Wheels Up

Starting in the middle of a story can lend perspective. At least this is my hope, with emotion coursing through me as thoughts go to page. As this is being written, I am monitoring flightaware.com, watching an online depiction of the Southwest Airlines 737 (tail # N705SW) that is taking my precious 9-year-old son from Reno to Las Vegas. Flight information indicates that he is now 160 miles from me and about 30 minutes from touching down at McCarran International. His ultimate destination today is San Antonio, TX, where his mom lives, off for his annual month-long visit. Preston lives with me, his old dad, the majority of the time, and I am fortunate beyond words that this is the reality of the situation.

It is a cloudy day in Reno, the marshmallowy puffs of this morning having turned to dark thunderheads as this last Friday in May eases into mid-afternoon. Preston and I had a quick lunch at the McDonalds inside Reno-Tahoe International; two "Mighty Kids Meals" both complete with double cheeseburgers, fries and a cheap, plastic toy from the latest "Night at the Museum" movie. As we made our way through security and down the concourse to Gate B-5, I fussed over him, making sure he had a full bottle of water and a few relatively healthy snacks to counteract the nasty grease of lunch. We made our way to the pre-boarding area reserved for those needing assistance and kids like mine; Southwest officially refers to them as Unaccompanied Minors, festooning such passengers with blue lanyards to carry boarding passes and other critical information.

With only a few minutes before boarding, I snuggled with him and reminded him how much I love him and will miss him for the next 31 days. All composure quickly left me as he walked with the gate agent down the jetway and onto the plane. He looked back twice and waved. I could not form words and simply tried to smile and wave back as he left me standing there. I trudged away from the gate and avoided the stares of the remaining passengers waiting to board. One lady with two younger daughters implored me not to cry so I sat down near her and rattled off my reasons for being a wreck. A brief exchange of understanding helped me to feel less of a crybaby and more like the loving dad I strive to be every day.

At the huge window looking out on the tarmac, I had a chance to look over the aircraft to ensure it appeared to be airworthy, though I have no idea what I would be looking for, and what would I say if I saw something weird, anyway? "Um, hey, Southwest person, that airplane appears to have a 3 millimeter crack in the fuselage and I want it grounded immediately." Probably wouldn't go over all that well, so what I do is record the tail number, take a picture or two and then try to peer through the windows of the plane to maybe get a glimpse of my boy. Most times I can't see anybody through the tiny portals of the aircraft, so I just stand there with my tear-streaked face smeared against the glass, muttering prayers for the safety of the crew and passengers, always with a specific plea for the safe delivery of my son to his mom and then his careful return to me.

The last of the luggage was loaded and the plane pushed back from the gate. The pilot waggled the flaps and tail rudder then slowly rolled toward the runway. I took more pictures and raced to the next bank of windows to watch the 737 taxi to the end of airfield. There was about a 90-second delay, for whatever reason, that seemed like twenty minutes to me. The plane finally moved forward, made a southerly turn onto the runway and accelerated quickly to takeoff speed. Right when the pilot begins his run, I have always told Preston to say "go airplane, go" as he is pushed back into the seat and the roar and thrust of the engines, along with the mysterious phenomenon of aerodynamic lift, somehow heaves the huge machine off the ground. And there I am, standing at another concourse window, looking out as my boy races away from me, whispering to myself "go airplane, go."

First, the nose rises up, and then the tail, engines growling fiercely as the landing gear retracts. "Wheels up" I say to myself, and I watch and pray as Preston rides the wind. It was dark to the south of Reno today, a single lightning flash crackled across the sky as his plane gained altitude. Two minutes later, the 737 is a speck in the southern sky, rising perceptibly, taking my son to his other world.

Southwest requires that parents or guardians of Unaccompanied Minors remain at the airport until the plane has successfully taken off. This has never been a problem for me at all and I have postponed urgent requests, meetings and appointments so that I could fulfill this obligation. I walk from the gate back through the concourse, past the security checkpoint packed with anxious and impatient travelers going through the rites of removing shoes and partially disrobing to get through the labyrinth of safety procedures and apparatus. Down the escalator and out into the rush of vacationers, baggage handlers, airport cops and lurching traffic to get to my car in the parking garage. I always look up to see if I can spot the plane, somewhere far off in the distance. Today I see only dark clouds, hear only the dissonant sounds of the nearby freeway and smell the oddly romantic stench of jet fuel.

As I have written this, Preston has arrived in Las Vegas and is now likely rolling toward another takeoff. When he lands in San Antonio a little more than two hours from now, his mom will be there at the end of the jetway and I am grateful that he will be welcomed in loving arms.
In the 30 days ahead of me, I will travel to Las Vegas and St. George with my sweet wife for some much needed rest and relaxation. Amber and I will also bid tearful adieus later today to Austin and McKenna from her previous marriage, and we will miss them all together. We will also, however, bask in the glow and love of each other during these warm days, reacquainting and renewing our strong bond and looking forward to the return of life when the kids come home.