The Story of Panamá Jones (Part One)

There I sat in my sophomore Spanish class. It was 1985. The teacher announced that we had some guests: Jeff and Karen, seniors who had spent the previous summer in Latin America with a program called Amigos de las Americas. They explained that they had spent several weeks in Peru and the Dominican Republic working on health projects like latrine construction, distributing eyeglasses and giving vaccinations. The pictures and stories they shared were amazing and their enthusiasm was contagious. By the time the sign up sheet came around I decided that I didn’t want to sit on the sidelines. I put my name on the paper and passed it on.

Over the next six months I attended weekly meetings with other volunteers to prepare. Among the highlights was learning how to mix concrete to make latrine floors (in case we were assigned latrine construction) and giving each other saline shots (vaccinations). I loved the thought of making a difference. After a few months I received my assignment: Ecuador, a small country in southwest South America. I would be living for six weeks with another volunteer helping the townspeople to build latrines. Not the most glamorous assignment, but I was thrilled. (Later my six-year-old sister told her friends that I was helping to build trains, which sounded much cooler.)

When June finally arrived I was filled with excitement and apprehension. We landed in Quito, the capital, located in the breathtakingly beautiful Andes Mountains. For the first several days we received additional training, and then left for the towns where we would be staying for the next five weeks.

I was assigned the village of Suquibí Viejo (Soo-Kee-BEE Vee-AY-Hoe), located in the central lowlands maybe eight hours from Quito, along with a Vassar student named Kristin. Ecuador prides itself of being “La Mitad del Mundo,” the middle of the world, but this was definitely the middle of nowhere. There may have been twenty-five families in the entire hamlet. And no latrines. OK, that’s not true. The elementary school had two latrines, but I’m not sure they ever got used, including by me, since they involved a 5-10 minute walk. Our job was to help each family build their own. Diedre, our “route leader,” introduced us to several people, including Carlos, the head of the family I would be staying with, and then left to take other volunteers to the next town down the road.

Culture shock naturally set in. Of course no one spoke English and our Spanish was hardly adequate. We floundered, frequently embarrassing ourselves, but survived. Each day I ate with a different family, which helped me get to know everyone, and also led to some occasional awkward situations due to my poor Spanish. (Hint, if someone speaks rapidly and then stops, looking at you expectantly, the correct response may not be “sí.”)

By the end of the time there I made some great friends both among the Ecuadorians and fellow volunteers. It opened a whole new world for me. Before Spanish was just a class in school but now it was the language of all these new experiences. Not surprisingly, my grades in Spanish the next year improved dramatically.

So what does this have to do with my name? Well, the following year I did Amigos again, this time volunteering in . . . Panamá.

Sundays

One of the pitfalls of being a new First Officer with Atlantic Southeast Airlines is I get to work when those more senior to me don’t want to: weekends. As a result I rarely get the chance to attend church on Sunday. This is one of the choices I had to make when deciding to become an airline pilot, and I am confident it is the right decision. Fortunately sometimes you can make lemonade out of a lemon.

My job takes me to communities all over the eastern United States and occasionally my schedule allows me to attend church wherever I happen to be. In February I attended a ward (congregation) in Killeen, Texas, where Fort Hood is located. In March I was able to attend in Albany, Georgia, and today I attended in Flint, Michigan.

Getting to church takes some effort. I tried walking to the church in Killeen, but fortunately was offered a ride halfway, 40 minutes after I started. Funny, it didn’t look that far on the map. In Albany I got a ride from the hotel’s shuttle since it was just down the road, and today I took a cab. But I always get a ride back to the hotel from a local member. I meet people during the meetings, and invariably someone offers to give me a ride. This is good, since the cab ride set me back $18 today. I’m not sure there is a price that can be put on attending church, but cab fare does make me think twice. I really enjoy getting to know these people and am very grateful for their generosity.

Even though each ward has its own unique identity, they all hold the same meetings and teach the same doctrine. The faith and commitment are the same, although the backgrounds differ. In Killeen most members were military families. Albany had a small ward, but since I was there the day after Daylight Savings Time began, I was told about half the congregation was missing. And the Flint Ward (actually Burton) was skewed older, but had several medical students with their young families. There were no Aaronic priesthood youth to administer the sacrament, though, so Elders and High Priests took the lead.

Attending church in these far-flung communities gives me the opportunity to meet people and make acquaintances wherever I go. Killeen, Albany and Flint are more memorable to me than most of the places I have flown to simply because I now know someone in these cities, people I have a lot in common with. I look forward to making more friends in the months and years to come.

And You Thought You Had a Long Commute?

As an airline pilot with Atlantic Southeast Airlines (ASA) I am based in Atlanta, Georgia. Like many pilots, however, I do not live in Georgia. In my case I commute from Utah. Often it’s not a bad commute, as commutes go. Once a week I fly four hours to Atlanta on one of Delta’s nonstop flights and once a week I fly back. In fact, I chose ASA in part because there are eight nonstop flights between Salt Lake City and Atlanta every day. That shouldn’t be so bad, right?

Generally it’s not. But sometimes the flights are full and then I have to get creative. Being a pilot I have “jumpseat” privileges, which means that I can fly in the extra seat in the cockpit with virtually any airline, so I have plenty of options, as long as the seat isn’t already taken. Usually I go through Denver on Frontier, and I have also gone through Chicago.

Once in a while things get tricky. This past week American Airlines grounded a third of their fleet. Big deal. But in order to minimize their passengers inconvenience, American sent them on other airlines. The net result was everyone was full, including the jumpseats. Delta, Frontier, United, etc. Apparently I’m not the only crazy commuter.

I had to be in Atlanta by 3:00PM Saturday. By the time I realized the depth of my predicament it was 11:30AM on Friday. I put everything down and packed, hoping to get lucky by starting earlier. I knew I wouldn’t make it in time for the 1:30PM Delta nonstop, so I my next bet was the 5:10PM nonstop.

I arrived at the gate only to find my worst fear realized: the plane was oversold with multiple standbys and three other pilots already in line for the single jumpseat. There was no way I was going to make this flight, and whoever didn’t get on would wait for the next one at 12:50AM, and then the 6:00AM, etc.

I hustled over to Concourse A to see if I could get to Denver. Frontier was departing at 4:50. It was full, but the jumpseat was open. In fact on the Airbus 319, there are two, and there were two of us, but the captain convinced the other jumpseater to sit in the cabin on the flight attendant jumpseat by telling him that one of the flight attendants was a cute blonde.

OK, so far, so good. My plan was to make Frontier’s 6:55PM connection from Denver to Atlanta. With two jumpseats instead of one I should still get there that same night. But no dice. Once in Denver I went immediately to the gate to find both jumpseats already spoken for. Frontier’s next flight was at 12:25AM, with no guarantee that I would be able to get it.

I rushed from Concourse A to Concourse C to see what else was available. One of the maddening things about the Denver airport is each concourse’s departure and arrival screens are only for that concourse. If you want to know about other flights at the airport you have to physically go to the applicable concourse. There I found that Delta had a flight at 12:50AM. Then to Concourse B, where I found a United flight that was departing in just 15 minutes. I hurried, only to find—yes, you guessed it—the airplane full and the jumpseat taken.

It was time to get creative. I called my Mom and had her log into Delta’s employee website and together we looked at several possibilities. The Delta flight was oversold just like the flights in Salt Lake City, so not a good option. There were more flights the next morning but equally as bad. AirTran left the next morning at 8:00AM, so that was a possibility, but nothing looked like a sure thing, and I needed a sure thing.

What about other cities? I looked at the departures and saw that Southwest was going to Kansas City at 9:10PM. Mom checked on Delta flights from Kansas City to Atlanta and found that the 6:00AM flight to Atlanta had 36 empty seats on it, and the 7:10AM flight also had empty seats and was operated by ASA, which meant I would have priority. I just might make it!

I boarded the Southwest flight and did my best to sleep en route. Arriving shortly before midnight, Central Time, I searched for a place I could snooze. I found a chair that would work, called home and updated my wife, and then tried my best to sleep. It could have been worse, but it was not quality sleep.

Then at 5:00AM I dragged myself to the gate. Empty seats were plentiful, and I even scored a first class spot! As soon as the plane was airborne I put the seat back and closed my eyes. We were delayed somewhat en route, but finally touched down at 9:30AM Eastern Time. I had made it!

All in all my commute this weekend totaled three flights and about seventeen hours. In the six months I have worked for ASA this has been the hardest one. Thank goodness this is not normal. I hope.

Inferno: Suffering and the Purpose of Life

(Yes, strange picture. Has nothing to do with the book)

One of my very favorite books is Inferno by Larry Niven and Jerry Pournelle. It is a modernization and twist of the Italian classic by Dante Allegheri. I first read it in High School and was fascinated by the authors’ ideas on the purpose of life and eternity.

Dead science fiction writer Allen Carpenter wakes up to find himself in Hell. As an agnostic he was undecided about God and as a result his punishment is also undecided—he is essentially in solitary confinement inside of a bronze bottle. Only when he cries out, "For the love of God, get me out of here!" is he released by the enigmatic Benito, who offers to show him a way out of Hell. Although skeptical of both his rescuer and his perceptions, he agrees to come along. Following Dante’s lead, the authors take Carpenter steadily lower through Hell, visiting each level, meeting various people and witnessing and often experiencing their horrifying punishments.

As he journeys through these terrifying scenes he learns to forget himself. Finally, upon reaching the lowest limit of Hell his guide offers him the opportunity to leave and continue on to Purgatory. Carpenter refuses, telling his guide to go on instead and he will stay behind to carry on the work of rescuing lost souls.

What speaks to me is both Carpenter’s personal awakening to something greater than himself and his understanding of Hell’s purpose. For much of the book he is incensed at God’s boundless cruelty. At first his only explanation is that we are “at the hands of infinite power and infinite sadism.” But eventually he realizes that doesn’t describe his own experiences and at the end he finally recognizes the reason for all the suffering. In essence, it is overdone on purpose.

“There's only one possible excuse for Hell. . . . It has to be the final training ground. If nothing can get a soul into Heaven in its life, there's still Hell, God's last attempt to get his attention. Like a catatonic in a hotbox, like me in that bottle, if Hell won’t make a man yell for help, then it was still worth a try.”

Norman Spinrad, in his introduction to the book, puts it this way, “[You escape Hell] by accepting moral responsibility not merely for your past actions but even for the fate of your fellows in a manifestly unjust universe.”

Benito’s role is critical, because no one gets out of Hell alone. A savior is necessary. To me this is the essential genius of Christianity. It recognizes that we are all in this together and we can’t be saved alone. We need help. Christ is the Savior, but as much as we let go of our pride and reach out to each other, we act in that same role in our own small but significant ways. This is why we belong to a church, not only to be ministered to but to minister to others as well. As we become more Christ like in our actions we are no longer bound by Hell, and our escape is assured.