Welcome to Catching the Travel Bug, Gadling's mini-series on getting sick on the road, prevailing and loving travel throughout. Five of our bloggers will be telling their stories from around the globe for the next five weeks. Submit your best story about catching the travel bug in the comments and we'll publish our favorite few at the end of the series.

It was 1989. In an effort to build flight time after earning my private pilot's license in college, I managed to convince my boss at the hobby shop where I worked that it might be a good investment for him to loan me the $5500 I needed to buy a two-seat 1946 airplane called a Luscombe.

After tiring of touring around the local airport, shooting 'touch-and-goes' well into the night and giving rides to share the fuel costs with everyone I knew or even the strangers I sat next to in my classes at W.S.U., I decided to venture out on a cross-country flight.

What better excuse than the annual Luscombe fly-in which was held at a beautiful airport near the mountains in Columbia, California. The event attracted over 100 of the durable little airplanes and their owners, allowing the pilots and spouses a chance to socialize about two things they were sure to have in common: a love of flight and an interest in a small part of aviation history.

I flew out to Seattle the day before so I could join up early in the morning with another Luscombe that was attending the event. Since my airplane didn't have a baggage compartment, I stuffed the full size suitcase, tent, portable VHF radio, Sony Walkman and a bag of groceries into the right seat of the airplane, strapped down so nothing interfered with the second control stick on the right.

We were to meet up at 6 a.m. on an early May morning before heading south toward San Francisco. Seattle isn't known for it's good weather in May, and this morning was no exception. A low layer of clouds hovered over Puget Sound, and if I weren't following an experienced Northwest captain out of the area, I'm not sure I would have been comfortable flying an airplane with virtually no navigational equipment that day.

I stuck close to the other airplane as we worked our way around the Tacoma area, listening on the pilot-to-pilot frequency while a half dozen Cessnas were reporting their locations to each other and patrolling up and down I-5 to report on the local Seattle traffic conditions.

Rich, the relief co-pilot, looked over my shoulder and pointed to the radar.

"Looks like you're painting some weather there." He said.

I looked down, noting the sea of green ahead.

"It doesn't have much vertical to it." I replied, which meant the clouds hadn't developed into anything that would produce much in the way of bumps.

"I think it's just heavy rain." I said.

After flying around Hurricane Ike and Hanna, it was nice to get away from the Caribbean weather by escaping to France. Sure, there may be some specks of yellow among the green Rich had pointed out, but this was no real thunderstorm from what I could see.

Soon we entered the clouds from above. The sunrise we had been enjoying was gone now and the cockpit was a bit darker. As we descended towards 20,000 feet, St. Elmos fire began to sparkle on the front windshield. This phenomenon looks like lightning, but it's actually static discharges occurring right on the glass just in front of our faces.

Rich grabbed my camera to film the scene. [Video after the jump]

Cockpit Chronicles takes you along on some of Kent's trips as an international co-pilot on the Boeing 757 and 767 based in Boston.

New on the schedule for us this month is a two-day trip to Miami. The first day is rather easy with just one leg from Boston to Miami. The second day involves a trip to Port-au-Prince, Haiti, then back to Miami and up to Boston.

We're required to sign in for our trip in the pilot operations room at least one hour before departure time. That give us enough time to check the weather, pull up paperwork and check our mailbox. Even though we 'sign in' an hour before, we don't get paid until we're pushing back from the gate.

Our pilot operations is a place where you'll regularly run into captains and co-pilots who you may have flown with on a different airplane and hadn't seen in years. I ran into my longtime friend Russ on this morning's trip. Russ and I worked in a hobby shop together in Seattle when we were both in high school, so it's always nice to visit with him. He's currently an MD-80 first officer (co-pilot).

I couldn't believe my timing. A four-day trip to the Caribbean with Hurricanes Hanna and Ike scheduled to be right in our way for almost every leg.

Would some of the flights get canceled? And if not, how far out of the way would we be flight planned to stay away from these storms?

This job tends to stay interesting if only because no two trips are alike, even if they take you to the same destinations. Some might think there's a lot of monotony in flying a plane, but even if the destinations remain the same, there are always new challenges such as adverse weather, different ATC requests, or small mechanical issues to contend with. Not to mention the variety of pilots and flight attendants you might be working with.

I pulled up the satellite weather before leaving for the airport, knowing that it would be impossible to see the big picture of this storm once we're inflight. While our airborne radar can keep us away from the bumps, it can't give us an idea of the actual conditions until we're within a few hundred miles or less of the storm.

The first leg, from Boston to Miami wouldn't be a problem at all. It was the second leg, from Miami to Caracas that might be interesting. Before departing, my guess was that we'd be flight planned south over Cuba and then Jamaica before turning toward Venezuela.

Sure enough, as you can see from this satellite view below, we were sent around the west side of Hanna. The ride from Miami to Caracas turned out to be rather smooth, with almost all of the clouds associated with the outer edge of the storm well below us.

As a pilot, every now and then you'll have a chance to catch a sight that just burns into your memory. The spire of the Empire State Building piercing a setting sun while approaching New York's JFK airport, or watching a satellite pass overhead while holding above a thick cloud layer of fog over Anchorage.

But nothing can top the scene witnessed by every airplane crossing the North Atlantic on July 22nd, at around 3 a.m. in whatever time zone we were crossing.

At first, we thought we noticed a faint glow of the northern lights. Pretty soon, the colors became so spectacular that we began calling the flight attendants up to the cockpit to check out the light show.

But these aurora borealis weren't moving or changing colors. And the colors that were starting to appear, didn't match the usual green glow I was used to.

It didn't take long for pilots on 123.45, a VHF channel that's normally used to report ride conditions and any weather deviations, to start a discussion about what we were seeing.

During the sterile-cockpit period we don't get into non-essential conversations; we're required to limit it to only what's required for the safe operation of the airplane. This keeps all of our attention focused on flying and reduces the chance that a distraction could lead to a potentially serious mistake. This sterile period is defined as anytime the airplane is moving under its own power and below 10,000 feet.

That said, whenever we have a chance to set the parking brake while we're on the ground during a delay, or when we're above 10,000 feet, it's a great opportunity to get a picture, especially when I'm a relief pilot sitting in the jumpseat.

I've been struggling to properly expose both the inside and the outside of the cockpit, which can be challenging. I managed the nice shot below because the sun was reflecting off the instrument panel from the left side and behind us slightly.



But what about the times when the sun isn't helping you out? In the past I've used a flash to 'fill' in the cockpit areas while exposing for the outside of the airplane as seen in this picture:

The biggest choice I get to make each month when picking a schedule isn't generally where I'll fly or what days off I'll get. Since I'm much closer to the bottom of the seniority list than the top among 767 international co-pilots in Boston, my choice is generally between flying a set schedule (known as a line) or 'sitting' on reserve.

If I choose reserve, I'm on call for more days a month, but on many of those days the company doesn't need me to fly at all. In return, the pay is 10-15% less than flying a full schedule. This difference in pay is enough to cause most pilots to choose to bid a line.

When I'm able to hold a line, I tend to pick up trips and trade around so a normal schedule of, say, three-days on and three-days off might be a complete mess after I add a trip and bunch a few others together.

But nothing has compared to this past week. This is the first time I've worked at this company with just one day off in the past 15 days.

We left off in the last episode looking at an extra two nights in Paris after a mechanical issue caused our flight back to Boston to cancel.

This was because our 7:10 p.m. required departure time had arrived and the mechanics still hadn't found the problem. So now there was no way to get to Boston without exceeding our 14 hour maximum time on duty.

We couldn't believe the situation. A five-day Paris trip? I've always envied the British Airways and Virgin crews that layover for days in the Caribbean. We'd finally get a chance to experience Paris after a full night's sleep.

Later that evening, the mechanics narrowed down our problem to a faulty total air temperature probe. This probe supplies the temperature information for the FMS (Flight Management System - The airplane's 'computer.') which calculates our Mach number and how high we can fly, among many other things. They'd have to fly a new temperature probe in from Chicago the next morning.

I've often marveled at how smooth air travel has become. Contrary to media reports, tens of thousands of flights operate every day with nary an issue. That was certainly the case for the previous six Paris trips this month.

The first clue that it'd be a more interesting flight came as I walked into the cockpit after doing the walk-around inspection outside. The captain mentioned that we didn't have any autothrottles tonight. It's akin to driving a car for 7 hours without cruise control.

I pulled out my Macbook to check the 767 MEL (Minimum Equipment List) to see if there were any issues about flying across the Atlantic without the autothrottles. Nothing came up, which meant they could be deferred for a few days until repairs or component replacements could be made.

At this point I can already hear a few corporate and regional airline pilots screaming, "Hey, we don't even HAVE autothrottles!"

Cockpit Chronicles takes you along on each of Kent's trips as a co-pilot on the Boeing 757 and 767 out of Boston.

"We've had a minor explosion back here," one of the flight attendants, Susan, told us during our preflight.

"There's orange juice all over 2H and J."

Selfishly, we all perked up. Those were our crew rest seats. The thought of sitting in a wet seat gave a new urgency to the co-pilot's voice when calling maintenance to get the cover and cushion replaced.

I was the relief pilot again for this flight. My schedule for June is exclusively for FB trips to Paris, but occasionally I'm able to trade over to the co-pilot seat if it opens up during the month, which leaves my relief pilot position open to someone who's on reserve or another pilot who's able to trade into it.