Perfect Perch

The low rumble of a Boeing 747 tickles Paul Subbie’s eardrums as the 232-foot-long jet eases its mammoth body onto the south runway of Los Angeles International Airport.

The plane, accelerating for takeoff, lopes along the concrete runway like an Olympic pole vaulter preparing for a giant hurdle. It hoists its heavy body into the air, climbing westward over the steely gray ocean and into the bright blue sky.

Subbie sits on a bench, one foot perched on a wooden fence, and watches this aerodynamic feat from a special hill in El Segundo where airplane aficionados gather for an unfettered view of the ceaseless activity at the nation’s fourth-busiest airport.

Unofficially known as the Bird Watch, this sudden rise in the practically pancake-flat land running along Imperial Avenue near Sheldon Street is dotted with concrete benches where enthusiasts park their bodies to watch the comings and goings of DC-10s, L-1011s, MD-11s, 727s and 737s.

Die-hard airplane lovers bring their scanners to home into the squawking communications between air traffic controllers on the ground and pilots in the air, listening to bits of staccato-style conversation such as “Slow to 199 knots” or “Cleared for takeoff.”

While the city of El Segundo fights an ongoing battle to keep LAX planes as much at bay as possible, these people drive miles to see and hear the aircraft. The city recently won a battle when the Federal Aviation Administration agreed that in June it would implement a new takeoff procedure so commuter turboprops leaving the airport head out over the Pacific Ocean instead of turning early and crossing the city’s airspace.

The hill received a bit of aeronautic notoriety in 1988 when the City Council decided to send a message to pilots who flew their noisy aircraft over the community after takeoff. On the side of the hill the council erected giant, plywood letters--visible from the air--that read, “UNSAFE AREA FOR JETS.” Floodlights illuminated the message at night for two years. The city won that battle too--the big jets also switched to a flight path over the ocean.

But the 8-foot-high letters are still there, covered with brown plastic just in case they’re needed again.

The city’s bane is the Bird Watch crowd’s glory. On any given day at the hill, you can find businessmen on their lunch breaks, retirees passing the time of day, parents with a passel of kids, joggers, all trying to feel as if they are flying without leaving the ground.

More men frequent the hill than women, just as more boys than girls assemble model airplanes. These are people like Subbie, a 49-year-old retired manager and stay-at-home father, who loves flying. He has been coming to this hill ever since he was a 13-year-old living on the Westside, biking the long distance down Sepulveda Boulevard. It was a special place where he did his thinking and dreaming as a teenager. It still is.

On this particular day, he is on the hill after a long hiatus. He has lived in Bothell, Wash., for seven years, but he is in town for his son’s imminent wedding.

He is thinking about his son launching a new chapter in his life. But Subbie also has his thoughts on his year-old adopted daughter back in Washington.

The hill helped shape his dream of becoming a commercial pilot in the late 1960s. For four years, he flew cargo planes into Southeast Asia during the Vietnam War, as familiar with airspace over Laos, Cambodia, Vietnam and Thailand as the lanes of the San Diego Freeway. He gave up commercial flying to work for an insurance company before retiring early. Now his time is spent taking care of his young daughter while his wife works.

When in town, he brings a radio scanner and listens to the barrage of communications among ground control, air traffic controllers and pilots.

“You listen to the volume of air traffic they handle and it’s amazing they can do it all,” he said. “And sitting up here makes you feel a little closer to flying.”

Subbie hasn’t flown an airplane for two years now.

From this hill, observers stand only about 1,200 feet from the middle of the runway where they can see buses, trucks and luggage haulers zipping back and forth like busy ants at a picnic. They can even see the remote gates at the west end of the north runway where planes in need of high security are parked.

Corey Campbell, a 40-year-old engineer who walks to the hill at lunch time from his El Segundo office, remembers seeing Air Force One parked at the remote area in 1993 when President Clinton had his infamous $200 haircut.

Last month, plane spectators saw King Hussein’s plane parked at the remote terminal while the Jordanian ruler checked into a hospital to have an ear problem treated.

The hill used to be just a patch of weeds until the El Segundo Recreation and Parks Commission came up with the Metal Bird Watch Program. In late 1972, the City Council voted to install five concrete benches, an asphalt walk, and garbage cans for the people congregating on the land rising over Imperial Highway.

There the metal-bird watchers gather, sometimes bringing pads to soften the bench-sitting, while observing each aircraft jockey in line for takeoff. They talk their own lingo about the 47-heavys, the largest of the Boeing 747s, and the puddle jumpers, the Boeing 737s.

“When you see these 747s take off, you say, ‘Wow, that’s power,’ ” said Greg Hiehle, 35, a satellite systems engineer who got his private pilot’s license more than two years ago. He often drives over during his lunch break at Hughes Aircraft Co. in El Segundo.

But more than jet watching, the hill provides a place to think and contemplate life. There is something soothing about watching jets land and take off. Something exciting about seeing planes head for far-off places.

“It relaxes you,” says Monica Perez, 24, of Mexico, visiting her aunt who lives only two blocks away.

“It has a kind of therapeutic effect,” said Ken Geist, 35, of El Segundo. “The frustrating part, however, is seeing all these people taking off. You want to say, ‘Hey, take me too.’ ”