Back in my days as a 121 airline pilot, I found myself taxiing out at ATL on a humid summer morning, with a long line of planes ahead. That day, I was flying with the Chief Pilot, Charlie—a seasoned aviator nearing the end of his career.
Charlie was as “old school” as they came: tough but fair, never one to sugarcoat things, and quick to call you out when necessary. Despite his no-nonsense demeanor, he was an absolute pleasure to fly with.
As we crawled along the taxiway, Charlie had the cockpit window open, puffing on a Marlboro—a bit of a quiet rebellion against the company’s non-smoking policy. When the cigarette burned down to the filter, he casually flicked the butt out the window, where it landed on the taxiway below.
A few moments later, as we inched forward, the Delta 757 pilot behind us called ground control, refusing to move. “There’s something smoking on the taxiway,” he reported. “It looks like it came from the 737 ahead of us.”
Ground control promptly radioed us, and Charlie, without missing a beat, responded, “That’s called a cigarette.”
The radio went silent for a moment before the Delta pilot, clearly annoyed, demanded the cigarette butt be removed, claiming it was delaying his departure. He then launched into a reprimand, finishing with: “I’d love to personally have a word with your Chief Pilot!”
Charlie and I were laughing so hard we could barely contain ourselves. When Charlie finally caught his breath, he picked up the mic and, in his unmistakable North Carolina drawl, said: “Well, you’re talking to him, SON! So go ahead—tell me what you think!”
The radio fell silent again. No response. Moments later, we were cleared for takeoff, still laughing as we climbed through 10,000 feet.
Even now, every time I fly in or out of ATL, I can’t help but smile and chuckle, remembering that unforgettable day.