Down and Out at the El San Juan
A Planespotting Memoir.
December 4, 2024
WHAT WERE YOU DOING on December 4th, 1980? Chances are you have no clue. Owing to my eccentric habits of memory, I can tell you exactly what I was doing. I was flying to San Juan, Puerto Rico, for a four-day vacation with my parents and sister.
I was a freshman in high school, thirteen years old. Distant ago as it was, my recollections of that long weekend are, you’ll likely agree, startlingly specific. This is owed, maybe, to the impressionability of the adolescent mind, but also the degree to which I savored trips by airplane. Short as it would be, this was a vacation I’d spent weeks looking forward to, with most of that adrenaline focused on the flight.
The morning of the fourth was a Thursday. I’m so sure it was a Thursday that I’m not going to burden Google with the keystrokes to double check. It was also cold; the temperature had plummeted overnight, making the thought of a respite in sunny Puerto Rico all the more appealing. I can remember, our bags packed and waiting for our ride to Logan, standing by the door that led to our back porch, and marveling at how the glass had frosted over, all white and crystalline. A man on the kitchen radio said it might drop into the teens.
We flew economy class on an Eastern Airlines L-1011. It was my first time on a TriStar and only my second time on a widebody jet. The cabin was maybe half full. I moved around, and at one point had a center block of seats all to myself.
A movie played on the cabin bulkhead screen, blurry and distorted, but I didn’t watch it. Instead I listened to music, clamping on a pair of those awkward, stethoscope-style headphones some of use are old enough to remember, with the little caps on the end that scratched into your ears. The Pat Benetar song “Hit Me With Your Best Shot” was popular the time. I had no prior fondness for that song, but something about how it sounded, coming through that blue plastic tube, enthralled and energized me. I listened to it over and over. (You couldn’t rewind on the old audio systems, so I’d wait patiently while cycled through a dozen other songs.) The chorus would be stuck in my head for days.
We stayed at the El San Juan, a mediocre hotel just a short drive from the airport. I have a memory of beige or yellow stucco. The hotel was on the beach, with backside rooms overlooking the ocean. The room they gave us, however, was on the city side, five or six floor up, and when I pulled back the curtain I was astonished to realize we had a view of the airport. Specifically, we could see the entire approach end of SJU’s runway 8, plus a good portion of the adjacent taxiway. Planes touching down would soar right past our balcony, while those taxiing for takeoff would trundle by in plain view.
This would be a problem. For as much as I wanted to swim and enjoy the warmth of the Caribbean, I also wanted to sit on the balcony with my binoculars and watch jets. We hadn’t traveled much, and my planespotting had been limited mostly to Boston, with its predictable roll call: Eastern, Delta, Allegheny, TWA, plus a smattering of European traffic. San Juan, though, was like nowhere I’d been — an airport of Latin exoticness. Here would be planes and airlines I’d only seen pictures of.
The author and his sister in 1980.
I unlatched the glass door and stepped outside, taking in that tropical smell of heat, humidity and vegetation, with the whine of turbojets in the background. As my mom, dad, and sister put their swimsuits on, I became more and more reluctant to leave that balcony.
Two things solved my dilemma:
The first thing was the weather. Thursday afternoon had been sunny, and Susan and I spent a good two hours in the water battling the four foot breakers. By the morning of day two, however, it had turned damp and drizzly and cool. And the forecast said it would stay this way — overcast, with periods of light rain — right through our departure on Sunday.
The second thing was a hamburger. I’d consumed this burger in the hotel restaurant on Thursday evening. By midnight I found myself in the throes full-on food poisoning, vomiting and feverish. I camped out in the bathroom for I don’t know how long, sitting in the harsh fluorescent light, listening to a radio station from the Virgin Islands. I can clearly remember the garish red-and-white pattern of the tiling.
And so, after an abbreviated and fitful sleep, I awoke on Friday morning to gray skies, a low simmering fever, and a very troubled stomach. Swimming or sightseeing was out of the question. About the only thing I could do, and would do, is watch planes.
It’s not that I wasn’t disappointed. Enamored as I was with aviation, I wasn’t going to forsake the the warm-weather pleasures of San Juan for something as nerdy as planespotting. But now that weather had gone south. And, I was sick. I now had a viable backup plan, enjoyable and distracting enough to salvage my vacation.
I have no idea what my parents and sister did over the next 48 or so hours. I assume they went shopping, or maybe took a rainy-day tour of El Morro. But I know what I did: I sat in a metal chair with my Bushnell 10x42s and a notebook, hunkered down like a postmodern birdwatcher, logging the arrivals and departures at San Juan International Airport. Rain and illness were a bummer for sure, but on another level I was elated.
Back at home I had a book, the 1980 edition of “World Airline Fleets.” This was an annually published directory with the registrations and specs of every commercial plane in the world, arranged alphabetically by country and airline. Once a plane once was “spotted,” you could mark it with a check, or, as I did, line through the listing with a highlighter. Later, at our dining room table, I’d take out the notebook from San Juan and meticulously transpose each sighting.
Neither that notebook nor the fleets volume survive (the one in the photo was found online). Like most of my memorabilia from that era, it was carelessly and foolishly discarded. My memories, on the other hand, are intact, perhaps to a point of almost preternatural detail. How and why I’m able to recall such things is something I can’t fully explain; after all, there are significant tracts of my life that I remember little from. I’ve forgotten names, places, birthdays, phone numbers, the when and where of so many events. But I can tell you without hesitation which planes I saw coming and going at the San Juan airport in December, 1980.
There were, for starters, the multicolored Herons of Prinair, the Puerto Rican commuter carrier whose route network island-hopped the Caribbean. The Riley Heron was a peculiar bird, with 17 seats and four piston engines. That weekend was the only time I ever saw a Heron, but surely I logged the entire Prinair fleet three times over. Every minute, it seemed, a Heron was puttering by.
I remember the American Airlines “Inter-Island” Convair 440s. Those too were piston-powered, precursors to the American Eagle turboprops and regional jets that would later serve San Juan. I saw the old Jetstreams of Dorado Wings, an Air Haiti C-46 Commando, and any number of Douglas DC-3s, anonymous in dirty silver paint. I saw a DC-9 in the colors of BWIA, an Aviaco DC-8, an Iberia DC-10 coming in from Madrid, as well as my first Pan Am DC-10, a plane inherited during the merger with National Airlines earlier that year.
The highlight, though, had to be the Lockheed Constellation. It wore the red and white livery of Argo S.A., a Dominican freight outfit, with the registration HI-328. I watched it take off and land at least three times, so it must have been shuttling back and forth. This was the only operating Constellation I ever saw, or ever would see. You can find several photographs of HI-328 online, where you’ll also learn that it crashed into the ocean near St. Thomas about a year later.
And that was my holiday.
On Sunday afternoon the skies cleared, just in time for our trip home. We took off in darkening twilight at around 4 p.m. Once again we were aboard an Eastern L-1011. This time we were upgraded to first class, a 2-2-2 cabin done up in fudge-brown leather.
We all have our ways of recalling our lives, our chronological cues. For me, the demarcations are so often those of airplanes, trips, and places visited.
I’m frustrated, though, by the selectiveness of memory. I can remember the registration I.D. of a particular airplane, which is cool (I think), but what I can’t remember is what sort of path I expected my life to actually take. What was I thinking? I wanted to become a pilot, that I knew. But I was such a lazy little shit of a kid, with no real idea of how to make that — or anything else — happen; how the steps towards that goal were actually my responsibility. Something, somebody, would take care of it for me, I assumed. It would all just work itself out.
I think I became a pilot in spite of my love for aviation, not because of it. I got lucky.
On Monday, December 8th, I was back in class at St. John’s Prep School, where I was a moody misfit freshman with no friends. Nobody believed I’d been to Puerto Rico, because I didn’t have a tan.
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23 Responses to “Down and Out at the El San Juan”
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I loved the article in general but the last sentence really resonated with me. Kids in my blue collar Midwestern neighborhood who were lucky enough to go to a warm locale in the winter made damn sure they got a tan at whatever the cost so they could flaunt it to the rest of us.
st. Thomas in 1980 would have been an Antillies Airboat Goose, the only way to see the Carib.
Those headphones! I remember flying to Hawaii from SFO on United in 1977 with my girlfriend. They charged for headphones and we did not have a lot of extra money for the trip. So, we paid for one and split the headphone, she getting one tube and me the other. A totally different era!!
“Your piece on sustainable aviation is exceptional. We share the same passion for green technologies. Let’s connect: blade1.services@gmail.com or 1-800-102-5233.”
Patrick,I have followed Ask The Pilot since it’s inception and have your book which I have shared with friends who are afraid to fly.
Every post/story you do is so damn well crafted. I have remarked to you a few years ago that you are a gifted writer who possesses the literary talent to transport the reader into your world through your descriptive artistry.
I obtained my private pilot license in 1968 when I was 16. My goal was to fly for an airline. It did not work out due to a serious heart issue which precluded an airline path. I never lost my joy of flying and have mentored my grandson who gained his private instrument and commercial from Embry Riddle here in FL. at the age of 20.
Just wanted to say how much I enjoy your posts
Dan
Wow, that’s a great story. And just look at the size of those seat-back tables! At 6’2″ and 240 lbs, I barely fit in a normal economy-class seat and I do long commutes across the Pacific twice a year.
I’m old now but there are certain memories that are burned into my brain yet there are probably billions of others that are gone forever. Why it is that we humans have such selective memories is a mystery still. I use my meticulously keyworded and dated photograph collection to pinpoint times in my life but that only words for more recent years.
In 1980 I was living in Jamaica Plain in a rent controlled triple-decker. I spent ten years in Boston before moving to Alaska in 1982. I loved Boston until I ended up hating it for the crime, the noise, and the danger.
I live in Thailand now but those Boston years are very important to me.
Keep up the great work, Patrick.
“Ithink I became a pilot in spite of my love for aviation, not because of it. I got lucky.” Interesting perspective. I guess I could say I didn’t become a pilot because of my love for aviation. I got unlucky.
SD, I was in boot camp in San Diego not far from you that December. I might have celebrated with some of your cargo in January when I finished.
Brilliant writing, Patrick…written, re-rewritten then edited. I hope you have monetized your efforts!
I know where I was on 12/04/80…sailing back to San Diego from coastal Mexico on a one-off cannabis transport adventure when I was in my 20’s. I remember because on 12/08 when we had AM radio reception again near Tijuana, we (crew of 3) heard of John Lennon’s slaying, and were dumbstruck into silence.
Great story. It reminded me of an early visit to PR when I had a NYC consulting job. The customer was in Aguadilla on the West side of the island, so I had to take a small two engine prop plane to Mayaguez and then drive to Aguadilla. The visit went fine and on the following day, I was on another small plane to return to San Juan, along with about 3 other people and a single flight attendant. This was way before today’s security, so the plane was preparing for takeoff without even closing the door to the cockpit. As we started down the runway and just began to lift off, I heard the pilot should “Oh, Shit” and we quickly dropped back down to the runway just in time so that we did not run over the edge. Nobody would tell us what happened, but we had to wait another 4 hours for a replacement plane, and I had an extra (actually very nice) night in San Juan after missing my return flight to JFK.
Two other fun stories.
In a shuttle from Milwaukee to MSP, I was the only passenger on the plane, so every announcement from the staff began with “Mr. Shannon, you may now get up if you need to use the facilities” or “please buckle your seatbelt, Mr. Shannon”
On return from a business trip to Singapore and Kuala Lumpur, just as COVID became serious, my wife and I were two of 8 and then 9 passengers on the two wide bodied jumbo planes (ANA to Tokyo, then Delta to Detroit). It is very, very strange being on flights where the crew are more numerous than the passengers.
Francine, not to burst your bubble, but the photo is definitely showing EAL’s L1011 first class seating and meal service. Patrick mentioned that his family was bumped up to first for the trip home.
My mom worked at EAL from 1979-89, and I took many non-rev L1011 first-class flights, including its “Transcon” service to SFO and LAX. The meal service was pretty special, especially in the eyes of a teenager from an economically lower-class family.
I’m fascinated by the photo of the economy class meal, complete with china and white linen. I was 18 in 1980, and had flown a fair amount, but I don’t remember airplane meals like this in coach. I do remember *meals* with actual dishes and a choice of menu items, but that’s it.
1980, that’s the year that I got to fly in the cockpit jumpseat on a flight into Lisbon. Flight was overbooked, and the “go/nogo” line landed halfway inside our party-of-11. So “if you don’t mind sharing your meal with the pilots and flying on the uncomfortable jumpseat, we can ask the captain if he’ll allow it”. Captain said ok. 🙂
I don’t remember the exact date.
Great story! In December 1980, I too was a high school freshman, just finishing my first grueling trimester at Regis High School on Manhattan’s Upper East Side. It was a major transition from elementary school, and I was exhausted. Fortunately, my mom had begun working at EAL in January 1979, and I too got a late December / early January trip on an L1011, to MCO. Little bit of the Magic Kingdom, with EAL pass riding rates and official WDW airline room discounts at The Polynesian. Memories!
My mom juuuuuuust made it to 10 years for her pension to best before the IAM strike and Lorenzo’s shutdown of EAL. She loved that job.
About that same time, we flew in a DC-3 from STT to SJU. It was raining and water was leaking through the sky light hatch just behind the cockpit and running down the aisle. I thought I was in a Humphrey Bogart movie.
Thanks for sharing. Brought back many memories. At the time I too was a teenager just having finished my freshman year in high-school. We’d lived in Isla Verde from 1975 to 1980 having moved to Puerto Rico in 1973. Coincidentally in 1980 we moved to Madrid, Spain. Returning to Puerto Rico during the subsequent two years during the Summer months. Your recollection of the view from El San Juan hotel overlooking the airport brings back memories. At the time we lived at Coral Beach Condominium, just two buildings over from ESJ. Our apartment also overlooked towards the airport. The one vivid memory I have was seeing the Concord land as it approached the airport. Though I never flew on Prinair for short flights we’d travel multiple times between Miami and Isla Verde on Pan Am and Eastern airlines. And in subsequent years aboard Iberia airlines to/from Madrid, Spain. The recollection of the mobility aboard planes, the hurtful headset, and the music selection are spot on. Again, thanks for sharing!!!
What are we supposed to do with this? Sing “Big Yellow Taxi” or something?
This is such a great story, but sorry it was at the expense of your being sick. Though I did not become a pilot, I am a self-confessed avgeek…for about 50+ years now. I can remember the World Airline Fleets books…used to get them for many years; I used to get them by mail order from an aviation bookseller in the U.K. (they had the best reading material about aviation in the U.K.)! I remember well those headphones of yore and having to wait for a favorite song to come around again. Eastern L-1011s were great…my first ever widebody flight was in one of those gorgeous birds. From the early 70s to the late 80s my parents took us five kids on vacation by airplane every year. Like you, I was often more interested in the flight portion of the trip rather than the place we were going! Those trips were a fertile breeding ground for stirring my interest working in the travel and tourism industry for almost 40 years.
It’s amazing the details that we remember of formative things like our early airline flights. I was 13 when I took my first trip from BUF – DEN (rt) and I vividly recall the tunes that were popular at the time. And the crappy plastic tube headesets.
Your comments “But I was such a lazy little shit of a kid, with no real idea of how to make that …happen.” and “I think I became a pilot in spite of my love for aviation, not because of it….” hold true for me too. Though I did plenty of GA and Part 135 flying, I didn’t make my airline goal and maybe that’s the reason.
We live in Puerto Rico, for the past 22 years. We’re out on the west coast, in a little pueblo named Añasco, but we do get to San Juan every now and then. The El San Juan was at one time (perhaps the late 60’s) one of the premier hotels in SJ, the other was the Americana, down the street. Both have seen better times, and apparently when you were there the ESJ was getting a bit threadbare. We stayed several times in the ESJ Towers, sort of a pre-AirBnB apartment at a daily rate and it was about motel quality but we were on a budget then and the Towers fit. By 1980, when you came, I think the El Conquistador in Fajardo had taken over as the top spot but it too, has gone a bit seedy, despite their having a championship quality golf course there. And the food was poor. We drove down to the docks in Fajardo and got some fresh fish right off the boat.
I loved reading your essay on SJU airport…I actually flew PrinAir twice, I think, once was on a Grumman amphib, don’t know if it was a Goose, Mallard, Widgeon or Albatross, but we did land in the water at St. Thomas. Anyhow, thanks for a nice read and some memories of my first time in PR.
The El San Juan (I’ve always loved the doubled article in that phrase) did have a nice pool. I spent some happy time diving – really, jumping – from their high board. 🙂
The El San Juan is still there, should you care to return.
I was there again in 1994, fourteen years after the trip I wrote about. A friend and I stayed overnight as part of a trip out to Culebra island. The place was still a little dumpy, but it definitely had been renovated.