Flying Mr. H
A local private owner contacted Mark to provide an airplane and crew while his personal airplane was down for maintenance. Additionally, if this worked out, we would continue to supply an airplane and crew during the lengthy time his airplane was going to be out of service. The private owner was a very wealthy Real Estate magnate who developed and owned high end shopping malls up and down the east coast and Canada but lived in Atlanta. We’ll call him Mr. H.
Up until now, except for a trip at my previous employer where I carried the reverend Desmond Tutu and provided him with a basket of snacks and a bottle of water as catering, my corporate acumen, disposition and service-oriented composition (read flight attendant duties), which a high rolling businessman who owned his own jet would expect, were severely lacking. This was important because I had been chosen for the first flight. Mr. H had his airplane stocked just the way he wanted it but unfortunately, we did not receive a brief from his regular crew on just how he liked to be served. This was a big deal because we were told that he traveled on business two to three days a week and then spent the weekends in New York City where he had a Condo overlooking Central Park. The crew would fly him to New York on Friday afternoon, stay the weekend, and then fly back to Atlanta late on Sunday afternoon.
I can’t remember if we checked out Mr. H’s airplane in advance to see what to expect or whether we just showed up for the trip. I tend to think it was the latter. By now, I was wonderfully comfortable in my role as a senior co-pilot. The owner Mark, still flew just about every day, and I had been flying quite a bit with him. When the boss sets an example, or mentors, or makes any comment at all, an astute first officer emulates and regurgitates with the goal being a mirror image of what’s expected. Mark had, for the most part, accepted my proficiency, competency, professionalism, and respect for his airplanes. In other words, I had placed myself in a good position to advance as soon as I was legally qualified. That was about to be tested in a way that nobody could have envisioned.
The first trip for Mr. H was going to be both him and his wife for a weekend in New York. This was something completely new in so many ways. We had to shift our entire thought process about how to conduct our flight and ourselves. Prompt, concise, on demand supply of a means to transport high value, sensitive cargo which has no expectations, and whose benefactor is only interested in seeing their consignment transported from point A to point B per direction, with no interest whatsoever in aesthetic appearance, conduct of the crew, airplane, or its furnishings was no longer the order of the day. We now had to plan the entire flight around the comfort and notion of our passengers.
Jack was to be my Captain and to be quite honest, after being told that we would be staying in Manhattan, at the Marriott Marquis on Times Square no less, from Friday until Sunday afternoon, I think we probably were off in a zone more related to the anticipation of the layover than the management of our patron. To be fair, Jack was a man of nobility, pride, and attention to detail, he just forgot to pass any of his etiquette and comportment principles on to me (of course he had given me way too much credit). That’s not to say that we didn’t arrive at Peachtree-Dekalb airport early, take inventory of our steed, and organize the minimal requests of our host. Mr. H’s airplane was stocked with a plentiful supply of Dom Perignon (which we did have intel on, and he had asked that we chill two bottles. There was also a small catering plate which had been arranged to be delivered to the lobby of the Fixed Base Operator (FBO), and a newspaper. We had arrived with plenty of time to get the airplane ready, fueled, vacuumed and the staff to provide his glassware which had been removed for cleaning. I was about to learn a whole new process, outlook, and technique for serving our “guests”.
Jack arranged the seatbelts so that they were laying symmetrical (perhaps the only thing I took note of) and asked me if I knew where everything was so I could serve it in flight. I had looked through every cabinet, drawer, and cubbyhole so that I could be efficient and appear like I knew what I was doing. Luckily, there was only one type of stemmed glassware because I can assure you, I wouldn’t have known the difference had there been more. I had loaded the ice bucket to the gills so that we wouldn’t run short, laid everything out where I thought it should go, and then realized I hadn’t chilled the Champagne. Instead of procuring a cooler so that it could be immersed, I put the bottles on top of the ice bucket and covered them with linen. In addition, I had my white linen napkin to put over my wrist just like I’d seen a waiter do at some fancy restaurant. I had the corkscrew tucked away and felt like I was ready. Shortly Mr. H and his wife arrived and pulled up directly to the airplane. Jack and I were ready and immediately introduced ourselves, while loading their baggage. So far so good. I tried to be as congenial as possible because I wanted to do this trip again.
They were genuinely nice and seemed pleased with the appearance of their jet. I noted immediately that Mr. H sat in the back left seat and Mrs. H sat in the back right. I told them how long the flight would be, what the weather was like in New York, and verified their transportation on arrival. I was quite pleased with the commencement and acknowledgement as I closed the door and we started on our adventure.
Jack had mentioned that we had to fly the airplane differently with passengers. I observed that he took great care to give them a smooth and deliberate flight. It wasn’t long until I noticed Mr. H moving about the cabin. I jumped out of my seat so he wouldn’t have to touch anything. It turned out that he was after his paper and mentioned that it would be nice to have their catering and a glass of Champagne. I was smiling and being nonchalant as this was going to be easy. Now, what I didn’t mention to you is that up until now, I had never opened a bottle of wine or Champagne, nor did I mention that to Jack. Not to be flippant, I just figured it couldn’t possibly be that hard to figure out. I suppose it never crossed Jack’s mind that he needed to brief the simplest of service tasks.
While Mrs. H made some small talk (to appear down to earth I was certain), I began my minds-eye service. I wasn’t going to bestow my ignorance by offering a taste for acceptance because I didn’t know about that. My plan pure and simple, was to get this poured and retreat to my seat with no thought about how to keep the remainder of the first bottle cold, or deployment of the second bottle. None of that was about to matter as I was to provide some authentic, price of a bottle of Dom, sure fire entertainment.
I was multi-tasking as I laid out my tools, all the while talking with Mrs. H. I had my bottle, I had my glasses, I had my linen napkin, and I had my corkscrew. It all started to turn when I picked up the bottle and it became apparent that I had to take the aluminum cage off the cork. While unraveling the tie, I suddenly realized that this was going to be one tough cork to put that corkscrew in. In fact, I suddenly had the sensation that something was about to go utterly and hopelessly wrong.
Trying my best to look practiced, with no idea what to do next, I thought that maybe if I pushed upward on that cork something might happen. Well, it did. The cork literally exploded and ricocheted off the roof. To this day I have no idea where it went. Smoke started pouring from the top of the bottle. For a fleeting iota (when the smoke cleared), I thought I might be able to pour so I grabbed my napkin to throw over my wrist. It was just about this nano second when the contents of that bottle started to overflow in a massive eruption through the neck. It wasn’t just a dribble but a full-on gusher. I would compare it to National Geographic award winning footage of Niagara Falls in slow motion, bubbling and gurgling with such force that it was surely going to drown me and soak the carpet and interior of the Learjet. I was horror-struck, as were Mr. and Mrs. H, and Jack who had turned around when the gunshot sound of the cork startled us all. The only thing I knew to do was to stick my thumb over the mouth of the bottle. That helped a little, but the damn thing kept on spewing. I covered it with my linen napkin and applied pressure to make it stop. I couldn’t bear to raise my head when suddenly there was enormous guffawing from the H’s. Jack was saying something incomprehensible and meanwhile I sat there soaking wet, smelling like fermented grapes, Champagne everywhere, and not daring to move or take my thumb off that bottle. Mr. H was laughing loudly and raucously, and Mrs. H was trying to compose herself. I made a slight test release of pressure to thankfully be rewarded with no more emancipation only to discover most of the bottle had already vanished…there wasn’t even enough for a glass left! Now what! At first, I tried to apologize but was quickly shut off. Mr. H was beside himself and quite frankly Mrs. H was too. I decided to just be quiet and start to clean up. It turned out that Mr. H was normally a profoundly serious and stoic individual who showed very little emotion and rarely enjoyed a laugh. Because of his demeanor, Mrs. H showed little emotion either. It seemed that I had provoked a very unusual and atypical response.
In my mind, I had just ruined any chance of continuing to be a part of this operation, had probably made Mark and our company the butt of the charter world, and would most likely be put on an airliner home, my dream finally brutally interrupted.
I was horrified as was Jack. He immediately began apologizing and luckily for me, Mr. H basically told him not to worry. Mr. H instantly got out of his seat, instructed me to throw that bottle out, (I think I stuffed my white linen napkin down the throat of the bottle), and explained that I hadn’t chilled the bottle properly (real OTJ training!). We/he immediately determined that bottle number two was not ready to be opened, and it was then that I learned never to depart without pre-chilling my Champagne and to have a cooler large enough to handle two bottles.
I don’t remember the details of the rest of the flight, but I do know that I spent most of it in the back with the H’s cleaning up my mess. I served them something that was satisfactory and managed to look them in the eye. I do remember eventually climbing back into the cockpit with Mr. H making some teasing remark about not normally having entertainment on his flights. He also told me that they would serve themselves the remainder of the trip!
When I climbed back in, Jack couldn’t help but laugh. He had to turn his head so that the H’s wouldn’t see it. Surely, they were not going to be using us anymore. I was perturbed but now was not the time to be brooding as we were about to enter the most complex and busiest airspace in the world. It was time to go back to work and worry about the consequences later.
The flying part was our forte. We landed at Teterboro airport and taxied to the FBO where the H’s limo was waiting to pick them up. I had managed to keep busy during the approach and landing and not look back, dreading this moment. Jack quickly jumped to the back and out of the airplane so he could make an apology and ask for forgiveness. I let the H’s disembark and grabbed their luggage making sure not to let any of it touch the still Champagne-soaked carpet. When I stepped out onto the ramp, Mr. H was talking to Jack, and he smiled at me. He then proceeded to hand each of us a $100 dollar bill (which was a lot of money in 1986) and gave Jack his credit card with which we would pay for all expenses (including hotel rooms [notice rooms], meals, and incidentals). We couldn’t believe it but managed to act as if this was customary, all the while assuring him that the airplane would be spotless, stocked, and a new leaf turned for the return trip. He then bade us goodbye with a caveat that we have a good time and enjoy ourselves but periodically check with the hotel for messages. This was long before cell phones, and pagers were not part of the deal. We pledged our allegiance, watched them drive out the gate, waited ten seconds, and then both of us busted out laughing. Jack called Mark to check in, and I’m sure enjoyed relaying what still gets honorable mention today in the coffers of company history. Mark was extremely disturbed but to Jack’s credit, he covered enough that Mark didn’t want to talk to me. I got to stay on the trip!
We unloaded our bags, broke out the remaining bottle of Dom Perignon (which was perfectly chilled by now), and reexamined what had just taken place! FBO’s specialize in cleaning airplanes. They do the dishes, vacuum, wash windows, and act like concierges for just about anything the pilots ask for. Of course, they charge a premium for this service. We pondered whether I should be the one on my hands and knees shampooing the carpet or whether we should just add it to the list of normal services which would be charged anyway. Jack decided to have the FBO clean the airplane.