I almost didn’t get on the plane to Boston.
Instead of driving 50 miles to Philadelphia International Airport for my flight to Boston, I found out I could fly out of Trenton/Mercer Airport, 2 miles from home. Problem was the plane was the size of a Chrysler minivan and it had propellers. Do they even make spare parts for planes with propellers anymore?? They do, but apparently they do not make mufflers for them anymore—I was deafened by the roaring engines the entire way up the coast—ears ringing for an hour afterward deafened, like being at a Ramones show. But at a Ramones show you’re not rendered green and queasy. Well, not unless you’re immoderate with things.
A young man gave us the usual talking to about the use of personal electronics and emergency exits etc, and then he went and took his seat in the cockpit. I wondered not so casually if the steward knew how to steer and land the plane too.
We took off with a total of 3 passengers on board, and 1 of them was a pilot just hooking a ride up north. How can this possibly be profitable? Maybe because the copilot is actually a steward. It was a foggy and cloudy morning, so I was a bit disappointed because I wanted to spy my house from above. Once we climbed to cruising altitude, the pilot (age approximately 15) turned around from the cockpit and started to talk to me! “Nice flight, eh?” Not if you don’t keep your eyes on the job of flying this plane, young fellow. I thought there was supposed to be barricades at the doors to the cockpits, but this was a gingham curtain, pulled back and hooked at the wall. Terrorist schmerrorist.
But guys, the views from this noisy little crop-duster as we shot up the coast were so beautiful. Instead of being 38,000 feet up in the upper stratosphere on your typical 747, we zipped along at an altitude that allowed me to see all kinds of cool things. The Jersey shore stretched out in a straight line to the south. Then we went further out to sea, and I could make out the surface of the ocean: it looked a lot like a microscopic view of aging skin—smooth but with patterns of lines and wrinkles. Every once in a while I’d see a ship below, leaving a long wake on the flat ocean surface. Wondered where they were off to. As we got farther north, we passed some islands that looked like big apostrophes in the middle of the ocean. Wondered who lived way out there. Once we got nearer to Massachusetts, we came inland, and the fall foliage of New England was at its peak. Calico-looking swirls of red, orange, yellow, and purple were interspersed with great big sections of still-green forest—just lovely.
And now, the moral of the story: slow down, go through life at a lower altitude, pay attention to the scenery, and focus on something other than your queasiness.
That's the idea. :-)
My pilot for the short hop flight between Westray and Orkney mainland has been reported to give his safety introduction thus:
If we have to land in an emergency and you're wondering when to leave the plane then have a look at my seat. If it's already empty then that's your cue.
Posted by: Legomen | October 14, 2004 at 05:19 AM
he'd have to race me to the emergency shoot!
Posted by: em | October 14, 2004 at 09:15 AM
Oh Em, you sound like a little old lady in crochet shawl for the first part of this post! "Young fellow" indeed. Heh. I used to fly regularly between two German airports in what they used to call a "puddle hopper". The cabin was so small you'd have to sit knees with scrunched up to your chest (rosary beads to hand). "Lunch" was a plastic enwrapped sandwich and pot of orange juice (the size of a mini doughnut) that you had to somehow move from your seat before placing your bottom there for the flight. Ah, those were the days.
Posted by: Daisy | October 14, 2004 at 11:08 AM
oh God, I do. someone just shoot me.
;-)
Posted by: em | October 14, 2004 at 11:13 AM
dude, they don't come with mufflers. haven't you ever watched an old news reel or movie with planes in them.
i've been on 4 puddle jumpers. i hate them. i do not like being able to see out the friggin windshield of a plane. the largest sat 10-15 the smallest 4-6. the first time the pilot thought it would be fun to turn the engine off or something and glide. it suddenly became eerily quiet. freaked me out. that was a flight from here to newark. NEVER THE HELL AGAIN!
Posted by: Enigma | October 17, 2004 at 05:19 PM
shut. the engine. off?
i'd have rushed the cockpit!
Posted by: em | October 18, 2004 at 09:04 AM