Morning in Scotland means it’s an ocean flying day. First things first, so it was down to the hotel dining for a pre-dawn breakfast with Marcio, and no he did not care to try the blood pudding thank you very much. While fortifying ourselves we compared notes on what weather forecasts for the route from Scotland to Iceland we’d been able to drag out of the horribly slow internet in the hotel. The general consensus was that the winds aloft would be generally favorable but the clouds/rain/snow/ice, that seemed to have taken up permanent residence over Iceland would make the end of our day a little exciting. Not to worry, I told Marcio, that’s why we’re here, for the exciting adventures. The look on his face was not one of agreement.
Off to the airport to receive the official weather briefing from Andrew which confirmed our earlier assessment, ice was forecast for the final portion of our trip. We could expect to pick up light to moderate rime ice from 18,000 feet down to 3,000 feet. That wasn’t great news, because ice belongs in drinks not on your wings. The good news was that the freezing level was at 3000 feet meaning that if we picked up so much ice that we couldn’t maintain altitude there was a slight chance that maybe some of the ice just might melt off as we plummeted through the warmer air, possibly before we crashed into the sea, maybe. Andrew reminded us that on average three pilots die every year because they don’t wait for the proper weather conditions before making the crossing. I assured him that the anti-ice capabilities of the Cirrus would be sufficient to see us through the scary weather and to the home of beautiful blondes.
