Coastal Lightning
N38°2.75′ W124°48.63′
0402 ZULU
White flashes of lightning strobe low in the distance as we approach the coast, while the pale-yellow wash of ground lighting begins to warm the horizon line. I lean forward in the darkness of the cockpit, watching the lights of the Bay Area roll closer and closer, taking on definition as they do. With the bright light of day having slid well behind our tail, the cockpit has become chilly so I spin closed the air vent on the panel in front of me while imagining the heat of the approaching lights. Another thirty minutes of flying time and we’ll be opening the cockpit door to the fading warmth of a California night.
This was a last-minute trip for me. I was originally scheduled to fly to Japan, but a typhoon churning through the East China Sea had cancelled all flights to Tokyo. Instead of a few days of unexpected freedom, I was reassigned a trip to the West Coast. Grudgingly accepting of my new fate, we’d taken off and headed east instead of west. The crossing was smooth until 300 miles offshore when we hit the first band of clouds. We’d been dodging thunderstorms ever since.
Now, the latest updated weather report shows up on the small display screen at the bottom of the center pedestal, the white text glowing in the darkness of the cockpit. There is a small improvement in things—the visibility is up from a half a mile to two-thirds of a mile in heavy rain. Without an Internet connection (rumored to be coming next year sometime) we can’t update our satellite or radar maps and are limited to what the radar dish in the nose of the airplane can see—right now, that is multiple scattered splotches of red and yellow across our route. With this limited information we press onward, passing over the rocky northern California coastline just south of Point Reyes, and head inland.
We start our descent with the lights surrounding the bay burning brightly off our right wingtip. The air has a static quality as is blows into the cockpit through the vents. I lick my dry lips and hunt for my water bottle in the darkness. Passing through 30,000 feet, we enter a broken layer of clouds, our world pulsing in white light every few seconds as distant cloud to cloud lightning reflects in the moisture droplets surrounding us. We drop out of the bottom of the layer seconds later over the darkened peaks of the Coast Range.
The lights of the bay drift away behind us, leaving a warm glow that wraps around the right wingtip and behind my side window. The wingtip light, nothing more than a glowing green orb visible only out of the corner of my eye, wiggles and dances in the light turbulence. Another weather report for our destination rolls off the printer—this frequency of reports driven by the rapidly moving storm system. There’s improvement, but the radar picture that now includes the approach and the airport itself shows that the weather might still end up being a problem.
The approach controller turns us to the north, following another aircraft on the downwind. The radar is showing nothing worse than green and yellow returns and with the plane in front of us not doing any complaining, per the Law of Final Approaches neither will we. Visible through intermittent gaps in the clouds is the ground lighting that denotes the well laid-out grids of neighborhoods and the solitary scroll of country roads. The clouds thicken as we turn back towards the airport, our landing lights cutting a swath through the darkness ahead.
As we pop back out of the clouds, we are now fully configured with the landing gear hanging out into the wet nighttime below. It’s not actually raining, but there is so much moisture in the air that I reach up and toggle the wiper switch to clear the glass. Ahead, a low line of clouds obscures part of the runway, but the approach end is clearly visible as it smoothly glides towards us. I disconnect the autopilot and push the nose down slightly, aligning with the visual slope indicator glowing brightly just to the left of the runway. Seconds later we touch down on the wet pavement and start to decelerate. As we slow to a taxi speed, I hand over control to the Captain, who heads for the runway exit. We clear onto the taxiway and turn towards the gate, just as the next plane in line to land emerges from the cloud bank to the north, no doubt having followed the Law of Final Approaches as well.
