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There it was. The big Presidential TFR. A giant "don't go there" circle painted over Honolulu International Airport, keeping Saturday fliers like me on the ground for a couple of hours while our leader met with troops for lunch on his way back to DC from Asia.

Why fight it. Join it, I thought to myself as I jumped in my truck and headed past Waikiki to the airport. If I couldn't be in the air this weekend, I was at least going to do the next best thing: watch from the ground and, in this case, see the most beautiful 747 ever built, in all of its glory. Little did I know I'd soon be seeing double.

Having a good knowledge of the roads surrounding the airport, I headed for where I thought I'd best be able to see Air Force One lumber into the blue skies over Hawaii. Obviously, the secret was out, thanks to the Secret Service.

As I turned onto the access road with the best departure view, I quickly noticed marked and unmarked government cars in every nook and crannie - not to mention police officers standing 200 feet apart on the water's edge, presumably watching for anyone who might be arriving via... uh, submarine?

Even with all of the activity, the road was still open, so I carefully drove towards my lookout spot, thinking up a story in case I was stopped. Sure enough, the road block came into view as the officer put up his hand.

"Sir, where are you headed?" The interrogation began over chatter on his shoulder-mounted radio.

"George's Aviation to rent a plane," I said without blinking. It was the flight school closest to my best vantage point, and if I could get there, I could still see Air Force One.

"Ok, you know you can't fly until the President departs. You can't even go into the school. It's closed." His eyes darted from me, and began a scan of the inside of my truck.

"That's fine, I'll just park and wait until he leaves." Apparently that was good enough, as the officer stepped back and let me though. I drove slowly to the flight school, pulled into a spot, and pulled out my handheld transceiver. After all, I'd want to hear the luckiest pilots in the world talk to the tower.

Where was it? The heavily-modified jumbo was no where to be found. But the police were. Just as I dialed in the tower frequency on my handheld, an officer raced-up next to my truck.

"You can't sit in your car right now. You'll have to stand outside next to it. Only until the President leaves. Actually, until both planes leave."

Wait, both planes? Could it be? Both of the baby-blue-bellied-beauties were in town. And like clockwork, my handheld came alive.

"Honolulu Tower, 2-8-0-uh-0-0 cleared for take-off, Runway 8 Left."

For President travel enthusiasts, you already know the two 747s have distinct tail-numbers: 28000 and 29000, respectively. Only the plane the President is on is called Air Force One. And apparently - at least according to that radio transmission - not until airborne.

Behind the hangers, I could hear the unmistakable hum of four perfectly-maintained turbines spooling up across the field. The whine got louder, and the seconds ticked by.

Then, there it was. Gracefully and powerfully climbing away over the Pacific, with its white backbone and gold trim twinkling in the afternoon sun. Chills crawled up my neck.

And then moments later: "Honolulu Tower, 2-9-0-0-0, cleared for take-off, Runway 8 Left." Same runway, same departure, same plane. But oh, so different.

Article by Chris Archer; Send him an email