Christmas poem

[tradford]

'Twas A Night before Christmas – Aviation Style…

 

‘Twas the night before Christmas and out on the ramp,
not an airplane was stirring, not even a Champ.

 

The aircraft were fastened to tie-downs with care,
in hopes that come morning, they’d all still be there.

 

The fuel trucks were nestled, all snug in their spots,
with the wind from two-forty at 39 knots.

 

I slumped at the fuel desk, now finally caught up,
and settled down comfortably resting my butt.

 

Then the radio lit up with static and chatter,
so I turned up the scanner to see what’s the matter.

 

I could hear someone talking – a voice I should know –
he was calling for clearance to land on 3-0.

 

He barked his transmission so lively and quick,
but I sworn that the call sign he used was "St. Nick".

 

I ran to the panel to turn on the lights
to ensure he could land on that cold windy night.

 

He called his position, was him – no denial,
"St. Nicholas One turnin' left onto final."

 

And what to my wondering eyes should appear,
but an ultralight sleigh with a prop in the rear!

 

With vectors to final, down the glideslope he came,
as he passed all the fixes, he called them by name:

"Now Ringo! Now Tolga! Now Trini and Bacon!
On Comet! On Cupid!" – What pills was he takin'?

 

The controller was watchin', and scratchin' his head,
then my phone started ringing – I answered with dread.

 

The message he left was both urgent and dour:
"When Santa pulls in, have him please call the tower."

 

He landed like silk, with the sled-runners sparking,
then I heard "left at Charlie," and "taxi to parking."

 

He pulled on the reigns and turned off of 3-0
and he stopped on the ramp that was covered with snow.

 

He climbed from the sleigh and before he could talk,
I ran out to meet him and tossed him a chock.

 

His helmet and goggles were covered with frost
and his beard was all blackened from diesel exhaust.

 

He tossed me his Visa to fill up his sleigh
and he asked me to top off his tank with Jet-A.

 

I checked out his cabin when he went to the head
and could see empty bottles in the floor of the sled.

 

For a second – I thought that he might have been drinking,
but his first name was Saint – what the hell was I thinking?

 

There weren’t many gauges or buttons to press,
just a mode C transponder and an old GPS.

 

He rose from the loo with a smile of relief,
then he took out his phone for a Flight Service brief.

 

He completed his pre-flight, from the front to the rear,
then he put on his headset and shouted out, "Clear!"

 

He pressed the mic button when the run up was done
and he called for the tower – “Saint Nicolas one”.

 

The tower responded and asked his intent,
then they cleared his departure and away the man went.

 

I saw his lips moving as he shouted with cheer,
but the sound of the turbine was all I could hear.

 

He sped down the runway and climbed to the night,
then he entered the pattern and he vanished from sight.

 

As I reached for the scanner, I could hear a voice shout,
“Merry Christmas to all, Saint Nicolas - out!”