Early Call

Issue #034

✈️ The Crosswind Chronicles

Navigating life’s gusts, on and off the flight deck.

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From 41,000 feet

You start in the dark. Alarm at 2:45 a.m. The air is cool against your skin, coffee maker humming low, the house still enough to hear your own breath. You tried to be smart, turned in early, told yourself you would rest. But bedtime at home doesn’t follow crew rest. You helped with baths, changed the baby, read the story twice because “once” wasn’t enough. You weren’t required to. You wanted to. Because missing another one would have stung worse than fatigue.

There’s that split-second when the alarm hits where you forget what day it is. Then it lands. Day one of four. Bags packed. Coffee steaming. The hum of the fridge sounds louder than it should. You stand there in the half-light, listening to a house you built but rarely see in these hours.

You think about how strange it is, loving two worlds that never quite overlap. The one you fly in, and the one you leave behind. Both need you steady. Both take a little piece every time you go.

So you take one more sip, one more look down the hallway that leads to their rooms, and whisper a promise no one hears.

Fly safe.

Come home full.

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🗒️ The Dad NOTAM

Subject: Replay in motion.

Day 2 of 4. Another 2:45 alarm that feels like 3:45 back home. Same darkness, same dry hotel air, same slow shuffle through the motions. I toss the bag into the van and sink into the back seat, quiet. The driver’s already talking about the weather, a new terminal project, traffic on the 405. I nod, but my mind’s somewhere else.

Outside, the streets are empty, just the hum of tires on pavement and the orange glow of streetlights flashing across the dashboard. I catch my reflection in the window, eyes half-open, mind half-home.

I can see last night clear as a HUD projection. Bath time. Bubbles stacked high. My boy grinning through a foam beard, eyes bright, cheeks flushed from laughter. Down the hall, the baby started to cry, that soft, pleading sound that fills every corner of the house. The Captain leaned in the doorway, gently rocking the baby and smiling, soaking in the noise and the warmth of it all. She understands these moments better than I do, the way they slip through if you aren’t paying attention.

For once, I wasn’t missing it. The suds, the laughter, the chaos, all of it. We were our crew, right there in that sliver of time, all hands on deck and hearts full.

When the water finally settled and my boy was wrapped in a towel, he looked up at me, eyes heavy with sleep but still shining. “Twwwwooo moooorreee stttooorrrwwweeeesss,” he said, holding up two little fingers like it was a promise we both wanted to keep.

The van bumps over a pothole and the image flickers. I blink back into the present, the smell of stale coffee mixing with airport air. The driver’s still talking. I glance at my phone. 3:32 a.m.

I’ll see them in two days.

But for now, the replay will have to do.

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🔁 The Go-Around Report

When the first approach does not work, go-around. You can always go-around.

The next morning hit the same way. Another early alarm, another quiet ride through a city that wasn’t mine. The hum of tires and the faint rattle of vents filled the van. Red brake lights blurred through fog.

I caught myself slipping again. Not in focus, not in fatigue, but in feeling. I was awake, uniform sharp, checklist ready, but something inside me had already gone cold. The job trains you to compartmentalize, to lock emotion in its own overhead bin until you’re safely back at cruise.

Then my phone buzzed. A video from home. My boy waving at the camera, pajamas crooked, hair wild from sleep. “Cooommee hoommeee? Misssss yyeewwwwww.”

It wasn’t a meltdown. It was truth. A tiny voice that didn’t understand why flying means leaving.

That one hit harder than the alarm.

Flying teaches you discipline. Fatherhood teaches you what that discipline costs. The hardest part isn’t fatigue. It’s knowing the house keeps running fine without you, and that the people you love most will keep adapting to your absence if they have to.

Tomorrow’s Approach: Never rush the goodbye. Never treat it like a line item on a checklist. We are one emergency away from our final leg. Every departure deserves a moment to mean something.

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🧭 Vectors for Home Base

Small adjustments to avoid family turbulence.

When I walk through the door after a trip, it’s easy to see the surface. Toys scattered, bottles on the counter, laundry half-folded. What I don’t always see right away is the weight behind it.

While I’m gone, the Captain runs the whole flight solo. Every morning departure, every bath time diversion, every late-night weather delay on her own radar. No relief crew. No logbook credit. Just steady hands keeping everything aloft while I chase daylight across time zones.

I used to walk in thinking I had to fix something. Clean up, organize, get the house back in order. But that was the wrong vector. What she needed wasn’t my efficiency. It was my gratitude. A thank you that didn’t sound like a checklist.

So now, before I drop my bags or talk about the trip, I pause. I read the room. I see her tired eyes and the way she exhales when she realizes I’m finally home.

That’s my new arrival procedure. A kiss, a thank you, and a quiet hand on her back that says, You kept it flying. We made it another week.

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💬 Jumpseat Stories

When does the goodbye hit you hardest? How do you steady yourself for the climb once you leave the ground?

Reply to this article or email crosswindchronicles@gmail.com.

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Until the next leg,

Jake

First Officer, Dad, Human Trying Not to Stall