One Hour To Live
Feb 22, 2010 10:46 AM Filed in: Published Writing
I might have just sixty minutes left alive.
Shortly after take-off our pilot announced that he believed we'd had a tire blowout in the nose wheel, where a flat can make landing a difficult experience.
As they had great emergency services in O’Hare, our destination, the pilot said he had elected to continue on to there rather than return home. I realized right off that we would have plenty of time to contemplate the landing; a whole hour, in fact. I’ve always felt bandages should be ripped off quickly.
"Nothing to worry about," continued the Captain in his calm, deep resonant Captain's voice, "others have managed to land planes in this condition in the past. And don't worry about our flight engineer. He'll be rooting around under the floorboards in the main cabin to see whether it might have been one of the main landing gear tires instead. Just sit back and relax."
Right.
He continued, "Please pay attention to the flight attendants. They will brief you on the emergency exit procedures and brace positions." I was surprised to see the flight attendants handing out free drinks. This had to be really serious to qualify for free drinks. The economy had been hurting then, as well.
I decided to pass on the free drinks, believe it or not. I decided that I wanted all my wits about me. That adrenaline edge would help in an emergency.
What to do? I was alert to any hint that might portend the future. Except for the briefings and beer, all was routine. Two dead-heading pilots, who were manning the exit aisle in front of me, were having a discussion about their next vacations. Snacks were being handed out. Trash was being collected. Cans and paper were put into separate bags. This was all good. I couldn't imagine that recycling cans would be a major issue if all that scrap aluminum was going to be available after the plane crashes.
On the other hand, this would be how the professionals are trained to behave. You don't want the passengers screaming and running up the aisles. So, none of these promising clues were reliable indicators of what was really going to happen. And to think, this just might be the last sixty minutes of our lives.
There was an Airfone at my seat. Do I call home to my family? Do I tell my wife what's going on? No, that would be cruel if nothing happened, and would cost me $25 or so for the phone call. Yet if the worst happens, not having called would turn out to be inexcusable. It was a Bob Newhart moment.
In the cabin one guy, just out of the military, was upset. He downed four whiskey-and-waters in about twenty minutes and lost his voice to top it off. Another passenger evidently soothed her anxiety by talking non-stop with all the strangers around her; no problem with her voice. The extra pilots kept up their talk about Cancun.
I worked on my expense report for a while. I wrote up some notes for the day. I started writing this article you’re reading; anything to keep busy. Then I did call home, but ostensibly only to say hi. The connection was poor. My daughter's patience was thin at having to repeat herself, my wife was in the middle of some chore and wondering why I was blowing money on this call. Byes and I-love-you's ended a frustrating call.
I closed my eyes and said a prayer. Please keep us up, and alive. Please look after my family if we crash. (I was covering all the bases.)
My hour passed.
The pilot's talking again. "Don't worry about all the flashing lights on the runway." He's still a perfect baritone. They're here just for us, but they don't often get a chance to test all their lights and sirens, so they like to use them." This pilot was good, nothing but a nice manner and smooth, calm voice.
I was in brace position as we approached the runway, looking out the corner of my eyes for the lights. Waited for the touchdown, down, down, the aft wheels gently kissed the runway, the smoothest I've ever felt. We continued on, still pointing uphill, and the nose of the plane slowly lowered; this is when trouble would hit if there was going to be a problem. Reverse thrusters came on strong, we slowed, and kept heading straight.
All of a sudden we were stopped. Hearty, heartfelt applause from everyone.
So, no big deal, no blow out after all. Routine day in the air; no big national tragedy to report. For all of us, though, a reprieve and a full life to live. What will I do differently?
Appreciate each precious moment.
--Note: This article was originally published in 1994 in The Plain Dealer, The Philadelphia Inquirer, The Fort Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel, TravelASSIST Magazine, and elsewhere. It was written in real time while on the flight described. In the sixteen years since this has been published, I have made one significant change to this article: the last line used to say, “Not a thing.” Lots of life has passed by since then. Current article copyright 2010 by Bruce Corson, all rights reserved.
Shortly after take-off our pilot announced that he believed we'd had a tire blowout in the nose wheel, where a flat can make landing a difficult experience.
As they had great emergency services in O’Hare, our destination, the pilot said he had elected to continue on to there rather than return home. I realized right off that we would have plenty of time to contemplate the landing; a whole hour, in fact. I’ve always felt bandages should be ripped off quickly.
"Nothing to worry about," continued the Captain in his calm, deep resonant Captain's voice, "others have managed to land planes in this condition in the past. And don't worry about our flight engineer. He'll be rooting around under the floorboards in the main cabin to see whether it might have been one of the main landing gear tires instead. Just sit back and relax."
Right.
He continued, "Please pay attention to the flight attendants. They will brief you on the emergency exit procedures and brace positions." I was surprised to see the flight attendants handing out free drinks. This had to be really serious to qualify for free drinks. The economy had been hurting then, as well.
I decided to pass on the free drinks, believe it or not. I decided that I wanted all my wits about me. That adrenaline edge would help in an emergency.
What to do? I was alert to any hint that might portend the future. Except for the briefings and beer, all was routine. Two dead-heading pilots, who were manning the exit aisle in front of me, were having a discussion about their next vacations. Snacks were being handed out. Trash was being collected. Cans and paper were put into separate bags. This was all good. I couldn't imagine that recycling cans would be a major issue if all that scrap aluminum was going to be available after the plane crashes.
On the other hand, this would be how the professionals are trained to behave. You don't want the passengers screaming and running up the aisles. So, none of these promising clues were reliable indicators of what was really going to happen. And to think, this just might be the last sixty minutes of our lives.
There was an Airfone at my seat. Do I call home to my family? Do I tell my wife what's going on? No, that would be cruel if nothing happened, and would cost me $25 or so for the phone call. Yet if the worst happens, not having called would turn out to be inexcusable. It was a Bob Newhart moment.
In the cabin one guy, just out of the military, was upset. He downed four whiskey-and-waters in about twenty minutes and lost his voice to top it off. Another passenger evidently soothed her anxiety by talking non-stop with all the strangers around her; no problem with her voice. The extra pilots kept up their talk about Cancun.
I worked on my expense report for a while. I wrote up some notes for the day. I started writing this article you’re reading; anything to keep busy. Then I did call home, but ostensibly only to say hi. The connection was poor. My daughter's patience was thin at having to repeat herself, my wife was in the middle of some chore and wondering why I was blowing money on this call. Byes and I-love-you's ended a frustrating call.
I closed my eyes and said a prayer. Please keep us up, and alive. Please look after my family if we crash. (I was covering all the bases.)
My hour passed.
The pilot's talking again. "Don't worry about all the flashing lights on the runway." He's still a perfect baritone. They're here just for us, but they don't often get a chance to test all their lights and sirens, so they like to use them." This pilot was good, nothing but a nice manner and smooth, calm voice.
I was in brace position as we approached the runway, looking out the corner of my eyes for the lights. Waited for the touchdown, down, down, the aft wheels gently kissed the runway, the smoothest I've ever felt. We continued on, still pointing uphill, and the nose of the plane slowly lowered; this is when trouble would hit if there was going to be a problem. Reverse thrusters came on strong, we slowed, and kept heading straight.
All of a sudden we were stopped. Hearty, heartfelt applause from everyone.
So, no big deal, no blow out after all. Routine day in the air; no big national tragedy to report. For all of us, though, a reprieve and a full life to live. What will I do differently?
Appreciate each precious moment.
--Note: This article was originally published in 1994 in The Plain Dealer, The Philadelphia Inquirer, The Fort Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel, TravelASSIST Magazine, and elsewhere. It was written in real time while on the flight described. In the sixteen years since this has been published, I have made one significant change to this article: the last line used to say, “Not a thing.” Lots of life has passed by since then. Current article copyright 2010 by Bruce Corson, all rights reserved.
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