The past 30 years I have flown at least once or twice yearly. In those 3 decades is plenty of experience with airports, security, and the traveling public. Some times it was for business as I was in the travel industry for 20 years, but most of the time it was for pleasure.
I usually quip that “I’ve been around the world TWICE. From the penthouse to the outhouse, and everywhere in-between”.
Recently, I returned from a quick trip to Seattle. On the landing at Seattle-Tacoma International Airport (SEA) the window seated older woman next to me asked if that was a ‘hard landing’. I answered, “Well, my experience with flying spans 3 decades since I was 18 years old. My definition of a hard landing, and your definition will be different.” With a shrug, I continued, “That said, it was a little rough, but generally is for SeaTac.”
The landing did remind me of a controlled crash landing that was jarring …
Coming In Hot!
August 5, 2024. Alaska Airlines Flight #698 from Seattle to Phoenix [AS698] It was garden-variety, run of the mill flight. A grip of turbulence over the Rocky Mountains, but other than that, no noteworthy events.
The über early flight time had most of us sleeping, or at least, sleepy eyed.
THEN … BAM! The jet plane was practically DROPPED on the runaway!
A couple of overhead bins popped open, we were JOLTED awake, and there was a yelp heard in the cabin. Immediately, the captain jumped on the radio: Well, I’m pretty sure we’re in Phoenix. *pause* I definitely know we landed!
[Passengers laughed]
The captain pressed, “I’m gonna be in a lot of trouble for that. [he chuckled] At any rate, welcome to Phoenix Sky Harbor International Airport, the time is …” He continued with his welcoming speech that was soft, and light hearted.
NOW that? THAT was a hard, dare I say, a controlled crash landing that damn-near knocked the wings off. FAWK.
Pleasant Class To Business Class
June 22, 2018 – Vancouver International Airport. My sister and I were traveling to the Philippines to celebrate her 40th birthday, Dad’s upcoming birthday, and post-Father’s Day.
So we booked our airline tickets with Philippine Airlines, and directly from them, instead of a consolidator ticket. The route was Seattle to Vancouver to Tagbilaran City. The flight to Vancouver was late at night, in fact, it midnight, or 1 a.m. Since it was our first port of entry from the United States, even if the jet is continuing on, everyone disembarks.
We collected our bags to report to Canadian Customs. Another first! Literally the last persons to check in
We rolled up to the gate, and gate agent. She was uninterested being there, working late. I presented our passports, and boarding passes. She briefly looked at the names before reaching for her cell phone, and NOT the airport landline in front of her.
She poked it a few times, and placed it against her ear. She questioned, “Stacy? They’re here. Yes, Bayne party of 2 just checked in. ” *paused* “Yes, both of them.
Charrina and I exchanged instantly worried looks. I turned my back to the counter to face my sister, while I mouthed to her, “What the fuck is happening?” WCP shrugged her shoulders.
She ended the call, and puts it down. She announced, “You’ve been upgraded to Business Class since Coach is full. Here are your boarding passes. Enjoy your flight.” By the time I whirled around, the gate agent had returned our passports with new boarding passes: Business Class, 6K and 6H!
WCP and I roll out before they changed their minds!
Rain, Rain, Go Away!
May 26, 1997, Ninoy Aquino International Airport, Manila, Philippines. Our journey home started off rocky. My Mom, Dad, Charrina and I were ready to return home after a couple weeks in a tropical paradise.
Two tropical depressions descended on the city of Manila. The computers at the ticket counter at Asiana Airlines, and presumingly all airlines, were up and down. The agents got so frustrated that they resorted to handwriting out boarding passes to passengers. That was the first omen for events to follow. As soon as we received our passes, the Manila police closed the doors to the airport. All the people outside were simply left in the pouring rain, and wind, which caused chaos and angry shouts.
Moments after paying our departure tax, we swiftly moved through Immigration and a few purchases at the duty-free shop, the light went out! Emergency lighting, and power, were the only lights. We learned later that the back up generator was underwater!
Lovely, we thought.
We sat quietly in a paralyzed airport. Our wait of an undetermined length was interrupted during the third hour. A Korean dressed in a black suit, with black sunglasses on, armed with a walkie-talkie, looking like Men In Black, bellowed out, “Passengers for Asiana flight bound for Seoul proceed to Gate 10!”
In a heartbeat, we grabbed our carry-on bags, trashed our drinks, and rolled out like a military squad that was deployed. We did our best to keep up – trust me!
Seoul, Korea [6 hours later]
Due to the weather delay in Manila, Asiana Airlines held the connection flight on the tarmac this entire time. Asiana raced out 10 passengers which, included my family and I, with a transport that trailed a mobile staircase. The tropical depression that was in Manila is now in Seoul.
The staircase is locked to the aircraft that had engines running, while we attempted to clamor up the metal staircase in gale force winds and sleets of rain. As we each put our butts into seats, and clicked the seat belt, the pilot throttled up and took off!
City of Baguio
May 1997 – Up until this point in my young life, I still had an impressive amount of air miles. The Philippine Airlines flight from Manila to Baguio was facilitated on a turboprop plane.
To be honest, this is just a mention of one my earliest memories of small(er) plane travel. Known as the Summer Capital of the Philippines, Baguio City has been a favorite getaway spot of Filipinos over the years, thanks to its cooler temperature owing to its high elevation. This mountain city sits about 1,540 meters above sea level in the province of Benguet in Northern Luzon. It is also known as the City of Pines due to the abundance of pine trees that grow in and around the city proper.
The Baguio airport was built in 1934 and was the first destination of Philippine Airlines‘ (PAL) maiden flight in 1941. However, it was eventually closed to commercial flights in the 1990s due to navigational difficulties. While it was closed to commercial flights, the airport has continuously been open for military and chartered flights.
[Yes, the city has its own airport called the Loakan Airport (BAG). This entry point is located about 7 KM south of the Baguio City Hall in front of Burnham Park.]
The flight path is difficult to say the least. The pilot climbs high along the backbone of the mountains, then pushes the nose almost vertically down the other side, only to level off to the landing strip. It was nuts!
Tito Carlos and His ‘Magic Room’
May 1997 – (*GROAN*, yes, the same trip! It was an eventful 2-weeks) When you’re visiting the Philippines as a successful Tisoy, you’re held in high regard. And, every ‘cousin’ that’s remotely related to you will be by your side. I don’t remember the reason but my family plus extended family traveled from Cebu to Manila. One ‘niece’ was quite young, but old enough to understand what was going on.
We traveled on Philippine Airlines which is (was) the premiere airline. And for my niece, this was her first flight ever.
FIRST. FLIGHT. EVER.
She sat next to me, Tito Carlos. She was relatively quiet and reserved for the entire process as I coached her to listen to the flight attendants, and overhead speaker announcements but she can enjoy her time. She loved take-off. Admittedly, it’s my favorite portion of the flight experience!
However, landings / arrivals can be difficult. This cowboy pilot came in HOT! He practically slammed us into the concrete. A couple of overhead bin doors opened, a few passengers yelped, and all of us cringed. I uttered, “GAWD damn, son! You better steer whatever is left of this bird to the gate.” My niece looked towards me with worry.
“Tito Carlos, are we ok?” she pressed.
I soothed her, “Yes, we’re ok. Not all landings are like this. Remember that.” She nodded in compliance.
As we walked into the arrival terminal, she asked, “Tito Carlos, are we done with the ‘magic room’?”
I was immediately confused, “What ‘magic room’, Sweets?”
She continued, “Yeah. We entered the room in Cebu, after some shaking, snacks and time, we left the room here in another city.”
I was dumbfounded. I mean, she’s not wrong. From a child’s perspective, that is a magic room for all tense and purpose. I pursed my lips before I answered, “Yep. All done with the magic room for today. Let’s check into the hotel.”
Cebu Pacific, Flight 387
Flight 387 departed Ninoy Aquino International Airport at 09:16 am local time and was expected to arrive in Lumbia Airport at 11:19 AM local time. 37 minutes into the flight, the plane made an unscheduled stop in Tacloban City’s airport. The plane took off at around 10:10-10:20 AM (debated) for the last time. The pilots went under a visual flight approach by Butuan ATC shortly after taking off from Tacloban City. The plane descended around 85 km away from Lumbia Airport. At around 10:56 AM, the plane descended to 8,000 feet above sea level. The plane was flying dangerously low for the next 4 minutes. At 11:00 AM, the plane crashed into the slopes of Mount Sumagaya at an altitude of around 5,000 feet. ~ Plane Crash Wiki
February 2, 1998, my family and I were still in Villa Jacinta. That village is isolated from the rest of the world so we didn’t know about this until days later. You’ll haveta appreciate that this is a time before reliable mobile phones, the internet was we know it in 2024, and ZERO social media.
Eventually, we traveled to Manila to continue our way home to Seattle. The hotel we stayed in was posh. I shared a room, so I clicked on the in-room television to see what Philippines was about. I watched a music video for Torn by Natalie Imbruglia. Then I surfed channels until I encountered a news channel. They reported that Cebu Pacific flight had crashed; killing all onboard.
Imagine my surprised look on my face!
I called internationally to my workplace boss, Carter Mears. No answer; only his voicemail. I left a simple message of you have my flight information on Philippine Airlines – NOT Cebu Pacific. So my family and I are ok. Then I called my work phone voicemail.
“Welcome to Audix. Your mailbox is full. It can not receive more messages. You have 31 new voicemails.”
If only I could mark myself safe on an internet message board that everyone read … *sigh*. Eventually word was circulated that I am not dead, very much alive, and will be returning to work as planned.
Lost Luggage
Speaking for myself, traveling while not 100% healthy is not ideal. Battling a sinus infection to start an international adventure on long flight is downright awful. September 19, 2012 – Issaquah, Washington. I was still reeling from a breakup, subsequent broken heart and deep depression.
I wanted, nay needed a change of scenery ASAP!
My friend, Mark Romero, transferred to Cologne, Germany for work. He’s had an outstanding invite to visit him. My thoughts landed on the Bucket List Item of attending an authentic Oktoberfest in Germany. If this wasn’t a ‘burning bush’ type of sign to travel, then I don’t know what is. I booked a ticket, informed my broesph, and prepared myself for a trip of a lifetime.
The flight route was Seattle, Washington to Amsterdam Airport Schiphol and finally to Cologne, Germany. My tremendous amount of travel information, in addition to Romero’s words of advice, advised me that my first port of entry would by Amsterdam. Therefore, travelers will pick up their luggage, transit Passport Control, then continue to your end destination.
I started my journey a day after I landed from a work trip to/from Hawaii, and the antibiotic regime for the sinus infection I was battling. That’s fun, I grumbled.
My sinuses were clogged, my breathing was labored, my thoughts were muddled, and my energy was drained by the time I landed in Amsterdam. To say the least, there were a throng of travelers attempting to transit Passport Control.
An announcement was made overhead, “Passengers with a 12:00 pm to 12:30 pm departures, you must proceed to the right for expedited passport control.” I looked at the clock: 12:12. I smashed my teeth, my connecting flight was 12:51 departure so boarding was already complete.
My carry-on luggage was a messenger bag with an over-the-body that had the ability to be converted to a back pack. While plowing my way through to a booth, I converted the bag. At the booth, the Customs Officer literally advised running to my gate!
I. SHIT. YOU. NOT.
She returned my passport, boarding pass, and directions to my gate, which was across the facility. Well, FAWK MY LIFE. I cinched down my backpack shoulder straps. I was breathing through my left nostril only. I smiled as I clutched my travel paper work like a baton for a relay race in which I’m the only participant.
All of sudden, I’ve been return to high school, and in a Jason Bourne-Mission Impossible airport scene! I bolted from Passport Control. My eyes scanned ahead of pathways through a busy international airport. At full stride, I dodged baby carriages, stopped passengers, airport janitors, and the alike.
I blasted through like the 2012 version of an OJ Simpson, Hertz television advertisement in the Atlanta Hartsfield Airport. And just like in the commercial, airport personnel waved me through like an Ironman Marathon Course Marshals. I looked right briefly for signage and the 1st base coach for Seattle Mariners – Lufthansa gate agent windmilled arms to keep running.
I turned left, right, right, left. I wheeled a corner in a quiet area of the airport, if there was such a thing. I spotted an agent, I bellowed, “I’m Carlos Bayne.”
The agent replied, “I know. Run downstairs, please sir. You’re already checked in, just GO!”
I zipped past her, thundered down the stairs, the automatic doors of an airport transport opened, and I leapt from the 2nd to the last stair into the vehicle. The driver closed the door, and rammed his foot into the accelerator.
He slowed his approach to a jet plane on the tarmac with it’s engines running, and a mobile staircase stationed at the door. As I stood there, I started to feel the phlegm dripping down my throat, which was dry, and irritated it.
THEN, I started to cough. My heart sunk even further than it had already. I have no water in this post-2001 world of airport travel.
I struggled mightily clamoring up the stairs to the awaiting flight attendant. I shuffled past her to the empty window designated to me. The entire flight’s energy seemed frustrated with my tardiness, which was [Han Solo] “it’s not my fault!”.
The coughing continued and worsen. The throttling up engines didn’t drown out my GAWD awful, guttural sounding cough which was the only sound inside the plane. I attempted to stifle it, which made it worse! I did everything to draw in air through the coffee straw sized hole I had in my left only nostril. It wasn’t working, and I wanted to crawl underneath the seat in front of me and DIE.
The flight attendant reached for 2 bottles of water, passed it to the front row, and like test sheets, passenger after passenger past back that water I desperately needed. I fished out my medicine that would squash this cough as soon as I witnessed the efforts on my behalf to get me water.
As coughing tears rolled down my cheeks, and ten minutes that lasted eternity, my coughing subsided. Until I reached Cologne, Germany, that is …
Antibiotics, sleep deprivation, and a racking, full body cough, zapped my energy. After the flight, I had just enough energy to depart, and crawl to baggage claim. A fever was also ravaged my body. I drifted off to sleep as I waited my bag to be deposited into the stainless steel carousel.
A Germany police officer kicked the bottom of my shoe with his boot. He grumbled in German, what I could only assume the equivalent of “wake up”. I yelped, “Hey.” He looked at his partner, “American.” He scoffed, “Papers.”
I handed over my clutched boarding pass, luggage claim ticket, and passport. He scanned them briefly, returned them, and asked, “What are you waiting for, friend?”
“My bag from my flight outta Amsterdam,” I barked. FAWK, I was mad.
“Clearly, it’s not arriving. Stop loitering, sleeping in my airport, and submit a claim for your bag then,” he retorted. I complied with the command, text Mark about my woes, and traveled to lost luggage. Thankfully, I had royal blue, Delsey Paris luggage and claim ticket number.
Mark advised for me to stay awake until I usually sleep which was about 10 pm or so. We looked at the time, 6pm. UGH, I wanted to die, not stay conscious for 4 hours. Romero drove us to a courtyard area near his crib. The weather was dry, and hot enough to be outside for a couple of beers. By the time, we sat down with beers, Mark’s mobile phone was notified my luggage has been located.
We chatted a bit, he finished his beer quickly, and he bounced. Leaving me in the oldest cobblestone courtyard, adult money, and my charming personality …
By the time Mark returned with my bag, I was partying with an Army squad stationed nearby, and treating them to the drink, Irish Car Bombs. [By the way, Europeans do not appreciate that name for the drink one iota!] The Army squad, and myself were so loud and obnoxiously shit-housed that we drove out the other patrons without our noticing … and can be heard from the carpark that Mark was in.
“Of course,” Mark remarked as he wheeled the corner with my bag in hand, and spotted me as the center of attention, and raucous fun. He dragged me away from my new friends like a child from a city park which we clearly were not done playing.
Mark, as Dad, was definitely done. Kinda like this post, done like dinner.
los, Fil-Am Renaissance Man 