ait, wait, wait.

That’s all railroading was sometimes. The engineer for 101 South yawned through his bushy beard, the setting sun painting the right side of his lead unit, reflecting off the shiny refrigerated cars behind him, turning their white and orange flanks almost toyish in its light. Already the track-side buildings were silhouetted, their long shadows hiding the grubby weeds and litter along the Florida East Coast main. Fortunately he was running south with empty reefers; while he wouldn’t have time-critical oranges losing value, there were still schedule commitments to keep. It was the height of harvest and they needed this train south to pick up another load. Yet on the mast before him, the Titusville main signal glared as red as a freight agent’s face. It wasn’t his blame to shoulder.

To his right, Titusville yard looked pretty packed. 930 had worked it as best he could. He’d departed just as the engineer’s own train had entered Titusville main an hour ago. Now he could hear the dispatcher and 930 arguing what to do – Cocoa Yard was packed. The dispatcher sounded like he was tearing his hair out. Evidently none of the passing freights had picked up their outbounds and Cocoa was as clogged as a crew shed toilet.

Leaning out the window and looking back, the engineer could see the superintendent and a work crew fussing with the double turnout for Garden Street crossover. Of course it had failed intermittently over the shift. However a work train was already on the scene and could help fix things. Maybe.

A rock train rolls through Melbourne. This was one of the brief moments when trains actually moved.

Suddenly the signal he’d been staring at for long hours went green. Without hesitation, the engineer pumped off the brakes and, leaning out the cab to enjoy the slipstream of cool February air, advanced the throttle even as the brakes weren’t quite pumped off. With a light empty consist behind him, he quickly accelerated up to track speed, passing a series of green boards. As he came up on Frontenac, he realized just how desperate the dispatcher was to open the line. 930 sat on the siding, cab empty. Clearly it would be manned later once the Cocoa Clot got emptied. But this meant that the FEC mainline was single track from Titusville all the way to Pinetta, pretty much most of the division. No wonder traffic was slow – all the dispatcher could do was fleet trains in collections north and south. It was going to be a long day in front of the big board.

Actually, this was the favorite part of railroading for the engineer – nothing but green boards for miles. He clicked through the mileposts, nodding at each permissive target signal, making back lost time. Booming through Cocoa, he shook his head at the chaos of the place – every yard track was packed. Over the radio, he could hear far-away Hialeah Yard crabbing for car shortfalls, everything they needed here at midstate. Maybe the dispatcher would get his shit together when a light engine movement following his 101 south arrived at Cocoa. He could have these units build an extra and clear the yard. He could. Wasn’t the engineer’s problem.

He took Pinetta on the fly, passing an empty rock train, highballing down the line. On through Melbourne, the detector happily complacent. Approaching Palm Bay, he picked up his first restricting signal, a call to go into the siding. Either way, he was almost to his destination, the day complete.

Over the radio, there was some sort of emergency going on, something about the dispatcher going into some sort of mental breakdown. Not his circus, not his monkeys. His only concern was getting the reefers through to the sheds just outside Hialeah.

Another day on the FEC.

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(All photos credited to Kyle S)

The Cocoa Disaster; what happens when nothing is picked up. Didn’t you think your trains were a little short? To make matters worse, a cyber truck rolls by on the dirt road in the foreground.