- I pick this music because it is the other song that comes to me when I’m in crowded airports especially when I’m speed walking to make a quick connection. This is thanks to the scene in “Home Alone” that I saw too many times when I was young and impressionable.
From the notebook of Caleb Michael Smith, Esquire: Recorded over the course of multiple flights and stopovers on Dec. 12, 2005, with some polish and supplementation after the fact.
It says something when the charter flight you’re taking has the southernmost terminal in the airport. I don’t mean towards the end or near the end. I mean when I walked out the side door, I was out of airport to see (until I looked behind me, that is). That tells you where you stand on the airport totem pole.
After cruising on a Boeing jet, I expected the Beechcraft would be a step down in luxury. However, as the passengers climbed on the plane, the co-pilot proudly proclaimed, “You’re all in first class.”
I had a hard time countering the comment seeing as every person was simultaneously in a window and aisle seat (there were two strips of single seats on both sides of the plane and three seats in the back, though the middle one was not taken). When it came to seating, everyone was equal, with the exception of the pilots who have a few more doodads and gizmos to fiddle with during the course of the flight. We were also all equal when it came to the beverage service because there wasn’t any. It’s the bourgeoisie way to fly.
Now, I shouldn’t belittle the talent that it takes to fly the planes, but one of the pilots threw me for a loop.
I’ve worked hard not to be an age-ist, or a person who judges people on their perceived number of years lived. However, the pilot looks to be about my age and that freaks me out a bit. Some of my uneasiness may be rooted in misconceptions. He may simply be especially clean-shaven today. The airline’s quasi-military uniform certainly doesn’t help, because his “bars” primarily serve to underscore his youth.
I’d wager he’s been through flight school (it’s certainly harder to get around that piloting requirement than it used to be). Maybe I would be more comforted if I didn’t know what went on in college and how easy it is to earn a degree without being required to learn anything. I’ve known people to literally sleep through a course (when they sporadically showed up to class) and still pull out a decent grade.
Concerns aside, the co-pilot was free flowing with jokes as we got on. When the plane doesn’t have any flight attendants I guess the pilots are expected to interact more with the passengers. However, I’m not sure if joking around with the ground crew about propeller accidents would fall under the “Acceptable Conversation Topics” in the airline handbook.
The casual attitude of this airline is different, and I’m not saying it’s wrong, but the employees are taking some obvious short cuts.
Due to there being no flight attendants, the safety lecture is pre-recorded and played over the intercom. It’s a standard, familiar spiel that many people who have never flown could recite. Though well known, airlines are still required to repeat it on every flight for safety and, more importantly to the lawyers and accountants, liability issues.
I wasn’t too tuned into the safety rundown, having already listened to one revue that day, but I thought that it was assumed that you would finish the safety review prior to departing the terminal. Also, even though many people were continuing conversations over the tape, I don’t think it’s kosher to turn down the volume part way through. I could tell the voice was still talking, but I couldn’t pull any specific words out over the droning of the engines. Should an accident have occurred on the runway, and people not been fully confident on operating the emergency exits in the back of the plane, I’d wager a lawsuit could easily (and profitably) result.
Going back to the engines, I have to question the outfit’s dedication to maintenance. From my window, I can see how some panels could have been screwed down tighter on the engine casing. They’re not wobbling or anything, but if I look at the wing, I’m a touch disappointed if all the joints and rivets aren’t aerodynamic.
Also, there’s an irregular, triangular divot in one of the panels. It has rough edges, so I don’t think it’s part of the standard Beechcraft design. I can’t imagine how a plane incurs damage like that, and after I think about it momentarily, I’m convinced that learning the truth won’t inspire any additional confidence in the airline.
My concerns are slowly soothed throughout the course of the flight. There is a steady vibration in the plane. Nothing is seriously quivering, but the resonation echoes through the cabin making one drowsy, like one who sits in a chair with in-built “magic fingers.”
I wonder if the pilot chairs have extra shocks to counter the slumbering effect. The pilots didn't put up any privacy blinds, so at least we're free to keep an extra eye on them.
"Does the co-pilot look sleep to you?"
"Look! Did you see? He was nodding his head and suddenly jerked it back. I know that move. That's the I-should-not-have-taken-economics-at-eight-in-the-morning-boy-am-I-out-of-it-bob."
"I had the name nod in 9 a.m. physics."
"We're dead men, aren't we?"
"Maybe someone should offer him a toffee or peppermint or something."
Moving on, I have to admit the view is nice. The aerial view of the mountains is new to me. It makes me glad I haven't seen the movie “Alive,” recently.
I still can recall the premise, however: a mountainous plane crash prompts a stranded rugby team to reconsider their usual culinary habits. I know this area of the Rockies isn’t as remote or treacherous as the Andes, but I can see some parallels.
I have to fight against my twisted subconscious not to answer the question, "Who would survive and who would play a more "submissive" role (notice how carefully I am considering my words).
The best way to keep from weighing my fellow passengers ("Don't look at the person who needed a wheel chair to get to the plane.") is to concentrate on my personal odds. I take some comfort in not being plump enough to make myself an obvious morsel. Also, having largely recovered from my Thanksgiving stomach fits, I feel confident I have enough fuel stored in my body to fast and postpone asking tricky questions about ethics and survival. Also, I've got a gross of granola bars in my backpack, and if I'm able to pull it from the wreckage, I'll be peachy keen until the helicopters ride.
I'd better end this entry before those around me scan my notes and start forming some unfortunate decisions (because we all know the outsider dies. He either is the first person to go, or the last one. The final sacrifice is usually a redemptive move that finally makes him a hero, but that doesn't stop him from being dead). Maybe I'll offer to share the granola bars from the start and I'll be fine.
Here's hoping.
