National vs. Western Global Airlines
#41
Most of this applies to Atlas Air.
Oh, Atlas and the illustrious 747 operations, where do I even start? It's like stepping into a time machine, not to the golden age of air travel, but to a parallel universe where "maintenance" is a suggestion and "crew rest" is a myth. Reading about National's escapades felt like déjà vu, except maybe with a bit more of that unique Atlas flair for the dramatic.
Let's talk about that unforgettable flight from MIA to SJU. You know, the one that turned into an impromptu fireworks show because someone decided a boroscope plug was an optional accessory. It's like, "Oops, did I forget that in there? Silly me." Honestly, if we wanted excitement of this caliber, we'd have signed up for stunt flying, not commercial aviation.
And the bunks—ah, the luxury! Who needs a five-star hotel when you can have the aromatic blend of body odor and despair, all wrapped up in a sleeping bag that's seen more action than a frontline trench in WWI? It's like Atlas took one look at basic hygiene standards and said, "Nah, we're going for that authentic, lived-in smell."
The load masters living on the plane is a concept so dystopian, Orwell would be proud. "Welcome to your new home, complete with all the amenities: limited oxygen, recycled air, and a constant, underlying scent of jet fuel. Enjoy your stay!"
Flying the 747 used to be a dream job, the pinnacle of a pilot's career. Now, it feels more like a punishment for sins committed in a past life. The glory days of PanAm are long gone, replaced by a reality where every takeoff is accompanied by a silent prayer to the aviation gods.
It's not just the physical conditions that are appalling; it's the blatant disregard for the well-being of the crew. The whole operation has this vibe of "endure now, maybe get rewarded later," except later never comes. It's a cycle of disappointment and disillusionment, where promises are as flimsy as the maintenance logs apparently are.
To those considering a career flying freighters, especially with Atlas, let me offer this piece of advice: lower your expectations. Then lower them some more. And maybe, just maybe, you'll come out the other side less jaded than the rest of us. But who am I kidding? It's a rite of passage at this point, a trial by fire where you either come out hardened or burnt to a crisp.
In the end, it's a sobering reminder that the romance of flying is often just that—a romance, far removed from the reality of modern aviation, especially in the freight sector.
Oh, Atlas and the illustrious 747 operations, where do I even start? It's like stepping into a time machine, not to the golden age of air travel, but to a parallel universe where "maintenance" is a suggestion and "crew rest" is a myth. Reading about National's escapades felt like déjà vu, except maybe with a bit more of that unique Atlas flair for the dramatic.
Let's talk about that unforgettable flight from MIA to SJU. You know, the one that turned into an impromptu fireworks show because someone decided a boroscope plug was an optional accessory. It's like, "Oops, did I forget that in there? Silly me." Honestly, if we wanted excitement of this caliber, we'd have signed up for stunt flying, not commercial aviation.
And the bunks—ah, the luxury! Who needs a five-star hotel when you can have the aromatic blend of body odor and despair, all wrapped up in a sleeping bag that's seen more action than a frontline trench in WWI? It's like Atlas took one look at basic hygiene standards and said, "Nah, we're going for that authentic, lived-in smell."
The load masters living on the plane is a concept so dystopian, Orwell would be proud. "Welcome to your new home, complete with all the amenities: limited oxygen, recycled air, and a constant, underlying scent of jet fuel. Enjoy your stay!"
Flying the 747 used to be a dream job, the pinnacle of a pilot's career. Now, it feels more like a punishment for sins committed in a past life. The glory days of PanAm are long gone, replaced by a reality where every takeoff is accompanied by a silent prayer to the aviation gods.
It's not just the physical conditions that are appalling; it's the blatant disregard for the well-being of the crew. The whole operation has this vibe of "endure now, maybe get rewarded later," except later never comes. It's a cycle of disappointment and disillusionment, where promises are as flimsy as the maintenance logs apparently are.
To those considering a career flying freighters, especially with Atlas, let me offer this piece of advice: lower your expectations. Then lower them some more. And maybe, just maybe, you'll come out the other side less jaded than the rest of us. But who am I kidding? It's a rite of passage at this point, a trial by fire where you either come out hardened or burnt to a crisp.
In the end, it's a sobering reminder that the romance of flying is often just that—a romance, far removed from the reality of modern aviation, especially in the freight sector.
I flew 737 and 747 for them before I moved on to a legacy, and NEVER had an issue with the mechanics, NEVER had an issue with a bunk or a smell and except for Mr JD screwing the pilot group, it was a hell of a job, as long as you understand what ACMI means and you don’t consider yourself a queen like you do.
#42
Your full of S*, plain and simple. The only truth you mentioned is that Atlas is an ACMI operator.
I flew 737 and 747 for them before I moved on to a legacy, and NEVER had an issue with the mechanics, NEVER had an issue with a bunk or a smell and except for Mr JD screwing the pilot group, it was a hell of a job, as long as you understand what ACMI means and you don’t consider yourself a queen like you do.
I flew 737 and 747 for them before I moved on to a legacy, and NEVER had an issue with the mechanics, NEVER had an issue with a bunk or a smell and except for Mr JD screwing the pilot group, it was a hell of a job, as long as you understand what ACMI means and you don’t consider yourself a queen like you do.
#43
I hope Apollo is treating you all well and giving you the well deserved improvements.
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