Talk about the Weather

It’s hard to argue with days like this.

The other day, I was out for the obligatory dawn patrol with the dog, when the weather made a predicted and abrupt change from fall to winter. We were walking along one of our usual riverside roads when, out of the dark sky, a wall of wind and heavy rain engulfed us, accompanied by a sharp drop in air temperature. Knowing what was coming, I’d brought my big golf umbrella and immediately deployed it. The dog found shelter under a bushy shrub and refused to move until I brought the protection of the umbrella near her. Then the dog would only walk one direction- towards the warm, dry car. (Smart dog.) Except for the bottom six inches of my trousers, I was dry. The dog, on the other hand, was a pathetic picture of wet blackened fur. I felt bad for the dog. I know what it feels like to be soaked to the bone in thirty something degree weather. In fact, I know it so well, I can declare it my least favorite kind of weather.

Most of the time, we tend to think of weather as a cluster of statistics that might guide our wardrobe choices or plans for the day. How hot will it be? How much snow are we going to get? But weather and humans have a more complex relationship. There is also an emotional aspect to it. When we consider the role weather plays in our lives, it becomes apparent there are definite feelings and opinions about it. I suspect it’s because we associate events, past, present and future, with the prevailing weather conditions. For example, I can tell you just what kind of weather I really like and don’t like, and what I was doing when I formed that opinion. Not surprisingly, the negative feelings are stronger than the positive. Pulling on that thread a little bit, I asked around and found a lot folks have similar thoughts and relate them to specific events. In my informal survey of favorite weather, I pestered Kirk, a contractor working on the house. He told me about his fondest meteorological moment, he called it the “last day of school weather.” A bright sunny midwest day, about the first of June, when it’s too warm to wear long pants or a jacket. Maybe some wind in the trees, and the smell of blossoming foliage in the air, and the sweet freedom from the long toil of the school year. I can picture it very clearly and fully grok it. Holding aside catastrophic storms like tornados and hurricanes, after reading my best and worst, maybe you’ll agree with the conditions, or you’ll find something completely unexpected. Questions about meteorologic preferences don’t often come up in daily conversation, but roll the idea around the old brain box for a bit, or talk about it over lunch, and maybe you’ll learn something.

So, what weather do I prefer? I’ll start with the temperature. It isn’t a fixed number, but rather a condition. It’s when a pair of shorts, a t-shirt and flip-flops are just right for doing mild physical activity. Especially out on the water. Overhead, the sun dashes in and out from behind fair weather cumulous clouds that drift from horizon to horizon. The breeze is up, but not too much. For sailors, you’ll know what I mean when I offer that it’s enough to get the crew sitting on the high side, but not so much that hiking is required. The boat is lively, but not taxing. Sometimes it’s called “champagne sailing.” These days seems so perfect that you never want them to end, and you make it a point to watch the sunset turn the clouds various shades of pink and red. Of course, I’ve known these days out on the water, but I also fondly associate them with a little house on Farenholt Road in Agana Heights, Guam, where the windy season tropical weather made this a daily occurrence.

Darn it! We have to watch another sunset from the back patio?

If “champagne sailing” is on one end of the spectrum, what’s on the other? It can only be that cold, cold rain that drove the dog to find shelter. I learned to appreciate its terrific, miserable qualities one November night in 2002, in Keflavik, Iceland.

I was the new First Officer, at the bottom of the pecking order in the pilot’s ready-room, and this was my first hop “across the pond” in a Learjet 35A. At the end of a long day of flying and wallowing in a weaker than forecast tailwind, we arrived at the old Naval Air Station well after the sun had gone down, in crappy weather, with just enough fuel left to make a couple approaches. The night sky was obscured by low overcast, a gusty crosswind buffeted the field, rain reduced the visibility to just 3/4 of a mile and the temperature was 1ºC. We made it in on the first try, mostly because we didn’t want to have to do the appraoch again, and we taxied into the flood-lit transient ramp with about 20-30 minutes of fuel remaining in the tanks. (A little more would have been nice.) After shutdown, The Captain disappeared into the base operations building to check-in, and I stayed with the airplane to “supervise” fueling. Sitting just inside the door of the airplane, I was anxious for the fuel truck to arrive, but I was also hoping the rain would stop first. Already damp from the post-flight inspection, I was dressed in the company uniform of khakis, a navy blue sweater, a company logo ball cap, leather 3/4 boots and my leather flight jacket. I thought I looked pretty cool, but it wasn’t exactly rain-proof attire. After a long ten minutes of watching the rain lash the flightline, the truck finally arrived and I went out to meet it. The driver was dressed in a proper rain suit and greeted me with a smile saying, “Welcome to Iceland.” Yeah. Sure. Within a couple minutes, we had the hose off the truck and were executing the tedious back-and-forth process of pumping 700 gallons of JP-8 into the tip-tanks of the jet. The driver stood with his back to the truck, sheltered from the wind and blowing rain, holding the dead-man handle and calling out gallons delivered. By contrast, I held the ice cold hose nozzle at the end of the wing, fully exposed and taking gust driven sheets of rain in the face for the better part of 30 minutes. When the tanks were full, I wasn’t technically a popsicle, because the temperature was slightly above freezing, but I was super chilled, shivering, and had not a stitch of dry clothing.

Gosh, that was an awful night, but after recently telling that tale to a former 10th Mountain Division infantry sergeant, he said I should “harden up.” That would be good weather at Fort Drum, New York. When it gets cold and wet, you can always do some push-ups or yell at a private to warm your insides. It’s the 120ºF and full humidity of Iraq that sucks the life out of you, and yelling at privates doesn’t help because it just makes you hotter. In a final declaration, he said, “You just haven’t lived until you get sunburned in the shade!” Yep, I suppose so, but still hate rain at near freezing temperatures.