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Why We Failed the 747
On Wednesday January 3rd, 2018, the final Delta Airlines 747 made one final low pass over Pinal Airpark in Arizona. Her Pratt and Whitney engines spooling up as she cheated gravity in a swan-song of mechanical fury that the surrounding desert swallowed up indifferently. Circling back to her fate, the last Delta Queen reluctantly shed her last vestiges of flight and joined the earth that birthed her forever. Becoming spare parts, soda cans and key chains await her and her sisters. An ignominious death unfitting of royalty. The last of her kind. The last of the American Queens.
True, there are still many Boeing 747’s left in the air. Many ply the skies as freighters, and many in passenger service. British Airways, KLM, Lufthansa and Korean Air come to mind. Yet the tide has turned. The 747 is dying a slow death. Very few of the newest 747-8I passenger Jumbos are in regular service. It’s not looking good for the iconic aircraft.
And it’s our fault.
This could easily have been another essay where someone waxes poetic about the heydays of Boeing’s big bird, where we lament the damage done by generic two-engine airliners and speak of efficiency and gallons of fuel per passenger mile on convoluted spreadsheets. We can twist math and blame the bean-counters all we like but it doesn’t focus on the problem.
Passion. Wonder. Feeling. Glamour. Adventure.
When was the last time you used any of those words when confronted with the flight choice screen when booking your latest faraway voyage? Did you even ask which plane you’d go on? Did you even notice it when you walked down the jetway? Could you even recall what it was when someone asked you? Or was is irrelevant to you? Could you care less? Was saving $11 per passenger or a shorter layover your prime concern? Was it in-flight wi-fi or a bigger TV screen? Were you more concerned with taking your shoes off at security than taking a picture of that gleaming piece of metal art standing ready at your departure gate? Think about it.
What I described is the reality of aviation now. The average ticket buyer doesn’t know or care what aircraft they’re going on. They’re unwilling participants in aviation because the magic is gone for them. Jaded, cost conscious, security-weary and often fearful. Who could care less if that bird has RB-211’s or CF-6’s powering it? I want business class legroom and service at economy prices. I don’t care that inflation means that flying is cheaper than ever before. I don’t care.
As a society we often get what we deserve. We want it all right now and we want it for free. We’re rejecting the 747. Flying is no longer magic. It’s annoying. It’s that thing I have to do to get there. Nothing more. People close their window shades before the plane even pushes back. I’ve seen that before, where’s my drink?
Airlines are not run by aviation lovers. They can’t be. They’re businesses responding to market pressure and customer desires. The votes are cast with each ticket sold, with each choice to favor one flight over another, one aircraft over another. Empty aircraft lose money and become unprofitable. A full brand new Boeing 747-8I gets 83 mpg(US) per passenger with 467 seats, exactly 1 mpg less than an A350 with 315 passengers, 7 mpg better than 787-9 Dreamliner with 291 souls on board. The 747-8I is cutting edge for fuel efficiency, safety and passenger comfort. No one cares.
So next time you stand at your gate and look out at a sea of two-engine generic airliners and wonder where all the passion, wonder, feeling, glamour and adventure went you’ll know. We traded it for 11 bucks, a shorter layover or because we couldn’t even be bothered to find out what we were flying on.
Rest in Peace 747, we are no longer worthy of you.
-John James Pindera-
Alpha and Omega in one day.
Watching her roll up to gate 24 at Narita filled me with a wrenching turmoil of feelings that is hard to explain. The usual ones were there, the awe at her size, the admiration of her presence and the giddy anticipation of being in the air again soon. But there were others too, sadness and despair, that concrete knowledge of the futility of time as it marches ever forward.
Time, like water, flows either with us or against us, it cares not what we wish or do, what we'd like. I find it the height of irony that in the moment I have finally been able to secure a seat in the upper deck of the Queen of the Sky flying with a US airline, is simultaneously the last time I will ever do so.
Finality.
I say it's apropos that it's raining as we depart, goodbyes are always better with curtains of water hitting your face, that way no one can see any tears.
So how does one enjoy a swan song and a virgin moment all at once? How do you say goodbye when you're not ready to? I honestly don't know. But I'm going to try.
Finspottr.
