Yeah, buddy. I remember the good ol' days of the early '70s even!
As a kid, I got metal wings, swizzle sticks, and napkins from Piedmont and Eastern. I wish I still had them. Who didn't love the whine and roar of those mean turbojets on the 727 and 737? Solid airframes and loud, smoking engines - those were the days.
Dad took us all to the theater to see "Airport." I'll never forget that scene with Patroni getting the 707 freed from the snow. "Mr. Patroni, she won't take much more!" "Well, anyway, she's gonna get it."
YouTube - Airport - Clearing The Runway
Can I tell a story? When Desert Storm kicked off, I was an avionics puke on the KC-135 and B-52 in the AF. We flew an A-model KC-135 from California to Guam by way of Hawaii. After our RON at Hickam, including a tour for a bunch of us, including my new wife, given by the crew chief, who was as sexy as any young lady ought to be and who paid entirely too much attention to me, we took off and lost radar, which was required for the trans oceanic sortie. We dumped fuel and landed and were stranded in the terminal facing a long wait for the local maintenance boys. I asked for and got permission to ride out and fix it myself. I grabbed another Sgt and we headed for the flightline. With no ground equipment, the other guy gave me boost up into the nose hatch where I squatted and "fixed" the radar with a spare fuse. (Yeah, those old, heavy units used standard glass fuses.)
We got out two hours later and made it to Andersen AB, Guam, where we were rewarded with a rotten storm after a hell of a stretch for the KC-135. The visitor billets were maxed out with all the arrivals for the war and, luckily, the dude at the counter was my rank and took care of me. Two male E-7s had to double up while a female airman got her own room so my wife and I could share a room.
White sand beaches, clubs on the beach in the middle of the jungle, coconuts in the trees, scuba diving to die for, and the smell of JP4 in the air. It was like living a movie.
I was needed home earlier than my wife after months of that "grueling" life and headed out one dark and stormy night on the same 135. We lost an engine 30 mins after TO and had to return. You should have seen my wife's face when I walked into the bar where she was hanging out with several of our "buddies." I just smiled as I walked by to get a drink. Some hours later, and in no condition to stand upright, we got on our fixed bird to head home. After another RON at Hickam, we headed for California. That same gracious crew chief once again eased my burden by waking me from a frozen half-sleep on the cold deck to offer me her crew bunk. What a sweetie.
When she woke me from my dreams some hours later, she informed me that the radar had died and that somebody had to either fix it in flight, or we were going to have to return to Hickam. I had been nominated. Receiving permission from the AC and a penlight from the Nav, I jumped thru the crew grate onto the exit door, noting that the flight crew had donned OX and strapped in. I crawled over the nose gear well and weaved my way amid the control cables and avionics in the dark, 30-some-thousand feet over the pacific, into the nose. I fixed that stupid radar again with a spare fuse and a mini maglite then crawled back out of the wine cellar, climbed the ladder and shut the grate. I handed the Nav his flashlight and told him to leave it low range, which used less power, told the AC we were fixed, and returned, amid cheers from the tired warriors who wanted to be home, to that warm bunk. I got a medal for that mission, but it didn't compare to the rest of my dream.