Years ago, I was a student pilot on a night flight with my instructor. We flew from Palo Alto across San Francisco Bay and over the hills to Livermore for some touch-and-go landings. After several turns in the pattern, we headed back over the hills to find the bay covered with a thick marine layer. I could see clear skies on the west side where the PAO beacon was flashing. But to get over the clouds we would have to cross the bay at an altitude that would put us into Class B for San Francisco International. The frequency was very busy with arrivals so it was a while before I could break in with my rehearsed request.
Me: “NorCal Approach, Cessna N1234 at SUNOL intersection request Bravo transition to Palo Alto at 4,500.”
NorCal: “Cessna 1234, remain clear of the Bravo. I can’t let you fly straight across final to SFO. Say intentions.”
Me (not having a backup plan): “Aaaaaaahhhhhhhhh…”
NorCal: “Cessna 1234, I’m an air traffic controller, not your doctor!
