Airline workers form colony in LA

Every four minutes, a jetliner or turboprop roars in - 500 feet above his front door - for a landing. The noise is so loud it forces Lancaster to pause during conversations. But he doesn’t mind. Lancaster puts up with the smell of jet fuel and screaming engines to save time and money.

The 60-year-old aviator’s primary residence is a cottage he shares with his wife overlooking a quiet bay off Puget Sound in Washington state. Living in Lot B while he’s on duty means he doesn’t have to rent a Los Angeles apartment with other pilots or spend 12 hours a day commuting to and from the Seattle area.

“As kids we used to ask our parents to take us to the airport to see the planes,’’ Lancaster quipped. “Now I get to live at the airport.’’

Lancaster’s 2001 Tradewinds sits among 100 trailers and motor homes that form a colony of pilots, mechanics, and other airline workers at Los Angeles, the nation’s third-busiest airport. They are citizens of one of the most unusual communities in the United States.

Their turf, just east of the Proud Bird restaurant off Aviation Boulevard, is fewer than 3,500 feet from the south runway. It is a drab expanse of crumbling gray asphalt, approach lights, chain-link fencing, and rows of beige and white recreational vehicles - some battered, others grand.

Many of the residents are separated from spouses, children, and significant others for days - even weeks - at a time in order to keep their jobs or move up the pyramid of the airline industry.

“This is the cost of being a pilot today,’’ said Todd Swenson, 40, a first officer at Alaska Airlines. His wife, Amanda, and 2-year-old son, Noah, live in Fresno, a six-hour commute by car.

Swenson, who earns about $70,000 a year, lives across from Lancaster in a 1973 Coachman trailer that belonged to his father. If Lancaster’s 38-foot rig with leather furniture is Park Place, Swenson’s is Mediterranean Avenue. The 23-foot metal box is as cramped as economy class, with just enough space for a double bed, a television, and a La-Z-Boy recliner.

The trailer’s windows are blacked out with foil and brown paper bags so Swenson can sleep during the day. To muffle the constant din of aircraft, he bought a white-noise machine - a small tape player with a recording that sounds like a washing machine. Swenson works out at a nearby 24-Hour Fitness, where he showers to conserve his trailer’s limited water supply.

Inside the Coachman, the wood paneling and storage cabinets are covered with photos of Amanda and Noah, whom Swenson returns to about 11 days a month. He keeps in touch via a computer Web cam.

“When my tires leave the driveway of my house in Fresno,’’ Swenson said, “the only thing I can think about is getting back to my family.’’