Thursday, April 8, 2004 - Very rough, unedited
I sank my weary self down under soft sheets at approximately 2:30 am, my packing successfully completed. As my head brushed the pillow, I heard the sound of my parents urging me to get ready to depart. 4 am already, and I had only just gone to sleep. It was my own fault, after all, for staying out past midnight to visit my friend before I left.
The airport in the early morning is just as crowded as ever. I grabbed a double-shot latte in the hopes of staying awake. I never sleep well on planes and don't much care to, although, that morning, exhaustion would eventually win in the end. When I checked my dad and myself in on the self-service machine, the agent behind the counter notified the two of us that we had been randomly selected to be searched that fine morning. Fortunately, I was too tired to care much either way. Latte in hand, I accompanied my father to "lane 7", where we had been instructed to go. As I put my backpack, jacket, shoes, and espresso on the table, I jokingly told the lady that she was welcome to "search the coffee, too". The nice lady complied, waving the metal detector all around the paper cup, to no avail.
My father and I arrived at the gate with time to spare, which we passed by examining the shiny laptop we had borrowed from my mom's workplace. We boarded the plane, finding ourselves seated in the very last row, row 45, seats B and C. However, when the passenger assigned to the window seat failed to show up, my dad graciously offered me the coveted observation post. Having secured a pillow, I rested lightly against one of the plastic windows and found my eyes drooping. The plane pulled out onto the runway, and I fell asleep with the sounds of two roaring engines filling my ears as the plane sped up for take off.
I awoke rather suddenly to the sounds of screaming. Hysterical screaming.
"Oh my God! This is it!"
"Get me off of this plane!"
I looked around, bleary-eyed, at my father, who somehow explained everything in an instant. He, of course, had seen the sparks flying past the window I had fallen asleep against. The engine on the left-hand side of the plane had malfunctioned rather severely right as the plane leapt into the air. Some passengers saw the fire and heard the popping sounds of some sort of explosion, others noticed the flickering lights, and my dad saw the showers of sparks.
This, of course, was not supposed to happen. The captain turned off the engine as soon as he realized, and managed to crack a joke over the intercom: "I guess the warranty has expired on that one." This put passengers a little more at ease, people were no longer yelling in fright, most knew the plane was capable of flying with only one working engine. My dad reached over and took my hand. I held his grasp as we wheeled around back towards the Seattle airport.
I didn't quite understand. I have felt panic before, when flying on airplanes that have taken off without a hitch, realizing all the deadly possibilities that could go wrong and the hopelessness of it all. However, waking up to the sounds of screaming, comprehending that the plane's engine had just gone up in sparks or flame, I felt no twinge of panic, fear, or terror. I knew I should be worried, but was more worried because I wasn't worried that anything else. Why? Shouldn't I be frightened beyond belief, at my wit's end? Maybe it was just because I hadn't seen the sparks, hadn't been awake to hear the first pop. Maybe then I would be nuts. Was it some naive youthful sense of invincibility? Did I feel that nothing could harm me so early in my short life? Or maybe I was merely disoriented from my sudden waking, confused and without bearings. Although, shouldn't that have made it worse, increased some sense of terror and instinct for actions to ensure self-preservation? I knew where I was, I realized that there was some uncontrollable threat of danger, and there was nothing I could possibly do about it beyond remaining calm and cooperative. Whatever happened would happen. It was inevitable from there on out, and when my father took my hand, I was at peace, now trying to share it with the one sitting next to me.
When I thought back on this later in the day, I can think of a million loopholes. I MUST have been worried; it seems so illogical that I could not have been frightened. It is impossible that I could have been so calm. I know I'm afraid of death, so how is it possible I did not hold some sort of terror in my heart? Yet...
One of the most eerie and disturbing sounds is that nervous laughter of people who realize the episode is over, the danger gone. The laughs erupt from them, if only because they do not know how else to react. People laugh like ghosts, like doomed souls who have just stepped back from the brink. And yet, there is something beautiful. They can still laugh, can still smile; people look at one another with joy in their eyes and souls, greeting those around them as old friends, as people who share a common bond. They laugh and applaud and smile.
And my dad and I, we ended up on another airplane, six hours later. In my headphones, I could hear the echoing words, "Do you realize that everyone you know someday will die?" And, for just a second, I think I realized...and accepted the inevitable.
The airport in the early morning is just as crowded as ever. I grabbed a double-shot latte in the hopes of staying awake. I never sleep well on planes and don't much care to, although, that morning, exhaustion would eventually win in the end. When I checked my dad and myself in on the self-service machine, the agent behind the counter notified the two of us that we had been randomly selected to be searched that fine morning. Fortunately, I was too tired to care much either way. Latte in hand, I accompanied my father to "lane 7", where we had been instructed to go. As I put my backpack, jacket, shoes, and espresso on the table, I jokingly told the lady that she was welcome to "search the coffee, too". The nice lady complied, waving the metal detector all around the paper cup, to no avail.
My father and I arrived at the gate with time to spare, which we passed by examining the shiny laptop we had borrowed from my mom's workplace. We boarded the plane, finding ourselves seated in the very last row, row 45, seats B and C. However, when the passenger assigned to the window seat failed to show up, my dad graciously offered me the coveted observation post. Having secured a pillow, I rested lightly against one of the plastic windows and found my eyes drooping. The plane pulled out onto the runway, and I fell asleep with the sounds of two roaring engines filling my ears as the plane sped up for take off.
I awoke rather suddenly to the sounds of screaming. Hysterical screaming.
"Oh my God! This is it!"
"Get me off of this plane!"
I looked around, bleary-eyed, at my father, who somehow explained everything in an instant. He, of course, had seen the sparks flying past the window I had fallen asleep against. The engine on the left-hand side of the plane had malfunctioned rather severely right as the plane leapt into the air. Some passengers saw the fire and heard the popping sounds of some sort of explosion, others noticed the flickering lights, and my dad saw the showers of sparks.
This, of course, was not supposed to happen. The captain turned off the engine as soon as he realized, and managed to crack a joke over the intercom: "I guess the warranty has expired on that one." This put passengers a little more at ease, people were no longer yelling in fright, most knew the plane was capable of flying with only one working engine. My dad reached over and took my hand. I held his grasp as we wheeled around back towards the Seattle airport.
I didn't quite understand. I have felt panic before, when flying on airplanes that have taken off without a hitch, realizing all the deadly possibilities that could go wrong and the hopelessness of it all. However, waking up to the sounds of screaming, comprehending that the plane's engine had just gone up in sparks or flame, I felt no twinge of panic, fear, or terror. I knew I should be worried, but was more worried because I wasn't worried that anything else. Why? Shouldn't I be frightened beyond belief, at my wit's end? Maybe it was just because I hadn't seen the sparks, hadn't been awake to hear the first pop. Maybe then I would be nuts. Was it some naive youthful sense of invincibility? Did I feel that nothing could harm me so early in my short life? Or maybe I was merely disoriented from my sudden waking, confused and without bearings. Although, shouldn't that have made it worse, increased some sense of terror and instinct for actions to ensure self-preservation? I knew where I was, I realized that there was some uncontrollable threat of danger, and there was nothing I could possibly do about it beyond remaining calm and cooperative. Whatever happened would happen. It was inevitable from there on out, and when my father took my hand, I was at peace, now trying to share it with the one sitting next to me.
When I thought back on this later in the day, I can think of a million loopholes. I MUST have been worried; it seems so illogical that I could not have been frightened. It is impossible that I could have been so calm. I know I'm afraid of death, so how is it possible I did not hold some sort of terror in my heart? Yet...
One of the most eerie and disturbing sounds is that nervous laughter of people who realize the episode is over, the danger gone. The laughs erupt from them, if only because they do not know how else to react. People laugh like ghosts, like doomed souls who have just stepped back from the brink. And yet, there is something beautiful. They can still laugh, can still smile; people look at one another with joy in their eyes and souls, greeting those around them as old friends, as people who share a common bond. They laugh and applaud and smile.
And my dad and I, we ended up on another airplane, six hours later. In my headphones, I could hear the echoing words, "Do you realize that everyone you know someday will die?" And, for just a second, I think I realized...and accepted the inevitable.