Ode to a Turboprop

There is something about turboprop planes that make them alluring. They are small beasts that can be terrifying to ride. Yet there is also an allure and exoticism that draws you to look forward to the experience. Indeed, as I write this, I am sitting in one, an EMB 120 Brasilia, sandwiched between two Boeing jumbo jets, waiting for our turn to take off.

The flights can be very uncomfortable. Physically, their diminutive size is apparent when you stare up at the giant Rolls-Royce engine of the Boeing 747-400, as if it is ready to suck you in. There is not much of a buffer between you and the fast moving blades. The noise generated by the engines cut through the hull with a volume rivaling that of rock concert. Puddle hoppers, as they are affectionately called, are subject to the minute bumps and changes in wind patterns that transmit the turbulence undampened to your seat.

Yet I am willing to forgive the discomfort of the flight. A small plane is exotic because chances are, you are going to a place that is small and quiet. Indeed, the smallest plane I’ve ever been on was an 11-seater to Hagfors Sweden, population 7000. Sometimes, I’d be the only person on the jaunt and it became rather embarrassing when the first officer gave me the safety spiel for the 4^th time that summer, even though I was the sole passenger.

But, more often than not, I am one of a handful of people flying from San Francisco to Monterey. I walk along the tarmac to the staircase next to the plane. I duck to enter the door and, once inside, cannot stand up straight. I try to make myself comfortable for the quick 20 minute flight. But in my mind, I am at ease. I feel the satisfaction of being on the last leg of my 2500 mile journey. I feel the warmth of home, and it calls to me.