Visibility is all but unlimited as we arc southward out of New York. In an unusual turn of events we are number one to go as we taxi out and after waiting momentarily for traffic landing on a crossing runway my FO manages a nice takeoff into the gusty winds kicking up off of Flushing Bay. Approach wastes no time in turning us west and we cross the top end of Manhattan at the confluence of the East and Hudson Rivers. After leveling off for a few seconds while traffic passes by we are quickly climbed up to 23,000 feet and turned south towards Charlotte and the end of my flying day.

The air temperature is warmer than normal and with a full load of 50 passengers in the back the plane is sluggish to climb. We finally reach 28,000 feet and settle in for the flight south. Below us, off to the left of the aircraft the Delaware River springs from almost nothing to a full blown river as it passes by Philadelphia, forming the border between New Jersey and Pennsylvania, and later on as it empties into Delaware Bay the line between New Jersey and Delaware. As the plane rolls a few points to the right the setting sun reflects on the car ferry working its way across the Bay towards Cape May, New Jersey.

Ahead of us now, a line of bright gold across the darkening landscape the Susquehanna River runs from the Pennsylvanian hills and across the flatlands of Maryland before dumping into the top of the Chesapeake Bay. Much farther upstream we sometimes get a close of view of the river as it passes by the airport at Harrisburg, PA before curving around Three Mile Island on its eventual way to the Bay and then the Sea.
The Chesapeake spreads out below us catching the last of the sun’s setting rays as we follow the western shoreline passing over Baltimore and Annapolis before turning inland away from the Bay and towards the ridgelines just visible in the now hazy distance. Below us, Washington, DC clings to the confluence of the Potomac and Anacostia rivers surrounded by the solid ring of traffic fighting rush hour on the Beltway.

The millage continues to roll down and the haze in the distance turns into a solid line of weather which forms a series of red and brown splotches on the radar display. The last rays of the sun slip over the horizon as full moon appears on the opposite side. It slowly rises into the sky as we continue southward listening to the growing number of planes on the radio requesting deviations for the weather ahead. Within minutes we are in the line as well and get approval deviate as well. We slip around the edge of one cell that hasn’t quiet made up its mind if it’s going to go big or go home and then turn south again to avoid another one that is throwing off lightning in all directions.

Bouncing through a overcast layer as we descend towards the dark ground below an apologetic controller lets us know we will be holding ahead and that we are free to slow down if we want to. As the FO starts to slow the plane I immediately begin worrying about fuel and options. We have enough gas to wait out a bit of a delay but not as much as I’d like. So it goes these days. We enter the hold at 22,000 feet and are immediately cleared down to 18,000 feet. I hold off on telling the passengers anything yet as it seems we may get out sooner than expected anyway. Surrounding us in all quadrants are sleeping giants filling the sky with a blue glow of almost constant cloud to cloud lightning.

The route south to Charlotte, now just 70 miles away looks mostly clear on radar and indeed several airplanes stacked up below us in the hold are getting cleared to continue south to the airport. Before I even have time to get too worried about the fuel situation it is our turn to go and we reenter the waypoints towards the field as the autopilot dutifully follows the pretty pink line on the screen. Atlanta Center passes off to Charlotte Approach who clears us to join the localizer and head towards the runway. As we drop through 10,000 feet the City comes into view on the left, ablaze in light, backlit by a huge storm to the south which is raining down huge orange bolts of electricity. Just to the north of the final approach course which we are following is one more undecided cell. Every minute or so it flickers a light yellow color as it tries to generate some electricity. It is showing bright red on the radar display but as we slide by it at 2000 feet and descending it passes without a whisper of turbulence or lightning.

The runway comes up quickly from the sea of airport lights and we thump down on centerline. Clearing down field I flip off the radar as I happily note the lightning detection system is showing yellow lights meaning the ramp is still open. We just need a bit more luck and we’ll get our passengers off and on the way to where ever they are going from here.

Engines shut down, passenger door open, jetway attached, we are once more moored at the gate, unloading our cargo. Overhead the first drops of rain start falling from the sky, pinging off the fuselage and running to the ground. I place my headset and rubber duck (long story) in my bag, grab my rolling bag from the closet I the back and follow the last of the passengers up the jetway as the ramp lights start to form halos in the now steady rain.

It’s 1:30am on day 6 and I’m still about 2000 miles from where I want to be. Below us, visible through a broken layer of clouds the dark, hilly countryside of rural Kentucky slides by, scattered splotches of light the only signs of civilization. Above us the night sky looks like somebody thrown handfuls of white glitter against it resulting in thousands and thousands of points of light. My FO dims his screen lighting so it’s just barely visible and presses his face to the side window, lost in thought. I match the brightness on my screens to his and then move my seat all the way back and stare at the lightshow out the window.

To the west, just visible on the distant horizon a lone thunder head works its way across the countryside spitting out bolts of lightning at the sleeping population below. I turn my focus back inside and adjust the radar to its maximum useful range of 160 miles. 130 miles out and well to the left of our route a red splotch appears on the screen as the radar dish in the nose sweeps back and forth across the cold, empty night sky. To be showing up that clearly this far away it’s got to be a big cell, which judging from the amount of electricity it’s throwing out it appears to be.

The rest of the scope is clear and I go back to watching the stars outside and the distance to go number on my multi function display slowly roll back towards zero. I’d expected to maybe still be in a plane at this time of night (or morning) but I’d been hoping I’d be in a seat in the back or maybe the jumpseat upfront heading west and home. Instead, due to a plane breaking down in Daytona Beach I got tapped for an extra round trip and then flying the last flight of the night back to Dayton. Within seconds I went from walking towards freedom to the reality that I wouldn’t get home until at least the next morning. Such is life on reserve at the bottom of the pile.

The “quick” turn I’d been assigned to Knoxville turned into a nightmare in its own right as the next 5 hours entailed waiting for a Flight Attendant, trying to cool a way to hot airplane, weaving our way through scattered storms, sitting out a 2 hour ground stop to get back to Charlotte, weaving through more scattered storms and then trying to find a gate in the pouring rain in Charlotte. It only got worse from there as I waited another 45 minutes for the inbound plane I was taking back to Dayton to arrive and then for another FO as the one assigned timed out while waiting. Finally, at 12:15am we had a plane, a full crew and 70 passengers.

Airborne finally, ATC wastes no time in turning us north. There is almost no traffic at this hour and before we even pass through 10,000 feet we are cleared direct to our destination. Despite a full load of passengers the engines have the cooler night time air on their side and get us up to our cruise altitude quickly. Once level with the power pulled back the engine noise is barely audible from the cockpit and the only sound is the slipstream washing by in the darkness. Above us millions of stars cover the night sky…

I pull my seat forward again and tune in the weather for Dayton. The next 5 hours or so have become a series of checkboxes in my mind. Get the weather. Land the plane. Walk to my car. Sleep in my car for 2 hours. Wake up (if I ever fall asleep). Go back inside the airport. Get on a plane to finally travel that 2000 miles to home. It’s not glamorous but at the end of the day it’s all worth it to get home.

Driven by 16,000 pounds of thrust, the nose wheel comes off the ground quickly. I reach across with my right hand and shut off the windshield wipers which had been doing their best to keep the glass clear of the heavy rain that is falling in sheets all around us. Once airborn there isn’t all the much to see forward anyway so there is no reason to keep them on. In the right seat my FO swaps frequencies to departure control and checks in while adjusting the range on his radar display to get a sense of the ride ahead. Departure gives us a quick turn to the east and then direct to a fix down the road. As the course stabilized the radar display shows two large splotches of red and brown on either side of our route, but nothing where we are going.

Climbing through 12,000 feet we momentarily break into the clear. Sliding Between two layers of clouds I can just make out the cells we are passing between. I have my FO ask ATC for a few degrees left which they approve and I give the monster to our right a little more space just as we slip into the clouds again and visibility drops back to nothing. The radar still shows a clear path ahead so we are surprised to suddenly enter heavy rain and nasty turbulence that shakes the plane hard enough to spill the coffee my FO has been sipping. The rain increases in intensity, getting to the point where it is nearly impossible to hear the radios over the noise of it striking the airframe. Before I can even make a PA back to the cabin to get the flight attendant seated we are out of it and break into clear skies to the east of the weather.

Our arcing flight path heads up the eastern seaboard, crossing the North Carolina/Virginia border 30,000 feet over the town of Skippers, VA. We level off at 32,000 feet somewhere to the northeast of Richmond, VA before passing east of Washington, DC. A solid overcast has covered the countryside below since we left Charlotte but the clouds tapper off as we start a slow descent over the New Jersey landscape. Philadelphia appears out of the haze to the west just as the Washington Center Controller passes us off to a New York Center Controller who is located in a rather unremarkable building in Ronkonkoma on Long Island. I laugh to myself as I think for about the 100th time that it is a good thing they call it New York Center because there is no way I could ever pronounce Ronkonkoma correctly, especially at the end of a 12 hour day.

At Cliffwood, NJ we head out over the Lower Bay where New York Approach clears us down to 4000 feet and direct to the Verrazano Narrows Bridge and up the Hudson River. Free to maneuver as needed now I switch from NAV to Heading mode and point the nose of the plane at the bridge. Once there I spin the heading bug to the north and we turn up the River. Below, the water is filled with inbound and outbound boat traffic that I can only assume is organized and controlled by somebody somewhere.

The Statue of Liberty passes by out my window and I turn a few points to the left to keep the nose of the plane centered between Manhattan and Hoboken on the left bank of the river. My FO is splitting his time between working the radio, watching out for traffic and admiring the view out his window as the City rolls by below. North of Central Park we are cleared down to 3000 feet and I have to adjust the heading again on account of the wind. We pass over the George Washington Bridge with it’s Little Red Lighthouse warning off ships below just as we are turned to the east to follow the American Eagle regional jet ahead of us.

Both my FO and I quickly pick him up visually, a white smudge against a blue sky, and are cleared for the approach behind the traffic. I dump the autopilot as we pass over the top of the Bronx Zoo. I vaguely remember visiting there when I was 5 or 6. I think they had big elephants. I quickly put that thought out of my mind as I call for flaps and gear and turn in towards LaGuardia’s Runway 22. As the plane rolls out on final I quickly point out the Throgs Neck and Whitestone Bridges off to our left as they cross the top end of the Long Island Sound to my FO. It’s rare to have Air Traffic Control use either of the bridges as a navigation point, but it has happened and he had asked which one was which earlier in the flight.

The final flaps come out as we pass through 1000 feet. For a second there are three airplanes on the runway in front of us as the Eagle Jet we are following rolls out, departing traffic rotates off a crossing runway and a third plane crosses on it’s way to taking off. Then the runway is clear and for our use alone. At 500 feet we float by Rikers Island which according a US Today article I’d just read is once again suffering from overcrowding. By 200 feet I have a feeling it is a going to be a good landing. At 50 feet I slide the last of the power out and hold the nose where I want it. The left main wheels barely kiss the pavement and as I wait for the right side to settle the plane decides we are on the ground and throws up the spoilers on the wing. What lift we had left is immediately chocked off and we drop the last 6 inches out of the sky with a gently thunk.

As the reversers deploy and we begin to decelerate all I can do is shrug. I did my part today. The FO did his. The weather cooperated. ATC didn’t hold things up too much. The plane just decided it was done flying a half second before it should have. All in all I’ll consider it a good day.

Life gets busy as we descend through 12,000 feet. I scramble to finish loading our landing speeds into the computer, check with the flight attendant to see if she needs anything, call operations to let them know we will be there soon, and keep an eye on my FO who is trying is best to get us down and keep the airspeed somewhat stable. We hit the top layer of clouds at 11,000 and I take a quick break from punching in data to turn on the wing and cowl anti ice switches. It’s early May, but Mother Nature never got the word about the whole April Lion/Lamb thing.

We’ve spend the afternoon bumping along over a solid overcast and taking off and landing in winds approach 40 miles per hour. This is our final leg of the night and in typical fashion it’s probably going to be the worst. Akron is reporting winds out of the west at 25 miles per hour with periodic gusts approach 35 miles per hour. That’s not a huge issue on its own, but their western runway is closed for construction meaning we will have to land to the north or south with a huge crosswind. I run some quick trig in my head (with the help of a cheat sheet published in our speed book) and realize with the current winds being reported, we will be legal by about 3 miles per hour of wind.

The plane issues a single chime as we drop through the clouds to advise us that it senses ice accumulating on the airframe. A quick look at the windshield wipers confirm this as the quickly crust over with milky white rime ice. I double check that the anti ice switches are on and hot engine bleed air is heading out to the wings, which it is. However, in order to descend and keep the speed back my FO has the thrust levers back at almost idle and we are in danger of not producing enough air to keep the wings hot so I tell him to put out the spoilers. The plane slows quickly, which allows him to increase the power, which in turn increases the hot airflow to the wing to keep the ice off. It’s an awkward process that one would think wouldn’t be necessary in a jet made in Canada.

We pop out of the clouds over a green rolling Ohio country side. The ride gets bumpy as we descend through 4000 feet. I’d already warned our Flight Attendant to get seated early and as the plane starts to pitch and roll I can hear her slamming her jumpseat into place behind us. The FO already has the continuous ignition armed for both engines so all we can do now is press onward. The approach control asks if we have the airport at about our 10 oclock and 10 miles away. I see it, double check the FO has it as well (which he does) and report that in fact we do see it. We are cleared for a visual approach and handed over to the tower controller.

My FO dumps the autopilot and turns towards the field. I’ve got the radar on but it’s not painting anything. About 5 miles on the other side of the airport it looks like somebody has dumped a piece of dry ice into a swimming pool and it takes me a few seconds to realize what I am looking at. Despite the radar’s negative returns there is evidently a heavy squall line to the west of the field that is dumping rain on the ground. The surface winds are blowing the rain along the front, creating the billowing steam like quality I’d first seen. I do some quick math and realize we should get to the field before it does.

As we drop through 1500 feet the gear comes out and the last of the flaps lock into place. Tower reports the winds at 20 knots with gusts approaching 30. We are still just within our legal limit. At 1000 feet he again calls the winds, this time at 15 knots. Hoping we are going to get lucky and land during a lull we continue onward. I consider asking for another wind check at 500 feet but decide ignorance is bliss and instead keep an eye on our airspeed which is holding steady. At 300 feet we take a couple of hard hits, probably from the surface wind rolling over a small hill next to the airport, but my FO managed to keep the wings level and we keep heading towards the wet runway ahead of us.

At 100 feet everything is looking good. 50 feet and we are flaring. The plane seems to almost hover and tries to slide sideway, pushed by the crosswind, but the FO kicks the rudder in a bit more and we keep moving straight and lightly settle onto the pavement. The reversers pop out as designed and we quickly slow to a safe speed. I take the controls back and clear the runway just as the first drops of rain from the rapidly advancing squall line start to fall.

The dense, gray fog is passing by the window, briefly illuminated by the blue tinted landing lights, before it passes back over the wing and disappears into the darkness. This is a slightly different than normal view for me as due to a scheduling mess up I’m tucked back in the window seat at row 6 instead of up front. In the last few minutes the chatter coming from the half filled passenger cabin has tapered off to almost silence as we’ve descend into the fog and those who for the whole flight had ignored the outside world now have their noses pressed up against the glass watching the swirling nothingness roll by.

I realize I shouldn’t even be here right now and if the day had gone as planned I’d be blasting through the same fog but 100 miles to the east and doing it sitting in my normal seat up front. Scheduling called me out earlier in the day to deadhead down to Charlotte to pick up an airplane to fly to Clarksburg, WV where we have heavy maintenance done. Once in Clarksburg we were to pick up another plane that had just come out maintenance and bring it back to Dayton. Sometime after my FO and I got on our deadhead to Charlotte somebody actually thought to call Clarksburg to check if the plane there was ready to go and discovered (regrettably to nobody’s surprise) it wasn’t.

Hence the reason for my phone ringing in the middle of a quick dinner in Charlotte to inform me that instead of heading to Clarksburg we would be getting back on a plane to Dayton. My FO joked that it was awfully nice of the company to fly us to Charlotte for dinner but he’d just as soon stayed at home on his couch. Unfortunately, those of us on reserve don’t really get that option. When the company says go, we go and often times have to pick up the pieces later on.

I manage to snag an empty row on the flight home and spend the time dozing until I heard the engines spooling down and feel the nose pitch over at the beginning of our descent into Dayton. I’ve flown this route more than a few times and as I look out the window, the patches of ground lighting that should be there aren’t. The sweep of the Ohio River isn’t off the right. The bright lights of Cincinnati aren’t ahead. Instead, a solid blanket of fog covers the ground. Barely visible through the fog are patches of white and gold light, shining through from the obscured surface.

The Captain makes a quick PA informing us that we are starting our descent into Dayton and that for now anyway, we have the visibility to land. If the visibility drops much more we will be forced to hold for a bit and then probably head down to Cincinnati, which, while fogged in as well, has better visibility. In the darkness I roll my eyes. The same thing happened to me the night before as I was commuting in to start my work week. We needed 1800 feet of visibility to land and Dayton was bouncing back and forth between 800 and 1200. After holding for 30 minutes we headed south and landed in Cincy, where they promptly canceled the flight and sent the crew to a hotel, leaving 50 passengers and one unhappy jumpseater (me) to try to get up to Dayton some other way. I ended up renting a car and driving home, arriving at 1 in the morning. Tonight I’m in better shape as I am actually on Company time meaning they’ll have to give me a room or figure out how to get me home if we do divert and cancel.

We continue our descent towards the ground as the lighted tops of radio antennas pass by, sticking up out of the fog like buoys in the sea. There is a gentle whirring noise and I watch as the slats roll off the front edge of the wing. Seconds later there is a slight pitch change as the flaps slide out the back of the wing. And then we drop into the clouds and the cabin goes quiet.

In the silence I glance around at the people sitting near me. The tension of putting their lives into the hands of two unknown people and a complex airframe is clearly visible on many faces. I remind myself that flying is not a normal thing for the vast majority of people. Even the million milers are out of their element and have to trust that everything will go alright. I have no safety concerns. I know both the Captain who I flew with as a First Officer and the First Officer whom I’ve flown with as a Captain. Both are skilled and smart pilots. They are Professionals. I know our maintenance is top notch and that the aircraft is designed for tough conditions. I know that the probability of anything going wrong is so small that it’s not even worth worry about, and further more I know that if something does go wrong there is nothing I can do about it so worrying is a waste of time. I smile to myself as I realize my biggest concern is that if we divert somewhere else I won’t get home tonight to eat the cookies I baked earlier in the day.

A glow starts to materialize out of the gloom around us. Because I can’t look forward from my passenger seat, I can’t see anything but I know that the guys up front are seeing the wonderful, welcoming sight of the runway approach lights forming out of the fog ahead and solidifying into the line of lead in lights and the runway end lighting. There is a pulsing quality to the light as we pass over the “rabbit”, the string of strobe lights that start at the end of the runway and stretch back into the darkness, bringing ships like ours in from the land of the lost. Suddenly the engine noise decreases and the nose comes up into the final flare attitude as the runway edge lighting coming into view out the side window.

The plane settles to the runway with a whisper and we begin to decelerate. Slowed to a safe taxi speed I watch as a runway exit emerges out of the fog and the plane turns to the right and into a world light by the blue glow of taxiway lighting.

2500 feet finds us tunneling through a solid mass of fog and rain. We are lit up like a Christmas tree and due to the temperature the precipitation captured in the beams of the landing lights is a mix of rain and ice. The FO turned on the engine and wing anti ice system several minutes ago and I am comforted by the green flow lines depicted on the multi function display, showing hot air being carried to the leading edge of the wing and engine cowls. Somewhere below us the sluggish waters of the Potomac River are sliding by, hidden by the clouds and darkness.

Despite the weather the ride has been mostly smooth unlike earlier in the day when we bounced through the clouds on our way into Charlotte. And into Greenville, SC. And back into Charlotte. And down to Columbia, SC. I shake my head slightly and realize that out of 5 legs flown today, at no time have we seen the ground above 1000 feet, something all too typical of late Fall/early Winter in the North East.

At 2000 feet off the ground there still isn’t anything to see forward except a hypnotizing pattern of rain and snow that is blasting by the window. A mile back tower advised us to slow down as much as we could as we were getting too close to the airplane in front of us to allow a departure between their arrival and ours. We’ve slowed down but with 25 knots of wind pushing us along towards the runway there may still not be enough room. Behind us, the next airplane in line (a Mesaba CRJ 900) is throwing out their anchor in an effort to slow down as well.

Out of the corner of my eye I see a blur of lights and look straight downward out the left side window. A string of white headlights emerges out of the fog, stretching off into the distance before it drifts out of sight behind the wing. I take a second to get my bearings and realize I’m watching Beltway traffic cross the Potomac on the Woodrow Wilson Bridge. By now the lights are a faint memory and all that’s left is the momentary blur of raindrops, briefly illuminated by our flashing strobe light and beacon.

The gray darkness ahead starts to lighten and then lift as the ground lights come into sight. The runway approach lights are turned off but visibility is reported as 10 miles below the overcast so just the runway edge lights are more than enough. On the far side of the airport, on the other side of the bend in the Potomac and across the Mall, the headlights on 14th St stretch northward. Going from seeing nothing to the entirety of The District laid out in front of us in just seconds is a bit of a shock but fortunately the runway rushing towards us at 175mph forces us to focus on the task at hand.

The pavement starts just after the river ends and despite the steady rain and not so steady crosswind the FO manages a soft touchdown. We slow and turn off the runway. Behind us an American 737 starts accelerating down the runway we just vacated, it’s landing lights flickering behind the spray of water its engines are kicking up. Behind them, rapidly approaching down the river are the lights of the CRJ that was behind us. DC runs things tight, but as the lights quickly settle towards the ground, and the still accelerating 737 I realize they set this one up too tight. Sure enough ATC tells the arriving Mesaba jet to go around and their lights rotate upwards and within seconds they disappear back into the clouds.

The drama over I switch to “driving” mode in my mind and start looking for the line that will lead us to our rain swept parking space.

The turbulence starts as we descend between cloud layers. At first it’s a constant light chop but within minutes we are taking pretty good hits every few seconds and my FO’s cup of Sprite Zero is in serious danger of spilling all over the place. With that and passenger comfort in mind I pull the power back and set the speed bug to 280 knots which is our best turbulence speed. 25 miles ahead and rapidly approaching is an arbitrary point in space which the powers that be have given the name SHINE. We have instructions from ATC to cross that point at 11,000 feet and then slow to 250 knots which is now looking like it may not happen due to me having to decrease the rate of descent to maintain a slower airspeed. Through the basic concept of kinetic and potential energy speed is altitude and altitude is speed and some days they both seem to work against you.

I give up on making SHINE at 11,000 feet using the current configuration deploy the flight spoilers. There is a slight rumbling noise and although I can’t see them, I know that 30 feet behind me, the 4 spoiler panels have extended from the top of the wing and are sticking up into the cloudy slipstream which is blasting by the airplane at several hundred miles per hour. The airspeed quickly bleeds off and I trade more potential energy for kinetic and use the autopilot control panel to lower our nose and increase our rate of descent. The vertical speed indicator now matches our required descent rate and I between bumps I let a small celebratory sigh.

We pass over SHINE at 11,000 feet still in moderate turbulence. The latest weather report for Charlotte pops up on our FMS and after looking at it I start setting up for a landing to the south. The weather report, just 5 minutes old is calling for calm winds and a broken layer of clouds at 5000 feet which is good enough for an easy visual approach. I have the FO load in the ILS just in case but I don’t brief it. Instead, between bumps and while trying to keep the airspeed somewhat constant, I brief the visual approach. By the time I finish ATC has descended us out of 11,000 feet and turned us towards the final approach course, still about 15 miles away. As we get away from the ridgelines to the west of Charlotte the turbulence diminishes and my FO is able to drink the rest of his soda without the risk of wearing it.

5 minutes later we are turning to join the radio beam that will eventually get us to the approach end of the runway. As we pass through 4000 feet I start realizing there is something wrong. We should be underneath the clouds now and be able to see the ground. Instead, although the ride has smoothed out we are still blasting through clouds and in the moments of clear air we get, I can see a solid layer well below us. Obviously the weather has changed from the report we got, and changed quickly. As the autopilot grabs the glideslope and drops the nose to follow it down I quickly rebrief the approach for a full on instrument procedure. Fortunately everything is set up already and all I have to do is set the minimum altitude of 950 feet above the ground and go over the missed approach procedure in the event we don’t find the runway by the time we get there.

At 3000 feet we are in the overcast layer and heavy rain is streaming up the windshield. The mileage is spinning down at an alarming rate due to 30 knots of wind on our tail pushing us towards the airport. By 2000 feet I call for the last of the flaps and slow to our approach speed of 135 knots. Despite slowing, the GPS still is showing our groundspeed at well over 150 knots. Legally, we can take no more than a 10 knot tailwind, and unless the winds decrease somewhere in the next 2000 feet of air we are going to be going around.
At 1000 feet above the ground the clouds part. Rain is still running up the windshield but with the wipers on their highest setting I can see the runway ahead. I dump the autopilot and note that our groundspeed now matches our airspeed of 135 knots. The wind has died off. 500 feet to go and I take one last quick look at the display screens. We are showing the flaps at 45 degrees and three green boxes for the landing gear. The “cleared to land” light (really just our taxi light switch) is on meaning that somewhere back in the gray darkness behind us the tower controller had issued our landing clearance. Everything is looking good.

200 feet above the pavement and I flex my hand on the thrust levers in anticipation of brining that back. The rain has let up some and I can see all the way down the runway, through the clouds of water vapor left by the airplane that has blasted off in front of us. As the radio altimeter calls out 20 feet I start pulling out the power and as the plane slows I increase back pressure on the control yoke to keep the nose up. There’s always a moment in landing the 70 seater when you wonder where exactly the air ends and the ground starts and just how sudden that transition is going to be. Today I get lucky the left main gear settles onto the rain slicked pavement with barely a whisper, followed by the right main and several seconds later the nose gear.

A combination of thrust reversers and breaks get us slowed and at 40 knots I move my hand from the yoke to the tiller and exit the runway. As soon as we clear a Mainline Airbus 321 starts rolling from the end of the runway, their engines kicking up a spray of water as the plane starts to accelerate. Beyond them, the lights of the next arrival emerge from the clouds and rain.

To say the visibility is restricted is a huge understatement. The dark concrete of the runway fades into the gray mist just 500 feet in front of us. I can see two runway centerline lights and the hint of a third one creating a hazy glow somewhere in the clouds in front of us. Despite the weather we’ve been cleared for takeoff and I take a quick glance at the FO before reaching up and flipping on the strobe lights. He seems ready to go, intently starting out into the swirly fog, as if trying to will it to part.

I push of the thrust levers and after a slight delay feel the plane start to lurch forward. The centerline lights in front of us start to roll towards us, giving the sense that they are moving and we aren’t, which in a sense is true. At 80 knots everything is looking ok. Despite spending literally hundreds of hours in this seat the controls feel different and it takes all of my concentration to keep the plane tracking on the runway centerline.

At 100 knots the controls start to feel light and I sneak a look down at my primary flight display where the speed tape is rapidly sliding down the screen. The bugged references for our reject and rotation speeds come into view at the top just as I look back up into the gray void we are heading into. The FO calls out V1 and I take my right hand off the thrust levers and put it on the yoke. We are going flying now no matter what happens. And I have a pretty good sense of what is about to happen. Just as we blast through 145 knots and the FO calls out “rotate” I hear a bang from somewhere behind us. The plane seems to hop to the right and I realize our day just got really bad.

Even before I can think about it I find my left foot pushing in the rudder pedal to get the nose back to the center line. As soon as it’s there I gently start pulling back on the yoke to get the nose off the ground. The runway centerline lights I’ve been following turn to red, announcing we are nearing the last third of the runway. I don’t give that much thought though as I am struggling with the unfamiliar feel of the controls. Even with the rudder kicked over we are slipping sideways and despite the fact I’m (mostly) keeping the wings level we are still turning away from the runway heading and away from the protected departure corridor. I take deep breath and adjust the pressure my left foot is holding on the rudder.

My FO finally calls a positive rate of climb and we get the gear up to reduce the drag. At 400 feet I call for him to engage the heading mode. Despite the gear now being up we are barely climbing and I divide my attention between trying to keep the wings level, enough rudder in and the very small number showing on our rate of climb indicator. We finally claw our way through 600 feet above the ground and I call for the autopilot. With George now keeping the wings level and the pitch constant I am free to concentrate on keeping the rudder set and the big picture.

That big picture isn’t very good. We are barely climbing and our right engine is showing no rotation. The good news is, as of yet there is no indication of fire. I quickly compartmentalize that thought and go back to watching the altitude tape on my primary flight display slowly, very slowly, slide by. At 1000 feet off the ground I command the autopilot to level off. We are out of immediate danger, and airspeed becomes more important that gaining altitude. As the plane accelerates I call for the flaps to be retracted and then once at a safe airspeed I reengage the climb command.

With the flaps retracted and the rudder set correctly we are now managing almost 1000 feet per minute. I take a deep breath and get started with the procedure to get the dead engine secured and plan a course back to Charlotte, where fortunately the weather has improved enough for us to land. The FO runs through the appropriate Emergency Checklist while I work with the approach controller to get us headed back towards the airport and on an approach.

Due to the damage to the engine (the bang I heard coupled with the lack of rotation immediately after the shutdown) I have no plans to try to restart it. That means we’ll be shooting an approach with just one engine. This ends up being very similar to having both engines but requires a bit more power and constant adjustment to the rudder as you change power settings. With the engine secured and the checklist complete the FO is back on the radios and coordinating our vectors towards the instrument approach. Once everything is set I brief the approach and then turn the plane towards the runway somewhere out in the gray mist.

I have a “Casey At the Bat-esq” moment and think somewhere the sun is shining. Somewhere the sky is blue. Somewhere the wind is gently rustling through the trees. That nice day is in fact just a few hundred feet away, outside the flight simulator we’ve been strapped into for the past two hours. But inside the box, in our digitally rendered cloudy and gray world the FO and I are using every bit of skill, knowledge and luck to get our crippled airplane back on the ground in one piece.

Through the rain splattered glass of the windshield the runway is growing larger at an alarming rate. I glance over at the FO who is concentrating on the rapidly approach pavement, the fingers of his left hand flexing on the thrust levers. He’s got a good reason to keep the speed up. We are racing a heavy rainstorm to the field and despite being delayed out of Greensboro 30 minutes earlier it looks like we might actually win the race. This is only the second leg I’ve flown with him and the first he’s actually been the pilot flying, but from what I’ve seen so far I trust him to get the plane slowed in time to land.

The radar is showing a swath of red and yellow returns just a few miles to the south. The good news is we are landing to the West which gives us a good escape path to the North if stuff starts to deteriorate and we need an out. At 5 miles out the plane in front of us, still visible despite the increasing amount of rain streaking up the windshield, touches down on the wet pavement. I glance down at the Traffic Display and see there is another aircraft just 2 ½ miles behind us. ATC has told everybody to go as fast as possible for as long as possible.

The FO takes a quick look at the speed number which is holding steady at 230 knots and the distance to the runway number which is rolling quickly backwards and decides it’s time to start slowing. He pulls the thrust levers back to idle, pulls the flight spoilers all the way out and as the speed starts to bleed off calls for 8 degrees of flaps. Before I can even move the lever two clicks down he’s calling for the flaps to 20 degrees. With the flaps and slats moving back off the wing the speed quickly evaporates but as we pass through 1000 feet and he’s forced to stow the spoilers we are still moving faster than we should be. I rest my hand on the landing gear handle and he takes the hint. Seconds later the 3000 PSI of hydraulic pressure holding the gear up is released and the wheels drop into the rain filled skies below us.

With the gear out the plane quickly decelerates and the FO calls for 30 degrees of flaps as the speed decreases to 170 knots. The last of the flaps follows as we descend through 500 feet. The southern horizon blurs and then turns a dull gray, flecked with yellow streaks of lightening as the storm approaches the southern edge of the field. The windsock, just to the left of the runway, motionless until now, slowly starts to rotate around to the north and extend. We’re at 200 feet now and slowed back to our approach speed. There’s a slight burble of air as we pass through 50 feet and then, as I flip on the windshield wipers the main wheels settled on to the pavement.

The FO deploys the reversers as soon as the nose wheel hits the ground and the wheel brakes come on soon after. We’ve got a plane right behind us and despite the fact that I hate when pilots slam on the brakes after a nice landing, in this case it is 100% justified. We slow through 80 knots and the FO stows the reversers. Through the rain that is now streaming down the windshield despite the wipers on high I can see the runway exit approaching on the right. I match the brake pressure the FOs has on the foot pedals and then let him know I’ve got the controls.

We clear the runway and turn towards the ramp. Back on final, visible through the heavy rain now falling, are the landing lights of the 737 that was behind us. They touchdown and then disappear in a cloud of water vapor as their thrust reversers deploy. I turn my attention back to the ramp where the Lightening Detection System lights are still showing yellow. We just might get our passengers off the plane before the heavy weather hits.

The Philidelphia Tower controller is starting to get frustrated. You can hear it in his voice when he tells the 5th plane that asks for their sequence that he just doesn’t know. When a 6th request for sequence comes in he obviously has had enough and responds, “gentlemen… I don’t know. So just stop asking, I’ll tell you when I do know.” When a controller uses the term “gentlemen” you know it’s going to be a long night.

He has good reason to be frustrated. It’s the International departure push and a lot of widebody aircraft are mixed in with the normal procession of Regional Jets and narrow body Boeing and Airbuses, all trying to blast off of the same piece of pavement at roughly the same time. To add to the mess there is a large line of weather moving towards the airport. I know I’m not the only one glancing off into the darkness to the west every time there is a huge flash of lightening amongst the clouds. We are all on borrowed time before the weather hits and the airport gets shut down. Due to weather related traffic jams up the road we are all sitting and waiting for our routings and sequences to be worked out by whoever does that sort of thing. In the meantime the weather inches closer.

Finally a heavy Airbus is given the green light to go. They pull out on the runway and power up and moments later they are just a pair of blinking strobe lights against the night sky on their way to Europe. Two more RJs are cleared in quick succession and then we are next. Once on the runway and cleared to go I let the radar take a quick sweep 40 miles down range. The right hand side of the screen is filled with a solid wall of red and yellow running from somewhere off to our right to the outer limits of the display. This is expected as I’ve been watching this storm on the radar loop on my phone. My plan is to head southwest for 40 miles or so and then turn to the west around the southern edge of the line of weather. My FO agrees that that’s our best bet and we roar off into the night.

Once air born and climbing I expand the radar range to 80 miles and start getting a little bit worried. The line of red still extends to the top of my display meaning that since I last looked at the radar on my phone the weather has slid farther south. This means we will have to go at least 100 miles out of our way and then 100 miles back to get around the line. In theory this is fine but we don’t really have the fuel on board for that sort of maneuver. Before we even have a chance to discuss options, the departure controller turns us northwest, directly into the weather and tells us that he has a small hole he has been able to slip two airplanes through and he’s vectoring us for the same spot.

The weather is 10 miles away and we have about 1 minute to decide if this is a good idea or not. As I roll the plane level the radar takes a sweep and shows what we are facing. The line is narrow, maybe 3 miles deep but stretches from one side of the display to the other. It is a mixture of reds and yellows with some stronger magenta returns scattered throughout. The hole ATC is pointing us towards is no more than a mile wide and is still showing bright yellow returns on the screen. Midway through the line the hole takes a sharp jog to the right and then back to the left before exiting out the back side of the weather. I take a deep breath and glance over at my FO. His face is illuminated by the almost continuous flashes of blue light in front of us. I don’t really like the idea, but it’s the best option we have for now and I decide to commit to punching through.

Philly Departure clears us to deviate left and right as needed and then hands us off to New York Center. They give us a clearance up to 23,000 feet and as the FO spins in the new number into the altitude alerter I glance up from the instruments and look out the front window. It looks like the entire world is filled with flashing blue and yellow flashes of lightning streamers dancing amongst the clouds in front of us. I request the continuous ignition on, quickly wipe my hand on my pants and take a tighter grip on the yoke. There is no way I trust the autopilot to fly through this. Passing through 9000 feet we hit the outer edge of the line and are committed.

I ask the FO to shut off his radar so mine has a faster update and then switch from normal scan down to sector mode, limiting the sweep to 45 degrees each side of the nose. At this point I am willing to trade the big picture view for a faster update of what’s right in front of us. As the plane starts to buffet and shake the hole defines itself on the display in front of me. I turn 5 degrees to the right, pointing the nose at the lightest colors I can see on the radar return. A huge flash of lightning off to the left makes me blink and I reach up and turn on the overhead dome light in an attempt to even the level of brightness out and protect my eyesight. I also have the FO turn off the landing lights as we pass through 10,000 but leave the electronic device sign on. There is no way the Flight Attendant should be standing up now.

The ride has now deteriorated to the point where I’m having second thoughts about punching through this hole. I realize, somewhat belatedly, that even if we clear the line without actually running into anything of substance (which the radar is saying we should be able to do) we are still flying through a sky filled with several million volts of electricity and it’s entirely possible that one of those streamers of light I’m seeing dancing out my window will reach out and touch us. As the radios start to get fuzzy from all the energy in the air I realize it’s too late to worry about that now. A particularly bright flash of lightning reveals a large buildup right in front of us but before I can even say anything we plunge into it and the plane lurches to the left and then drops to the right. I focus on keeping the wings level and count the seconds until we are through it.

The ride suddenly smoothes and the constant blue strobing diminishes. I glance over from my primary flight display to look at the radar returns. The scope is showing nothing but blackness ahead. We are clear of the weather. As if on cue New York Center clears us direct to the Appleton VOR, located just to the south of Pittsburg. I reach up and engage the autopilot while the FO enters the routing data into the flight computer. As the plane banks to the left and turns west I hold up my hand and look at it. Despite the back lighting of a million flashes of light in the clouds out the side window, I can’t tell if it’s shaking or not.