The time has come to share with you all some information. I have been holding off as long as possible, but the circumstances of our current story require you to be a bit more in the loop (make sure you read this all the way to the part where I almost die).
About three months ago, my name was submitted for consideration as a candidate in a rotation program at work. At the time I didn't really know much about the program and didn't intend to participate. About one month ago I was contacted by four different sites that were interested in having me do a rotation with them. I learned a lot more about the details of the program and decided it was something I was interested in. Even if I ended up hating the new assignment or the new city, I figured the experience would be valuable and there would be some great TRS writing opportunities.
Out of the four sites that contacted me, one didn't really pan out, I turned one down, and the other two are technically still under consideration, although I think I've made up my mind already. My management offered to send me to each of the two sites I am still considering to help confirm my decision. That's what brought me this past weekend to Mesa, Arizona. Actually, the trip started last week when my job took me to Seattle for some leadership training. As fate would have it, my office assistant booked me on Alaska Airlines—God love her. I arrived at Seattle-Tacoma airport hours after Alaska Airlines laid off all their baggage handlers. The adventure had begun.
For my trip home, the OA booked me on an America West flight. She apparently thinks it's funny to put me on a different airline every time I fly. I now have mileage accounts with four different airlines. At this rate, I should earn four free trips right around the time I retire. Since America West is based in Phoenix, almost all their flights make a stop there. Even if you want to fly from San Luis Obispo to Las Vegas, you still connect in Phoenix. Look at a map and see how much sense that makes.
My trip home from Seattle was no exception to this rule, and rather than making a separate trip to Mesa, I decided to turn my one hour layover in Phoenix into a twenty-hour layover so I could check out the Mesa site and, more importantly, the surrounding residential areas. The trip was brief and by 5:30 p.m. Saturday I was already on approach to Orange County airport aboard a Canadair Regional Jet. Damn Canadians.
I've flown into John Wayne Airport many times over the past year. As we prepared to land, I peered out the window and began to see the familiar landmarks associated with the landing pattern at John Wayne. Once the planes glide over the Saddleback Mountains, they essentially parallel the 55 freeway, floating a few hundred feet above traffic on the 405 as they finally touch down. This time we seemed to be coming in a bit high and instead of making the final descent over the 405 freeway, we headed out over the ocean.
This seemed a bit odd to me, but whenever we experience Santa Ana wind conditions in Orange County, air traffic gets flipped around, with take-offs and landings going south to north instead of north to south. We coasted out over the ocean and the plane went into a turn, then another turn, suggesting my hypothesis was correct—although it seemed odd that our flamboyant flight attendant didn't mention anything about Santa Ana winds. He had been quite animated throughout the duration of the flight. We passed the airport again and began another set of turns at which point the passengers adjacent to me began commenting on the oddity of our landing pattern. We were beginning our third pass over the airport and had convinced ourselves that the pilot must not know where the airport actually is when someone flagged Captain Flamboyant over and asked pointedly, "um, where are we going?"
"We have a problem," he told us, with just a hint of panic in his voice.
"With the airplane?" the passenger asked, a hint of panic developing in his voice.
I was a little taken aback by the direct nature of his responses—and a bit concerned about the obvious uncertainty behind them. I developed a small lump in my stomach as we began our fourth tour of the airspace above Orange County.
Captain Flamboyant replied, "yes, there is a problem with the wing and they may have to divert us to Los Angeles or Las Vegas, the captain is going to make an announcement.”
Vegas? I was already warming up my dice-throwing hand when the captain came on the loudspeaker in that calm, captain voice they all seem to have.
"Folks—from the flight deck…as you may know the runway in Orange County is extremely small, about 4,080 feet [as if that meant anything to us. He could have told us it was only 5 miles long and most of the passengers would have freaked out]. Those of you sitting over the wings have probably noticed those long boards that pop up from the wing and help slow the plane down when we land [nope, most of the passengers were only vaguely aware of the fact the plane had wings, let alone how they work]. We're getting a couple of warning lights up here indicating that two of those boards are not working, which means we may need a little extra runway when we land. Safety is always our number one priority so we're going to go ahead and divert to Los Angeles where they have a longer runway and a ground maintenance crew with the right equipment. It should be a pretty quick fix and we'll be on our way. Los Angeles is just about five more minutes, so please prepare for landing."
I think my reaction to the news was pretty much the same as the rest of the passengers. In a situation like that it's hard not to think, "so…we're not going to Vegas?"
We landed safely in Los Angeles, and began what would be a 30 minute wait for a parking space. At this point, Captain Flamboyant was advertising that everyone would “de-plane” and proceed to baggage claim where we would get our bags and board a bus back to Orange County.
About half the passengers on the plane started making cell phone calls, including the high school girl that was sitting a row in front of me. She had spent the previous 35 minutes putting on make-up in preparation for the prom that night. At first I was shocked with her priorities, but then I realized she's too young to gamble or drink in Vegas. She proceeded to call her friends—the ones that weren't on the plane with her (there were about four of these prom-bound girls onboard sharing makeup brushes and such). She was calling to let her friends know that she might not have time to do her makeup before the prom. She then explained the situation. Each time she told the story it changed a little bit, but the gist each time was that something was wrong with the runway in Orange County so we had to go to LA so they can fix it. I'm not positive, but I think that made sense to her friends.
We finally disembarked and boarded one of those tarmac shuttles that take you to a gate when you are flying on a plane too small and insignificant to warrant a jetway or a real terminal. As soon as the bus began moving it lurched a bit, as expected, sending one of the prom queens reeling off her feet towards me. I was carrying my laptop and didn't want to strain my warmed up dice hand—in other words I was in no condition to catch a 16-year old girl wearing more makeup than Michael Jackson. Lucky for her one of the other prom queen friends grabbed her arm and literally pulled her back before she completely lost her balance and ended up on the floor.
"I guess I'm going to have to hold on" she says.
I glanced over at her and said "yeah, that would probably be a good idea".
All four prom queens grabbed straps hanging from the ceiling of the bus and the one that nearly fell says "oh my God, this is so embarrassing, we're all holding on".
Another remarks "it's like we're in a movie, riding in a bus on the runway."
I thought of mentioning Keanu Reeves, but I wasn't sure she'd know who he is, she didn't seem like the Matrix type. It was precisely at this moment I realized that I needed to leave this ghastly place as quickly as possible. Thankfully I too had made a few phone calls while we waited on the tarmac. Moments earlier my ride had called and was already approaching the freeway exit for LAX—I could see the light at the end of the tunnel.
When we arrived at the baggage claim it was chaos. Information was at a premium and the airline had made the decision to fly us back to Orange County instead of chartering the buses. That meant the luggage would be transferred directly from our plane to the new one. I told the agent at the desk she could just deliver mine to my house. In my head I was thinking "I know they can at least handle that."
I remind you that this is the same airline that lost my luggage when I flew to El Paso a few months ago. It's also the same airline that just brokered a deal that partners them with French company Airbus, but that is an entirely different topic. I handed the America West agent my lost luggage form and took off faster than a scalded-ass ape. If my OA ever puts me on America West again I'll rent a car and drive instead. That would be more appropriate for a Road Scholar anyway, don't you think?
Read here for the report about the visit to the other rotation city.