Free Skyfaring: A Journey With a Pilot by Mark Vanhoenacker Page B

earth in which meaningful place names are scattered over a geography that is new to the namers, a world that is new, in this case, to everyone.

    Many names in the new geography of the sky reflect aviation’s nautical heritage and the water below them. Near Perth, Australia, are the waypoints FLEET, ANCOR, BRIGG, SAILS, KEELS, WAVES. South of Newfoundland, in the vicinity of the historic Grand Banks fishing grounds, is the waypoint BANCS; further north along the Canadian coast lie SCROD and PRAWN. Sometimes there are multiple waypoints with the same name, and when we type one into a flight computer, it will ask us which of these homonymous, far-scattered places we mean to navigate toward. There are five SHARK waypoints—one east of Sydney, the others off the islands of Jersey, Maui, Taiwan, and Trinidad.
    Near the Isle of Man is KELLY, in reference to an old music-hall song called “Kelly from the Isle of Man.” Off England’s Channel coast are DRAKE—for Sir Francis—and HARDY—for Sir Thomas, the old friend to whom Lord Nelson, as he lay dying on the deck of his flagship, was heard to say: “Kiss me, Hardy,” and “God bless you, Hardy.” On sky maps of the Tasman Sea, the triangles that denote the waypoints hanging like notes on a musical staff arcing toward New Zealand are marked WALTZ, INGMA, and TILDA—a reference to Australia’s unofficial anthem, “Waltzing Matilda”—while many thousands of miles west, running north to south over hundreds of miles of Indian Ocean off Western Australia, is a lyrical sequence that begins WONSA, JOLLY, SWAGY, CAMBS, BUIYA, BYLLA, and BONGS—“Once a jolly swagman camped by a billabong…”
    Continental Europe has fewer locally themed waypoints, or at least fewer that are apparent to an English speaker, though off the Dutch coast floats TULIP, and it’s easy to speculate about SASKI—Rembrandt’s wife was Saskia. Over Germany, an English speaker might hear ROTEN as a meaningless, albeit pronounceable word; a German pilot might hear the bells of the medieval town of Rothenburg ob der Tauber. Crossing the border between Austria and Germany are a series of waypoint names that form awkward phrases. NIGEB—DENED—IRBIR is a loose variation on the German Nie gebt denen ihr Bier: “Don’t ever give them [the pilots?] their beer.” In the heavens near Stuttgart are VATER and UNSER, “Our Father” (“who art in heaven,” as the Lord’s Prayer continues). Northeast of Nuremberg, near the German–Czech border, are ARMUT, “poverty,” and VEMUT, Wehmut, German’s fine old word for “wistfulness.”

    Near the border of India and Pakistan is the waypoint TIGER. Another TIGER forms part of an arrival pattern for London, as if lifted from Britain’s former empire as incongruously as an animal taken from a warm place to a zoo in a cold city. On flights from Singapore to London I may overfly both TIGERs in the same night.
    America’s sky-mappers have gone to more trouble than most to ensure that local colors fly in the country’s skies. The Sonoma County airport in California is named after Charles M. Schulz; nearby is the waypoint SNUPY. Near Kansas City are the culinary waypoints BARBQ, SPICY, SMOKE, RIBBS, and BRSKT. Near Detroit is PISTN, surely for the basketball team whose name reflects the city’s heritage of industry; the skies around Detroit also feature MOTWN and WONDR (Stevie, Michigan-born) and EMINN, perhaps for the rap star. Houston’s nearby SSLAM is followed a few miles beyond by DUUNK (not to be confused with DUNKK, near Boston, a reference perhaps to a certain Massachusetts-born doughnut chain). The skies around Houston also feature ROKIT for the city’s space legacy, and TQELA, WORUM, CRVZA (beer), CARNE (meat), and QUESO (cheese) for the city’s cross-border culinary traditions that arriving passengers may soon be enjoying.

    Boston has lifted a particularly intricate constellation of itself into the ether above New England. There is