. I sat in a big Lazy-Boy chair, so nice! Suddenly she's sitting in the chair too, wiggling in with me. I froze of course, not a clue what to do next. We rocked back and forth a little, then got up. Ended up just walking out to the airplane. I suddenly remembered I hadn't filed a flight plan home, but the skies were clear and warm, so the heck with it, we'd just go by ourselves. We started up, taxied that beast of a machine out and took off for home. The sound of those two big engines is beautiful indeed.

Soon as I leveled off at 3500', Karen turns to me, headset on. "Wanna play a game?"

"Uh, um, ok..." I said, not sure what to expect next from oh-so-good-looking Karen. A full moon lit up the sky behind her. She leaned over, said into my ear without the microphone, "I'll kiss you, but you have to let go of the controls while I do. See how long we can go."

Yes, my eyes were as big as saucers. I'm kinda laughing, holy cow! I paused. Wait, ok, eighteen is legal, right? But this night, the hormones won in a landslide victory. I said, "Ok, sure!" She took out her gum, leaned over. I moved my microphone away, let go of the wheel and she proceeded to kiss me. I watched the panel out of the corner of my eye, as the 'other thing' was happening between our lips. Talk about distracted! As the airplane started to tilt, I stopped kissing, righted it back to level, and presto. We went right back at it again.

Second time, I'm just really, really enjoying this. But seriously, who wouldn't be? When I start to reach for the control wheel again, she instead grabs my hand and presses it firmly against her right breast. What airplane? I nudged the right rudder with my toe a little, helping things stay put. Our passionate moment lasted just a few, several, ok, many seconds. Finally, we stopped, I landed with this huge grin on my face. We went our happy, separate ways.

Then a day or two later, a job suddenly popped up that I just couldn’t afford to refuse. A week later I left Jacksonville. Never saw Karen again. But Karen, I sure do remember late one night with you. 💕

Dispatch Fuel

I'm a thirty four year old airline captain at a small regional airline in Minnesota. It's been a long time getting here, and I'm happy to be here. I'm just not a fan of these Minnesota winters, when the temperatures drop far, far below freezing. I fly to different cities in the upper Midwest five days a week. This evening I'm standing at the window to dispatch. The dispatcher is a young handsome guy, with two young & attractive assistants on ether side. He says, "Oh yeah, 5819 to Appleton," like he was reading it, slowly. "Boy, when that earlier flight cancelled, all their passengers got rebooked onto your flight. Computer does that automatically, you see. So you're full, thirty three adults. Green Bay is your alternate, right babe?" The girl on his right giggled, "if you say so!" He hands you your dispatch release form. You glance past all the figures and notes and check the fuel line. 2200 pounds. I looked up at him, eyes squinting in my best Clint Eastwood squint. "twenty two hundred pounds? You have got to be kidding me?" 

Hey quickly replies, "Hey, Green Bay is close and works as an alternate, so twenty two hundred will work. Now, I got other flights to dispatch here..." and he swings around to the girl on his left, inspecting closely what she has, which is way more interesting than what I have.

I head out, tell the fueler to make it 2400 lbs. I'm flying with Mike Kaminski tonight. Younger than me (who isn't?), he's good at the job. He's recently married so he's pretty quiet. I guess most newlyweds are, as the reality of what they just did sinks in. Together we get all set to go in our cockpit. All 33 passengers, hands clenching coats tightly, begin boarding in the cold, windy darkness. Finally, doors closed, engines started, We taxi out to the nearest runway. Getting all preparations done like a two-man symphony, in minutes we are accelerating down the runway, then banking sharply right over downtown Minneapolis, turning back east towards Wisconsin as we climb slowly into the icy darkness above.

The bit of tailwind along the way is helpful. We get near Appleton just over an hour later. The weather is reported as at landing minimums, in blowing snow. Oh great, we arrived in the middle of a freakin' blizzard. Now, the only way into Appleton is on the approach to the west runway, which means flying to the airport, then past the airport seven miles, turning around and flying the approach back in. This all takes time and fuel. We hit that electronic glidepath all configured for landing and right on speed. We tracked the electronic glidepath and course needles carefully down on the autopilot, right down to 100'. Nothing. Not even a runway light. We can't go below 70' so I disconnect the autopilot, pitch up while adding full power. "Bleep! Bleep! Bleep!" Three bleeps indicate the autopilot is off. Flaps up, gear up, we quickly climb upward into the snow. 

With the landing lights on, the snowflakes look like millions of white streaks, like when Star Wars goes to ludicrous speed. It's been our constant view for almost twenty minutes now. Mike calls Green Bay approach and tells them we need to fly the ILS over there at Green Bay. They give us a vector for the approach to the southwest runway. This means flying a few minutes to Green Bay, then seven miles beyond, turning around again and flying the approach into Green Bay. This is burning up a lot of fuel. We are listening to the weather on the second radio (Sky obscured, one half mile, blowing snow wind blah blah bad) while reconfiguring the navigation radios on both sides, getting the autopilot back on and answering Mike's checklist callouts. Somehow we get it all done in time and again we find ourselves inbound on yet another instrument approach. Throughout the last hour my eyes are looking at the fuel gauges. Technically, to go from Appleton to Green Bay and have legal reserve we need 1200 lbs of fuel. That's 600 pounds per side. Which ain't much on those gauges, but it's exactly what we had when we started over to Green Bay. But wow, those gauges are way down there.

We get turned around northeast of Green Bay, fly the approach to runway 24, right by the book. 200'. Nothing. 100'. Nothing. Crap! Autopilot off, pitch up, full power, begin to bring the flaps and gear up. The control tower says "Flagship 5819, contact Green Bay departure now." Mike switches to departure. Time for an executive decision. Oh do I hate this. "Departure control says, "Flagship 5819, state your, uh, intentions?" 

"OK, tell him we want to do the approach again." Mike does and I think the guy could tell from Mike's voice that we were seriously jammed up. We're on reserve fuel now, forty five minutes and counting down, that's a gallon every ten seconds. An honest to God Come to Jesus moment this is, but my mind is too busy to even know it yet. They bring us back around, flying this big rectangular pattern in the sky, back to the approach. On the way I lean over and discussed it with Mike. "OK," I said, "Here's what we'll do. At seventy feet I'll disconnect the autopilot, pitch up just a little and reduce power just a little and we'll fly it right on where the glideslope meets the runway. Then we'll stop using the course needle to keep straight." Mike said, "Yeah, ok, the runway's covered in snow, so it should be soft enough..." And in a minute or two we were turning in on the approach. Again. It's now almost nine pm. Star Wars madness races past in front of us. Deep breaths. "Stay calm ," I tell myself.

Same as before. Everything steady, very stable. I'm holding the control yoke in my left hand, feeling everything it's doing, my nerves sensing what it needs to keep her steady. My hand is sweaty but I keep a firm grip, trying to be one with the airplane. Mike calls out, "Five hundred above," then "Minimums," then "One hundred." A moment later I disconnect the autopilot. "Bleep bleep bleep!" I pull a bit of back pressure with my left arm while my right hand eases the power levers back some. Then......... Woomph! She touches down nice as can be on the soft snow. I put the nose down, carefully work to keep the nose pointed straight, watching the course needle still. Into reverse, we slowly begin to lose speed, then we're down to taxi speed and we both breathe a deep sigh of relief. I then taxi slowly to the left, looking for a runway light. We find one, go to the next, then find a taxi light and turn there. slowly we creep along the taxiway when suddenly the ramp lights appear, the terminal appears, and the blizzard stops. Blizzard gone. Sky clearing. You have got to be kidding me.....

 

An Evening with the Saab 340

 

The Saab 340 was a popular airliner in it’s day. Originally flown in 1983, it was, at the time, a very advanced regional airliner. Most of us who flew it had just come from smaller light twins- Cessna 402’s, Chieftain’s, that sort of thing. The Saab 340A was a big step up. It had a stand-up cabin, a galley, even a real bathroom in the back. The cockpit was roomy and had a new Collins EFIS-86 avionics system, with high tech things like piezo-electric crystals. The engines were huge, two General Electric CT7-5A2 powerplants that made a whopping 1735 SHP each, turning 11’ diameter Dowty-Rotol propellers. From the moment you hit the starter, this engine made a deep, throaty sound, a very muscular sound. It had this overhead panel that looked impossibly complicated, but by the time we left ground school we knew every single switch and the logical order of it all. Knowing the overhead panel was like a daily oral exam on the systems. Pretty automatic, but still lots to do to keep it interesting.

The Saab 340 came with airstairs, but they were of composite construction and the small wheels at the bottom could break off easily if the flight attendant lowered it too fast. Otherwise it worked flawlessly. The skin of the fuselage was thick! This was one very strong Swedish airplane. Starting engines could be done automatically or manually, so of course we did it manually. It was all memory items, which I can still easily repeat 30 years later- “Door warnings out, beacon on, bus-tie connect, left and right avionics off, stand-by pressure check, no batt start light out, clear left…” You mashed the start switch to the left, your hand over it and the ignition switch together. The deep awakening of the beast begins. Up to 20% Ng, put the condition lever to start/feather with your right hand, then with your left index finger move the ignition to auto while holding the start switch with your thumb. Once it lit off you let go of the start switch and watch for the usual- normal acceleration, oil pressure, temp limits not exceeded. Actually, I flew it for eight years and never once saw it overtemp during start. If the engine was still hot, you’d motor it until the ITT dropped to 150 degrees, then give it the fuel and the spark. The engine will stabilize around 70% (I think, it’s been thirty years). The prop is still in feather, so it’s turning relatively slow. With both engines running, bleeds open and generators on (another memory item flow to go through, yet quite logical), you bring the props up to the min-gate and the blades slowly come up to normal speed, around 1270 rpm. This is when the engine gets loud! But not inside, it’s a quiet cockpit. The plane tilts forward a little, dipping it’s nose slightly to let you know it’s ready to do this.

We were flying for Northwest Airlink (who still fly but under a different name now) out of Minneapolis. Not Mesaba, we were with Express Airlines I Inc. We depart at sunset in the warm summer evening. You line it up smartly at the runway end, lights on, push the power up and set the autothrottle. We usually use zero flaps and reduced power (90%). Full power takeoffs shorten engine life. At around 110-112 kts you lift the nose to ten degrees and just hold it there, easy as can be. We settle into 180 KIAS and 1000 fpm. We’re heading south to Mason City, which is opposite to the flow of traffic on the arrival at 7000-9000’, so you keep it down at 4000’ and just blast along. We come down I-35 doing 250 knots indicated. We fly right past where Buddy Holly and the Big Bopper died, then take a left base to the southeast runway at Mason City Airport (no control tower, so do what you want). A group of teens are hanging out by the end in their cars, so I dip a little low at the end, flash the lights and we get lots of waving from them. We get into the gate, shut the left engine down and feather the right. I work the crossfeed while half the 30 passengers get off, half the bags come off and the First Officer gets the paperwork done. We hand it outside, close up and go through the start procedure again. Taxi out to the northwest runway and in short order we blast off with a slow climb over the teen group. Iowa teens are cool.

The air is smooth and clear as we head down to Ft Dodge, 20 minutes away. No control tower here, so Tim flies straight in to runway 24, 6547’ long. We stop, do a 180 and taxi back to the terminal. As the last of our passengers deplane, we prepare for the final leg, an empty flight to our home base in Sioux City. I notice all the campfires in the darkness ahead, near the small taxiway to runway 30. I asked the ramper about it and he says, “Some sort of fly-in. A lot of people in their little planes are camped out over there.” I ask if the taxiway is open and he says, “Well, uh, I think so, maybe….”

Everyone is off, baggage door closed, all doors closed. Terri comes up and sits in the jumpseat as we fire up the left engine again. The Saab 340 is a joy to taxi. I move us towards the taxiway to runway 30, right through the campsites. We are the biggest thing to come down this taxiway since this little jamboree began, so everybody is up and watching us thundering along, all lights on, making a big show of it. I taxi precisely, slowly down the centerline, turn left, the engines drowning out any other noise. Lots of people waved, but we were busy running checklists. I think Terri waved back. At the end we line up carefully on the numbers and hold the brakes. I bring the power up till the props get up to speed, pause, then push them up to 80%. “Set power,” I say to Tim and he turns on the autothrottle (CTOT). This leaps the engines to full power automatically, 108%. I release the brakes and it’s like being launched down a catapult. We are seriously pressed backwards in our seats. “V1 and Rotate” comes in seconds. I rotate and we climb out for Sioux City as steeply as we can, holding 108% for four minutes and 140 kts indicated. Show over, we settle into a normal cruise. I hand fly it, the Saab is a joy to handle, very smooth and responsive. I’ve always said, if it looks good, it probably flies good, and the Saab does. It’s heavy on the controls, but not too much. Control forces are pretty equal all around, hats off to the designers in Linkoping, Sweden. Down low it burns more but you have to pull the power back or it’ll overspeed (250’s the limit), so whether you’re at 8000’ or 16,000’, you’ll average 800 pound of fuel per hour. For a plane that size, that’s pretty economical. Why, I heard once from management that we needed nine passengers to break even. Everything else was profit. When we had 33 seats in it, it was a lot of weight. With 30 seats, the rows in the back had as much legroom as today’s First Class. And you could talk to each other like you were in your Cadillac.

Big windows make it easy to see the airport early. When the gear comes down there isn’t any noticeable pitch change, and you’d hardly notice but for a little more wind noise in the cockpit from the nose gear doors opening. Initial flaps are 15 degrees at 175 kts tops, then flaps twenty below 160. Stabilizing it at 120 KIAS is easy, it’s rock stable on the approach. Reduce a little when in close and cross the threshold at Vref, about 105-110 knots depending on weight. If the wind is gusting, add half the steady state and all of the gust. Ten more knots if there is ice on the airplane. Twenty knots is the maximum correction, so in the winter you might come in at 142 kts, land at 132 kts. Real jet speed, but it was easy to control on the ground. The rudder was huge and effective right down to 50 kts. Reverse thrust was substantial yet can be modulated left and right to compensate for any weathervaning tendencies. Below 70 kts you transitioned to hand wheel steering as easy as could be. On the ramp it’ll turn sharp, but the wings are 70’ wide so give yourself plenty of room.

The Saab 340 wasn’t much for altitude, but on our typical one hour legs, 16,000-17,000’ was the norm. The later Saab 340B had a little more horsepower and could climb to the low twenties without too much effort. In cruise the Saab would do 270 knots true. If it had a fault it was icing. The engine intake heat was electric and drew a LOT of amperage. If it failed you couldn’t get it back, and then the engine intake would ice up quickly, until it choked the life out of that engine. The props were composite, and if they got ice on them and you used the prop heat too soon, the ice would melt and run along the blade, creating little ice ridges that acted like stall fences. The props would get out of balance and shake, the thrust would go away. In moderate icing while on the DME arc for a back course approach one night, we were flaps up, gear up, full power and barely holding 160 kts, when we should have been exceeding 250. Landing gear and flaps 15 came down as we descended, we never did use flaps 20. That was northern Minnesota for you. But hey, we were young. You can’t blame the Swedes- the engines and props were built in the USA.

Some people I know say the best thing about the Saab 340 was the cockpit door. You could close it and not worry about anyone else but yourself. This is true. I also liked the hot coffee or cold Coke that you only had to ask for; and the bathroom saved many a desperate passenger. The Saab 340 was a wonderful place to earn a living, and flew like a new Cadillac. I had things go bad, but that was rare. Some exciting moments, but of all the airplanes I have flown, the Saab 340 was the best. I flew them for seven years with the airline, and one year with a charter company. Later I got hired at FlightSafety to teach the Saab 340 systems and simulator; later became the Program Manager. “Door warnings out, beacon on, bus-tie connect,……”

 

Restaurants & Pancakes

One thing that Americans love is their breakfast. Hardly a restaurant across this great land of ours doesn’t serve breakfast. They all have their specialties, from health food to ham n’ eggs, you can get any breakfast you like almost anywhere in America.

David Reed and Rachel Robertson have a unique relationship. They are both pilots, flying a corporate airplane. They started flying together five years ago, for a bank in Illinois. They hit it off right away as best friends, sharing common interests besides flying. One of those interests was breakfast. Today they fly for an organ transplant company in St Louis.

In their travels around the country, they get to visit many restaurants. Sometimes it’s for dinner, but many times they arrived early enough to have breakfast. Before long this became sort of a hobby of theirs, a common interest. The more places they ate, the more they compared.

“We used to just eat at Denny’s or Waffle House,” says David. “They were cheap and consistent. We liked Waffle House because of their counter. I love restaurant counters, love eating at them. You get to see the action behind the counter.”

Rachel added, “He does! You never know who might be sitting next to you. I’ve met some interesting people that way. Plus, there is a Waffle House everywhere, and they’re open all night.”

            On one trip to Ohio, to a small town near Akron, they asked the airport people for a recommendation. Rachel says, “People who work at the airport usually know the best places to eat. Sometimes, sometimes not. I’d say maybe 70%, 80% of the time they do. Sometimes they send you to McDonald’s.” For private aircraft they don’t use the regular airline terminal, but a private terminal in a more remote location, called a Fixed Base Operator, or FBO. They can be quite basic, or very luxurious, depending on the location. The smaller the airport, the more basic the FBO is. If you go to Stevens Aviation in Chicago though, it’s quite luxurious. “They get some very high-end customers, flying in very fancy jets,” explains David. “They have crew cars, like free rental cars that a flight crew can borrow to go eat. Stevens has brand new Fords, while Bob’s Flying Service in Nowhere, Indiana might have an old minivan that kinda runs. One place even had a new Mercedes. Took us five minutes to figure out how to start that thing,” he laughed.

            They drove to a nearby place that the airport had recommended. Inside they sat down, the waitress came right over. “That’s important,” says Rachel. “I don’t like sitting around forever waiting for a cup of coffee.” They opened the menus and discovered there were at least six large pages of breakfast items. More pancakes than they ever imagined. “It really raised the bar on breakfast,” said David. The proof, though, is in the food. “Just because a place is fancy doesn’t mean the cook knows what he’s doing,” says Rachel.

This place though, lived up to its reputation. The food was excellent. For a while, it was their favorite pancake house. At other cities, they found local diners. 

            “Locals can be either hot or cold,” says David. “They usually have great atmosphere, friendly customers and staff. The food though tends to be just average.” By average they mean the scrambled eggs are a bit overcooked. The coffee is a generic brand. The pancakes are only so so. “We look at the details when we eat at a new place,” Rachel added, as she took another sip of her coffee. “Like this coffee. It’s OK, but nothing I’d write home about. At least they have real cream, not powdered.”

They ordered their usual- scrambled eggs, sausage patties, pancakes. “No reason, it’s just what we both like. Sometimes I try to mix it up with eggs over easy. Eggs are important to breakfast.” The waitress eventually brought out the plates of food.

“First of all,” says David as he digs into the scrambled eggs, “the plate is cold. That means you have to eat fast or everything gets cold that’s on the plate.”

He asks Rachel, “What do you think of the eggs?”

“They’re ok, but not special. I’d say average. Some places add real cream, even a little bit of cheese for flavor. They don’t overcook them either. They should be light, consistent, one piece. See how these are overdone? Kind of plain, too. And when you put your fork in them, they break up into small pieces. I think they’re mixing powdered eggs with real eggs.”

David tried a pancake. “Sponge cakes I call these,” he says. “Too much flour or something. When you pour syrup on them, they just soak it up like a sponge. Jeesh, the syrup’s cold, too.”

At this diner they aren’t very impressed. “Wonder why the airport recommended this?” Dave muses.

They have eaten breakfast in Orlando, Las Vegas, Des Moines, Mobile, Dallas, just about everywhere. “When we used to stay overnight, we sometimes stayed at a Bed & Breakfast,” explained David. “They had some of the best breakfasts. Remember that place near Daytona in Florida?” he asked Rachel.

“Oh God, do I,” she answers. “I had such a hangover, I wasn’t hungry at all, just coffee please. But he brought out these amazing strawberry waffles. Oh my, they were so delicious,” she says, rolling her eyes thoughtfully.

They were in Las Vegas once, found a little restaurant inside a casino in Old Las Vegas. They liked that part of Las Vegas “Because it’s old school. The streets are two lanes, sometimes even closed off. Much quieter without the traffic. The bars are much better, too. Not so touristy.”

David continued, “In Las Vegas we ate at this one restaurant. The oriental woman, is that politically correct? Oriental?” 

“I think so,” said Rachel as she put syrup on her sausage patty.

“OK, well she sat us at this small table. We ordered the usual. It was amazing. The pancakes were great. The sausage…”

“Oh yes, those sausages were huge, weren’t they?” said Rachel.

“The biggest sausages I’ve ever seen,” said Dave laughing. “We ate there every day. The same Oriental lady sat us at the same table every day. We met some really interesting people at the table next to us. Remember the gambler?”

“Yeah, lost $1500 he said. Said he would eat breakfast, go back and win it back. So casual about it. I would have died if I’d just lost $1500,” she laughed.

One day they landed in Kansas City, at the downtown airport. The FBO recommended the Corner Café. “We fell in love with the place,” said David. “Terrific atmosphere, great food. The pancakes were delicious, the syrup warm. Best scrambled eggs ever.”

Rachel agreed. Whenever they went to Kansas City, they always went to the Corner Café.

“Des Moines was good too,” said Rachel. “We drove that airport car, you called it a ‘ghetto cruiser’, across the bridge to this diner. Middle of a run-down neighborhood. Great place though.”

I asked why she thought so. “The atmosphere. The place smelled terrific with all that good food. Great eggs, great pancakes, great coffee. Such a friendly place. Everyone seemed to know everyone else.”

I asked where was their all time favorite. They looked at each other and chuckled. David said, “Well, that’s funny. Here at home we’ve been to First Watch, Egg & I, IHOP, the chain restaurants. Not a fan of First Watch. Too ‘all natural’ if you know what I mean. Too healthy. I mean, whole wheat pancakes? Seriously, only communists and Democrats eat whole wheat pancakes.”

“Rachel added, “Egg & I is good though. Good eggs. The biggest apple pancakes I’ve ever seen.”

Dave said, “Yep, true that. Egg & I is good. That apple pancakes feeds both of us, with leftovers. Denny’s is cheap, so is IHOP. Then one day we went to this place called the Original Pancake House, down in the Valley, right by our airport here.”

“It was amazing. The service was super friendly. The OJ was literally fresh squeezed. The syrup was hot, the butter whipped and room temperature, not frozen little packets. The eggs were perfect. The pancakes were the best.” David took a sip of coffee, looked at it. “Pancake House coffee is better. This taste’s old.”

Rachel agreed. “The Pancake House had the best. We talked to the manager once. She said the secret to a good pancake is to use potato water. Something to do with the startch. I’m sold.”

Dave said thoughtfully, “Imagine, the whole time, the best place was right by our home base.”

They finished their breakfast, Dave grabbed the check, went to the register and pulled out the company credit card. “One of the perks of the job,” he winked. They walked outside, stood on the sidewalk in the warm sunshine. 

“You know how you can tell if it was a good breakfast? If you feel like a nap afterward, then it was a good breakfast.” 

They walked off to the airport car together. Their quest for pancake perfection continues, it may never end. They may find it in a New York deli or a roadside café in Garden City, Kansas. 

Rachel says, “Sure it’s about the food, but it’s also about the journey. When you have such a good friend, any diner is a good diner.”