I wouldn't characterize it as a gross exaggeration.

It was a predictable event but I am sad to see it come.  From The Last 747 Ever Built Has Rolled Off Boeing’s Production Line by Thomas Newdick.  The subheading is After well over a half century of production, Boeing has built its final example of the iconic 747 Jumbo Jet.

After more than half a century in production, the last example of Boeing’s 747 ‘Jumbo Jet,’ the iconic airliner that brought long-range wide-body air travel to the world, has rolled off the production line. With the closure of the production line for the ‘Queen of the Skies,’ the era of the four-engine airliner also ends, with Boeing and rival Airbus now having fully transitioned to twin-engine wide-body airliner families.

The last Model 747, the 1,574th to be completed, will emerge from Boeing’s Everett, Washington, facility today. The aircraft will be test flown by the manufacturer before being painted and delivered to its customer, the cargo and charter carrier Atlas Air, early next year.

[snip]

While the 747 is today one of the most familiar sights in the skies, it’s hard to imagine the degree to which it broke new ground when it was first rolled out in September 1968.

[snip]

As for the 747, this originally measured 225 feet in length, with the top of the tail fin as high as a six-story building, and total weight in the region of 735,000 pounds. Its wing area was larger than a basketball court and its capacious fuselage was pressurized with a ton of air. Depending on the configuration, a 747 could carry between 374 and 490 passengers, plus flight and cabin crew. At the same time, the aircraft made use of technologies that were, for their time, cutting edge, including advanced navigation systems.

All they missed was the historical comparison - The width of the 747 wing span, 195 feet 8 inches, was greater than the distance of the first powered flight by the Wright bothers at Kitty Hawk, 120 feet.  

I was nine years old when the first 747 was produced and perhaps ten or eleven when I first flew a Pan Am 747 from New York JFK to London circa 1970.  A trip whose anticipation was only slightly marred by a delayed take-off owing to a rear door hatch which would not close.  

I was young enough to only be intrigued rather than alarmed when a mechanical crew boarded and made their way to the back with an acetylene torch to weld the door closed for flight.  

I have no idea how many 747 flights I have made over the decades.  Based on an estimate of 5,000 lifetime flights, I would guess at least 1,000 of them would have been 747s.  They were a mainstay for long-haul flights on both the North Atlantic and the Asia Pacific runs for decades.  

I was only fortunate enough to enjoy the service in the classic hump a couple or three times.  The first occasion will remain with me forever.

I was in the US, returning to Atlanta from a week of flying to clients all over the country.  Worn as traveling does to you, I was looking forward to a day or two of respite when I got a call.  My parents were in Gotland, Sweden at that time and beginning to get up there in years.  My father was already scheduled to go in for surgery to replace a knee.  At the last moment, my Mom came down with pneumonia or something like that and was about to be admitted to hospital.  Unexpectedly, both were to be in hospital at the same time and neither available to look after the other.

For whatever long forgotten reasons, neither of my sisters in England were able to make it to Sweden on such short notice.  

After some frantic calling, I was able to book a circuitous route that would get me back from my client to Atlanta, repack and then route to New York City to Frankfurt to Stockholm to Visby, Gotland.  After a week with little sleep owing to pressing work commitments.

I got into Atlanta, drove home and repacked, kissed my wife goodbye and drove back to the airport.  Delta took me to New York on a late evening flight.  I had to transfer terminals and make my way to the Pan Am check-in desk and ultimately to the departure gate, hoping for the best that my baggage would make it on board.

I arrived bleary-eyed and weary at the check-in gate to discover a veritable mob.  Apparently this particular flight continued on from Frankfurt to Zagreb, Yugoslavia.  I would be de-boarding for an SAS flight to Stockholm but the great majority of the JFK passengers were Zagreb-bound.  There had been some thawing of relationships between our countries and more travel between the two countries than in the past.  

Specifically, Yugoslav consumers in their planned economy would travel to the US to make consumer purchases either not available or not affordable in Yugoslavia.  And it seemed like all of them were returning on this flight laden with their purchases from the cornucopia of consumerism.  I later described the scene at the gate as a throbbing noisy throng of short, dark, hirsute villagers returning with chickens, goats, and refrigerators to Yugoslavia.  

While an exaggeration, I wouldn't characterize it as a gross exaggeration.  

Feeling like a giant in the milling throng, I soon realized we were perilously close to chaos.  Seemingly none of the passengers spoke English and none of the check-in agents spoke Croat.  And many passengers were very insistent in a babbling fashion on making some point, all the while holding up everyone else.

As I edged towards the front of the line, a Yugoslav passenger at the check-in desk four or five passengers in front of me was being especially obstreperous.  The agent was desperately searching for a common language.  French?  No.  Spanish?  No.  German?  Yes.  But then it turned out that none of the agents actually had German.  At that time, my German, while rusty, was still extant.  I offered to help and we sorted out whatever the issue was.

Fifteen minutes later, I finally made it to the front of the line, exhausted to the point of haggard.  I had resigned myself to the high probability that I would be in a center seat between two passengers carrying large boxes of western consumer products in their laps.  And possibly a chicken or two.

I offered the agent, the one I had helped earlier, my ticket.  She glanced up when I spoke in English and the relief of having a native-English speaker to deal with was obvious.  Then she recognized me from the translation episode.  She looked around the thronging bedlam, refocused on me and then sotto voce muttered, "Just a minute" and headed off somewhere.  

She returned shortly and handed me my boarding card, "You are all checked in."  "Great, thanks."  

As I started to turn away, I glanced to see what seat I had drawn, dreading that center seat far at the back.  Imagine my astonishment.  2B.  First class.  I turned towards the agent in surprise and got a smile and a wink.  All I could offer was "Thank you."

2B.  Up in the hump of those old 747s.  After all the whirlwind of the past 36 hours, changing of plans, booking of flights, racing the clock between different locations, etc. I had seven hours of first class service from the vantage point of the second floor.  Spectacular.

I wish I could thank that agent yet again.  It was the single gleam of relief in an otherwise difficult journey.

I will miss those 747s as they dwindle away.  What a vision of the future they were.