Midnight over the North Atlantic, chasing the edge of the world.
Picture this: You're strapped into the left seat of a heavy jet, engines humming their deep, endless lullaby at 39,000 feet.
Outside the cockpit windows, it's pure velvet blackness—inky ocean below, stars so ass above. When you catch a glimpse of the sea, it’s violently churning and you know you could never survive a ditching in that.
The North Atlantic at night feels like flying through God's own inkwell. No cities. No ships. Just you, your crew, and the quiet roar of 300 souls trusting you to keep the metal tube steady.
Then it happens.
The horizon starts to betray you. A faint, electric indigo bleeds into the east, slowly turning to molten rose, then furious tangerine. You’ve been flying west-to-east, chasing the dawn like it owes you money. And suddenly—BOOM! The sun cracks the rim of the planet like a golden sledgehammer.
It doesn’t rise gently. It *attacks*. Rays slice straight through the windshield, turning every droplet on the glass into a thousand tiny lasers aimed directly at your eyeballs.
Your Ray-Bans are somewhere in your flight bag, useless now. You’re squinting, half-blinded, tears streaming while the whole sky explodes in violent pinks, fiery oranges, and that impossible, heart-stopping blue that only exists at 40,000 feet.
For a few glorious, painful minutes, you’re not just a pilot—you’re Icarus who actually made it, bathing in liquid sunrise while the Atlantic sparkles 7 miles below like scattered diamonds. The fatigue melts. The night vanishes. And for one brief, brilliant moment, the entire planet feels like it’s waking up just for you.
Then you reach up, yank the sun visor down, and mutter the sacred pilot prayer:
“Coffee. Now!”
#NorthAtlantic #SunriseFromTheFlightDeck #AviationLife #CockpitViews
Picture this: You're strapped into the left seat of a heavy jet, engines humming their deep, endless lullaby at 39,000 feet.
Outside the cockpit windows, it's pure velvet blackness—inky ocean below, stars so ass above. When you catch a glimpse of the sea, it’s violently churning and you know you could never survive a ditching in that.
The North Atlantic at night feels like flying through God's own inkwell. No cities. No ships. Just you, your crew, and the quiet roar of 300 souls trusting you to keep the metal tube steady.
Then it happens.
The horizon starts to betray you. A faint, electric indigo bleeds into the east, slowly turning to molten rose, then furious tangerine. You’ve been flying west-to-east, chasing the dawn like it owes you money. And suddenly—BOOM! The sun cracks the rim of the planet like a golden sledgehammer.
It doesn’t rise gently. It *attacks*. Rays slice straight through the windshield, turning every droplet on the glass into a thousand tiny lasers aimed directly at your eyeballs.
Your Ray-Bans are somewhere in your flight bag, useless now. You’re squinting, half-blinded, tears streaming while the whole sky explodes in violent pinks, fiery oranges, and that impossible, heart-stopping blue that only exists at 40,000 feet.
For a few glorious, painful minutes, you’re not just a pilot—you’re Icarus who actually made it, bathing in liquid sunrise while the Atlantic sparkles 7 miles below like scattered diamonds. The fatigue melts. The night vanishes. And for one brief, brilliant moment, the entire planet feels like it’s waking up just for you.
Then you reach up, yank the sun visor down, and mutter the sacred pilot prayer:
“Coffee. Now!”
#NorthAtlantic #SunriseFromTheFlightDeck #AviationLife #CockpitViews
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Coming back into LA was always cool. Flying at night is cool. Coming home, very cool. ❤️
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I love this stuff!🙏❤️
'Noah's Ark remains' found burned and buried 30 feet below final resting place: report trib.al/WiXeutQ
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I’ve been talking about this. Less than a way from our election, and Democrats are trying to cheat again.
Dr. Oz is reaching out. Let’s protects senior’s right to vote.
Read this.
bit.ly/3VZ7ZDk
Dr. Oz is reaching out. Let’s protects senior’s right to vote.
Read this.
bit.ly/3VZ7ZDk
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This is so horrific! Pray.🙏
It all happened in a split second”: Survivors recount Spain train crash that killed at least 68 people - The Guardian apple.news/AEarQ_lkaSlmQw…
It all happened in a split second”: Survivors recount Spain train crash that killed at least 68 people - The Guardian apple.news/AEarQ_lkaSlmQw…
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A CREW DOG’S LIFE: Who can relate? 🙋♂️
3AM on the flight line, and the world’s waiting like a caffeine-fueled adventure that doesn’t give a damn about your sleep. You’re going somewhere else, carrying something different, and you’ll do it again tomorrow. Move the mission.
There d, flight bag in the other, eyes still half-glued shut, shuffling out to our big beautiful C-141 or C-17 beast under those harsh ramp lights. The “bag drag.”
The air’s crisp, the jet’s APU or power cart are already humming that low, throaty growl, as the jet wakes up for a global joyride. When it starts up, it barks at you. But that’s a good sign. And, the bittersweet smell of diesel exhaust and jet fumes. You grow to love it. I can’t explain it. It always felt like “home” no matter where in the world we were.
Crew piles in: loadmasters cracking jokes, engineers double-checking the flyability of this metal marvel, and me sliding into the left seat thinking, “Alright, Lord, let’s do this again.”
It’s inherent. Not a lot of creative thought required. The crew, like a group of ants taking orders from the queen, automatically dives into their respective duties and checklists like clockwork. No direction needed here. It’s symbiosis.
We crank the engines, taxi out into the dark, ramp lights fading into a world of blue and white lights, suck down some awful coffee, tell a few jokes, and blast off as the sun’s still thinking about showing up.
The possibilities were endless. Could be one hop to Ramstein for fuel and some bratwurst, next leg to Incirlik where the pita bread’s fresh, the hookah’s are smoking, and the tension’s thicker than the Turkish coffee. Buy your pistachios here.
Then it’s “wheels up” again. Maybe Diego Garcia for a quick dip in that insane blue water and warm beer, or over to Yokota where the ramen and beer hits different at 0200 local. And where I met my wife.
Skipping across continents like stones on a pond, chasing daylight, dodging weather, and hauling everything from the SEALS, to the 82nd Airborne, to nuclear weapons, to Thanksgiving turkeys. Hell, once I flew a single generator to Nouadhibou, Mauritania.
And a bunch of liquor to American embassies throughout the world.
You land in one country for thirty minutes, grab a weird local snack that’ll haunt your stomach for days, chat with the ground crew in broken English and hand signals, sign some funky foreign forms pretending to know what they were, then you’re back in the air chasing the next sunrise.
Jet lag? What jet lag. This is the life: stars above, stars on the flag on your sleeve, and the pure rush of knowing you’re part of the greatest airlift machine the world has ever seen. And we mattered, bigly. My country gave me a heavy jet and said “fly here.” It still blows my mind.
No two days are ever the same. No two sunrises the same.
Just pure, unfiltered freedom with a 🇺🇸 patch on your shoulder and a whole lot of “hold my coffee, I got this.”
God bless the @usairforce, @AirMobilityCmd, and the greatest group of Airmen history has ever seen. Best damn job I ever had.
3AM on the flight line, and the world’s waiting like a caffeine-fueled adventure that doesn’t give a damn about your sleep. You’re going somewhere else, carrying something different, and you’ll do it again tomorrow. Move the mission.
There d, flight bag in the other, eyes still half-glued shut, shuffling out to our big beautiful C-141 or C-17 beast under those harsh ramp lights. The “bag drag.”
The air’s crisp, the jet’s APU or power cart are already humming that low, throaty growl, as the jet wakes up for a global joyride. When it starts up, it barks at you. But that’s a good sign. And, the bittersweet smell of diesel exhaust and jet fumes. You grow to love it. I can’t explain it. It always felt like “home” no matter where in the world we were.
Crew piles in: loadmasters cracking jokes, engineers double-checking the flyability of this metal marvel, and me sliding into the left seat thinking, “Alright, Lord, let’s do this again.”
It’s inherent. Not a lot of creative thought required. The crew, like a group of ants taking orders from the queen, automatically dives into their respective duties and checklists like clockwork. No direction needed here. It’s symbiosis.
We crank the engines, taxi out into the dark, ramp lights fading into a world of blue and white lights, suck down some awful coffee, tell a few jokes, and blast off as the sun’s still thinking about showing up.
The possibilities were endless. Could be one hop to Ramstein for fuel and some bratwurst, next leg to Incirlik where the pita bread’s fresh, the hookah’s are smoking, and the tension’s thicker than the Turkish coffee. Buy your pistachios here.
Then it’s “wheels up” again. Maybe Diego Garcia for a quick dip in that insane blue water and warm beer, or over to Yokota where the ramen and beer hits different at 0200 local. And where I met my wife.
Skipping across continents like stones on a pond, chasing daylight, dodging weather, and hauling everything from the SEALS, to the 82nd Airborne, to nuclear weapons, to Thanksgiving turkeys. Hell, once I flew a single generator to Nouadhibou, Mauritania.
And a bunch of liquor to American embassies throughout the world.
You land in one country for thirty minutes, grab a weird local snack that’ll haunt your stomach for days, chat with the ground crew in broken English and hand signals, sign some funky foreign forms pretending to know what they were, then you’re back in the air chasing the next sunrise.
Jet lag? What jet lag. This is the life: stars above, stars on the flag on your sleeve, and the pure rush of knowing you’re part of the greatest airlift machine the world has ever seen. And we mattered, bigly. My country gave me a heavy jet and said “fly here.” It still blows my mind.
No two days are ever the same. No two sunrises the same.
Just pure, unfiltered freedom with a 🇺🇸 patch on your shoulder and a whole lot of “hold my coffee, I got this.”
God bless the @usairforce, @AirMobilityCmd, and the greatest group of Airmen history has ever seen. Best damn job I ever had.
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What’s your “sledgehammer,” Dick? You going to attack international shipping companies? You need to reign in your staff. 🤣🤣🤣
I’m sending a sledgehammer message to shipping companies whose tankers are transporting illegal Russian diesel to our ports. Reverse course while there’s still time.
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Wait. Did somebody say “nightmare war scenarios?”
I didn’t get a call.
I didn’t get a call.
US and UK prepare for nightmare war scenarios trib.al/lPL6RO5
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Amon-Ra explains the nutty unsportsmanlike penalty was called in the Packer game. He kicked the ref in the nuts. He thought it was on him. The ref freaked out.
The ref should be suspended. No whistle.
The ref should be suspended. No whistle.
Amon-Ra explains what really happened on his unsportsmanlike penalty this past Sunday ✍️
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Buzz Patterson retweeted
BUZZ’S TRAVELOGUES #1 - THE PYRAMIDS IN GIZA
(2 of 2)
2) Soon, we were rocking along in that signature camel gait—side to side, almost hypnotic—heading straight toward the pyramids.
From camelback, the scale of the pyramids becomes almost incomprehensible. Massive limestone ed, stacked by ancient hands long turned to dust. The late afternoon sun painted the stones in warm gold tones, shadows stretching dramatically across the dunes.
We posed for photos (this was pre-iPhone era, so real cameras with actual film) with the Sphinx in the background: three pilots, two flight engineers, and two loadmasters, all still sporting helmet hair under flight suits. We looked like a National Geographic cover gone slightly military.
One of the younger flight engineers rode up beside me, eyes wide. “Damn, sir, we flew halfway around the world in a 141 just to ride camels at the pyramids.” I grinned back, and said, “Isn’t it great?”
We timed it perfectly. The light was magical. But as we headed back toward the vans, the mood shifted.
A few of us dismounted easily. Two crew members, however, found themselves stuck. The camel herders suddenly demanded more money before letting them down. Classic desert hustle. It was getting darker, we were far from base, and we had limited Egyptian pounds (we jokingly called them “scoots” because none of us ever nailed the exchange rate).
We anted up, shook our heads, and laughed about it later.
That night back at the tent city, swapping exaggerated stories over warm drinks, it all crystallized. The C-141 didn’t just haul cargo…it delivered men into moments that stay with you forever.
From the flight deck of a Starlifter to the swaying back of a camel beneath the Pyramids of Giza. Not a bad detour in any pilot’s logbook.
These are the experiences that make the long hours, strange places, and occasional sand in your boots worth every minute.
It puts you in the middle of a good book.
What’s your favorite “we landed somewhere crazy and did this” memory? Drop it in the comments below—I’ve got plenty more travelogues where this one came from.
That moment—dust in the air, laughter echoing, history all around us—captured exactly why I loved the life.
(2 of 2)
2) Soon, we were rocking along in that signature camel gait—side to side, almost hypnotic—heading straight toward the pyramids.
From camelback, the scale of the pyramids becomes almost incomprehensible. Massive limestone ed, stacked by ancient hands long turned to dust. The late afternoon sun painted the stones in warm gold tones, shadows stretching dramatically across the dunes.
We posed for photos (this was pre-iPhone era, so real cameras with actual film) with the Sphinx in the background: three pilots, two flight engineers, and two loadmasters, all still sporting helmet hair under flight suits. We looked like a National Geographic cover gone slightly military.
One of the younger flight engineers rode up beside me, eyes wide. “Damn, sir, we flew halfway around the world in a 141 just to ride camels at the pyramids.” I grinned back, and said, “Isn’t it great?”
We timed it perfectly. The light was magical. But as we headed back toward the vans, the mood shifted.
A few of us dismounted easily. Two crew members, however, found themselves stuck. The camel herders suddenly demanded more money before letting them down. Classic desert hustle. It was getting darker, we were far from base, and we had limited Egyptian pounds (we jokingly called them “scoots” because none of us ever nailed the exchange rate).
We anted up, shook our heads, and laughed about it later.
That night back at the tent city, swapping exaggerated stories over warm drinks, it all crystallized. The C-141 didn’t just haul cargo…it delivered men into moments that stay with you forever.
From the flight deck of a Starlifter to the swaying back of a camel beneath the Pyramids of Giza. Not a bad detour in any pilot’s logbook.
These are the experiences that make the long hours, strange places, and occasional sand in your boots worth every minute.
It puts you in the middle of a good book.
What’s your favorite “we landed somewhere crazy and did this” memory? Drop it in the comments below—I’ve got plenty more travelogues where this one came from.
That moment—dust in the air, laughter echoing, history all around us—captured exactly why I loved the life.
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Buzz Patterson retweeted
BUZZ’S TRAVELOGUES #1 - THE PYRAMIDS IN GIZA
1) In addition to my “Buzz’s Bedtime Stories,” I’m launching a new series for the sheer fun of it: “Buzz’s Travelogues.”
These are short, personal snapshots from a lifetime of world travels as an Air Force pilot. I’ve been fortunate the globe than most, often under unusual circumstances. One day, these will be in a book.
Some stories are wild, some are quiet, but all of them left a mark. This one takes us back to Cairo, Egypt, and a memorable aircrew detour to the pyramids of Giza, complete with camels, shenanigans, and a classic tourist hustle.
Back in my C-141 Starlifter days, we moved everything the military needed: tanks, troops, beans, bullets, and the occasional high-speed, low-drag operators from SEALs or Delta Force. One particular mission dropped us into Cairo for joint exercises with the Egyptian Air Force. Think Bright Star vibes: desert warfare training, long-range ops, and just enough downtime to turn a work trip into a lifetime adventure.
We’d flown punishing legs across the Atlantic and Mediterranean, battling strange hours, stranger food, and that constant soothing engine roar, like a baby’s blanket, that only fellow aircrew truly understand.
When the wheels finally touched down at Cairo West, it felt like stepping into a history book. The air was thick with heat that pressed right through your flight suit. Sand coated everything. The unmistakable mix of jet fuel and desert dust hung in the air like a welcome banner.
Our Egyptian hosts rolled out genuine hospitality: strong tea, big smiles, and a tent city that reminded us we weren’t exactly at the Hilton. Mission briefs wrapped early one afternoon, leaving us with a rare golden window of free time.
“Pyramids?” I asked the crew. Every hand shot up instantly. “Hell yes!”
We crammed into a couple of vans and headed east toward Giza. The drive through Cairo itself was pure chaos and entertainment. No visible lanes, horns blaring nonstop, cars weaving like it was a contact sport. Pedestrians, donkey carts, and taxis all fought for the same space.
Then, without warning, the city sprawl parted and there they were. The Great Pyramid of Khufu rising majestically against the desert sky. After 4,500 years, it still commands awe. My co-pilot, a big Southern boy fresh from the Air Force Academy, could only whisper, “Damn.”
The Sphinx sat sentinel nearby, staring out across the plateau with that timeless, knowing gaze. We hired a couple of Bedouin-style guides and their camels right on the sand. My internal radar pinged—tourist trap ahead—but we were pilots on a crew rest. “What the hell,” I figured. “Let’s do it.”
Mounting those camels was comedy gold. One of my loadmasters, built like he could wrestle cargo pallets all day, nearly slid off the back when his camel lurched upward. The rest of the crew howled with laughter. The few warm beers we’d smuggled and enjoyed in the van certainly didn’t help our balance.
Continued…
1) In addition to my “Buzz’s Bedtime Stories,” I’m launching a new series for the sheer fun of it: “Buzz’s Travelogues.”
These are short, personal snapshots from a lifetime of world travels as an Air Force pilot. I’ve been fortunate the globe than most, often under unusual circumstances. One day, these will be in a book.
Some stories are wild, some are quiet, but all of them left a mark. This one takes us back to Cairo, Egypt, and a memorable aircrew detour to the pyramids of Giza, complete with camels, shenanigans, and a classic tourist hustle.
Back in my C-141 Starlifter days, we moved everything the military needed: tanks, troops, beans, bullets, and the occasional high-speed, low-drag operators from SEALs or Delta Force. One particular mission dropped us into Cairo for joint exercises with the Egyptian Air Force. Think Bright Star vibes: desert warfare training, long-range ops, and just enough downtime to turn a work trip into a lifetime adventure.
We’d flown punishing legs across the Atlantic and Mediterranean, battling strange hours, stranger food, and that constant soothing engine roar, like a baby’s blanket, that only fellow aircrew truly understand.
When the wheels finally touched down at Cairo West, it felt like stepping into a history book. The air was thick with heat that pressed right through your flight suit. Sand coated everything. The unmistakable mix of jet fuel and desert dust hung in the air like a welcome banner.
Our Egyptian hosts rolled out genuine hospitality: strong tea, big smiles, and a tent city that reminded us we weren’t exactly at the Hilton. Mission briefs wrapped early one afternoon, leaving us with a rare golden window of free time.
“Pyramids?” I asked the crew. Every hand shot up instantly. “Hell yes!”
We crammed into a couple of vans and headed east toward Giza. The drive through Cairo itself was pure chaos and entertainment. No visible lanes, horns blaring nonstop, cars weaving like it was a contact sport. Pedestrians, donkey carts, and taxis all fought for the same space.
Then, without warning, the city sprawl parted and there they were. The Great Pyramid of Khufu rising majestically against the desert sky. After 4,500 years, it still commands awe. My co-pilot, a big Southern boy fresh from the Air Force Academy, could only whisper, “Damn.”
The Sphinx sat sentinel nearby, staring out across the plateau with that timeless, knowing gaze. We hired a couple of Bedouin-style guides and their camels right on the sand. My internal radar pinged—tourist trap ahead—but we were pilots on a crew rest. “What the hell,” I figured. “Let’s do it.”
Mounting those camels was comedy gold. One of my loadmasters, built like he could wrestle cargo pallets all day, nearly slid off the back when his camel lurched upward. The rest of the crew howled with laughter. The few warm beers we’d smuggled and enjoyed in the van certainly didn’t help our balance.
Continued…
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This is why we have the Second Amendment. Compare this to France.
“Don’t make me shoot you.”
Because I will.
“Don’t make me shoot you.”
Because I will.
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