Flying the Caribbean 🌴

I started flying when I was 15 years old, performing odd jobs at a local airport in exchange for an occasional airplane ride. At 16, I got a job and saved every penny I earned. During the summer between my junior and senior years of high school, at age 17, I earned my private pilot’s license in west Texas.

I spent my twenties in the Dallas, Texas area, earning my wings and building flight time in pursuit of a flying career.

At the time, I worked for a telephone company that operated a fleet of corporate jets. When the company posted an opening for a pilot in Seattle, I was the only one of its 50,000 employees to apply. I even called the Chief Pilot and offered to buy my own airline ticket to interview.

He politely declined.

He candidly explained that the company had been directed to hire a female pilot for the position, then offered advice that changed the course of my career.

“Get a Boeing 737 type rating, and go to the airlines. You’ll be much happier.”

I took his advice.

After graduating from college, with 1,500 hours of flight time and a Boeing 737 type rating, I mailed more than 400 résumés to airlines across the country.

Unfortunately, in aftermath of the First Gulf War, airline hiring in the United States had come to a halt. In fact, airlines were laying pilots off.

The only flying jobs were in Alaska…

…and the Caribbean.

The choice was obvious.

I bought a ticket to St. Croix, walked into the office of a small commuter airline called Sunaire Express, and asked for a job.

Sunaire Express operated a fleet of fifteen De Havilland Twin Otters—rugged, 19-passenger twin-engine airplanes flown by a Captain and First Officer, with no flight attendant. One of the First Officer’s duties was to brief the exit-row passengers and make sure everyone was buckled in before departure.

The Chief Pilot apologized that he didn’t have a position available. Besides, I had no airline experience, and every day his desk filled with résumés from furloughed airline pilots who did.

A few weeks later, on a Friday morning, the telephone rang.

“We’re holding interviews Monday. Someone just canceled. Do you want the slot?”

Do I ever!

This might be the only call I’d ever receive.

“I’ll be there!”

I told my boss at the phone company I had to go. He had watched me work toward this dream for years and completely understood. At the end of the work day, I unloaded my work truck assuming I would never return.

There were fifteen applicants.

Throughout the day we each interviewed with a panel of five managers and pilots.

Late that afternoon we all sat together in a small room. A manager entered and began calling names.

One by one, applicants left the room, elated.

After six lucky names had been called, the manager returned. We glanced nervously at each other and braced for the bad news.

“Congratulations. You are all hired.”

Well… sort of.

The next morning we would fly to San Juan for drug testing. Ground school would begin Tuesday and last ten days.

There was just one catch.

The airline had no openings.

We would be placed into a hiring pool based on our class scores and called as positions became available.

I called my boss at the phone company.

There was still no guarantee of a job.

“I have to do this.”

He wished me luck.

A week later, in the middle of ground school, my boss called to say his manager had ordered him to fire me for job abandonment unless I came home immediately.

I could not give up my dream now. I continued ground school.

Upon completing ground school, I was offered a position and immediately began flight training…

…in the outer bands of a hurricane.

I couldn’t have been happier.

I had my first airline job.

And it was in paradise.

To celebrate, the Assistant Chief Pilot took us to a remote part of the island to hunt lobsters.

In a thunderstorm.

At 10:00 that night.

We caught nine lobsters by flashlight and boiled them in a beachside hut.

Welcome to St. Croix.

I called my boss at the phone company with the good news. He asked if I could submit a backdated letter of resignation, which I was happy to deliver in person a month later— wearing my new pilot uniform.

Our radio callsign was "Sunbird".

One afternoon I heard a Sunbird crew urgently report an engine failure, declare an emergency, and divert to a tiny island airport.

I knew every pilot at the airline.

Oddly enough, I couldn’t recognize the voice.

Later that day I learned it was one of my friends.

His voice had gone up about an octave.

A few weeks later, it was my turn.

We lost an engine over the Caribbean.

We secured the engine, agreed to continue directly to St. Croix, and I reached for the push-to-talk switch on the yoke.

One thought crossed my mind before I keyed the microphone.

How will I sound on the radio...

I took a breath. "San Juan Center, Sunbird Four Six Five, engine failure, proceeding direct St. Croix, switching to St. Croix Tower. Good day."

A week later the Chief Pilot called.

“The FAA has closed its investigation. You're all good.”

Their only comment?

“You didn’t sound urgent enough on the radio.”

The Chief Pilot thought that was hilarious.

So did I.

Blue Skies,

Lorenzo