Late afternoon, Saskatoon airport. We're up on the A departure level; three
gates adjacent to each other. After a
peaceful week of visiting Saskatchewan and camping in Banff,
we're relaxed. I'm still high from my first scramble up an avalanche shoot to
the top of a Lake Louise peak. The departure lounge is brightly lit, sunshine
streams through the wall sized windows that overlook the tarmac. I'm watching
the tail end of a Blue Bomber/Rough Rider game on the lounge TV, Dan is
flipping through his smart phone.
The plane arrives 20 minutes
behind schedule. An announcement comes on the PA system.
Sorry for the delay folks, there were some strong
headwinds flying in from Toronto. We'll just
do a safety check and get you on your way shortly.
I heard the same sort of
announcement at the same time last year, on a flight heading back to Toronto, with the same airline. That aircraft lost cabin
pressure at 35,000 feet and had to make an emergency landing in Winnipeg.
I shoot a glance at Dan. He
munches on trail mix and smiles at me.
I jump and head to the
window to watch the airport crew unload baggage from the plane. I watch them insert
a big pump into the plane and into the plane's wing. Arms folded, rocking on my
heels, I watch. I turn to see passengers walking by me. I see two pilots greet
the other two pilots who will take us to Toronto. My stomach squeezes. I see one pilot nodding and
another turn and gesture toward the window. My head whips around to the plane.
My eyes shoot back at the pilots conferring.
I do not have a good feeling
about this. The pit of my gut is a rock. Am I the only one who notices? Do I
ask the pilots if I may join their conversation? Or do I relax and remind
myself there are some things you can control and some things you can't?
Fifteen minutes later we're
on the plane. I've popped a tranquilizer as a pre-emptive strike. Nothing to worry about. There are hundreds
of flights across the globe taking off right now. This is routine, this is Saskatoon. You're
being a drama queen.
Dan knows I had a bad flight
last year. He pats my knee.
We're taking off, the wheels
rise and the airplane climbs. Almost immediately I sense something isn't right.
The plane shouldn't have to labour this much to get airborne. Then, I smell it.
Something odd. Dan is looking out the window. The plane feels stalled. I see a
man the row ahead of us look sideways. And he says to no one in particular, do you smell something burning?
Although I have tranquilized
myself, my heart pounds furiously and I break into a sweat. Breathe, my yoga
teacher would say.
Flight attendant calls sound
from multiple rows. I squeeze Dan's hand. From the outside, you'd never know
I'm flooding with cortisol. The plane starts levelling off mid-rise. That is
not normal.
Underneath my calm facade I'm in a rage. This is
happening again, another airplane
malfunction. I think about Dan and how if I was alone, I would be okay with
crashing. But I am not okay with him crashing, being hurt, losing his life. This
is between me and the airline now, between me and a higher power letting me
know who's boss.
After a few minutes the
pilot informs us we struck a bird and must return to Saskatoon. Un oiseau
seulement.
Geese brought down US Airways
Flight 1549 a.k.a Miracle On The Hudson.
Back at the airport, we're
told we'll be accommodated on another flight leaving at 7:15pm. After that
flight is cancelled due to mechanical failure, we're informed there will be
room for us on the 11:15pm flight.
A week earlier I was on top
of a mountain, exhilarated. Now I'm searching the internet for train and bus
schedules.
I realize my anger is mixed
with grief. My father worked for this airline for 30 years, soldiering on and
supporting us six kids doing a job he loved, then tolerated, then suffered. He
practically gave his life to this airline, an airline that now seems to be more
about marketing and satisfying shareholders. My father died driving his car one
day, his heart exploding. At least he wasn't flying.
We board at 11:15pm and have a non-nonsense flight back to Toronto. The roar of the engines are determined. We're
slicing through night sky at hundreds of kilometres an hour. I'm in the fetal
position on two chairs, numb from two more tranquilizers.
I love flying. I love the
seeming impossibility of it. That's why I'm angry and sad and still feel grief.
Sooner or later, we're all struck down.
