All Aboard
I near my row.
Please, God,
Let me have pleasant traveling companions.
Let me settle comfortably in my seat.
Let me enjoy this flight.
Amen.
I do have an aisle. Settling in, I remember to turn off my cell phone. The flight attendant makes the announcement about switching off all electronic devices. I check my computer: off.
“I don’t really think that computers interfere,” comments my neighbor. “Still, just in case, eh?”
“Just in case,” I echo.
Flyers feel a certain kinship with the sight of the earth unencrusted by humanity, they want to see it that way in one sweeping view, in reassurance that nature still exists on her own, without a chain-link fence to hold her.
—RICHARD BACH
But what if computers do interfere and a rebellious traveler leaves his switched on? Would we manage to take off only to have the “interference” send us hurtling back to earth? It’s a scary scenario. Perhaps all the other passengers also have this montage unspooling in their minds. Obedient, they turn their computers off. I try to trust that no one will flaunt the rules. It occurs to me that flying requires faith—not only faith in our pilot but faith in our fellow travelers as well. We are traveling together with the tacit understanding that no one will fling open an exit door, sucking us out into space.
But what’s this? The plane shudders—once, twice, a third time. The pilot’s voice comes over the intercom. “This is your captain. Please move to your seats quickly. Right now we have a wind of forty-one knots. If it gets up to fifty knots, we cannot fly. Please take your seats swiftly and we will get under way. Expect turbulence until we reach ten thousand feet.”
Man must rise above the Earth—to the top of the atmosphere and beyond—for only thus will he fully understand the world in which he lives.
—SOCRATES
“Oh, great,” mutters the traveler in the window seat. “I hate turbulence.”
“We all do,” I say. The plane shudders again as it backs away from the gate.
“I wonder how many knots we are at now?” remarks the middle-seat traveler.
“He won’t fly if it’s too dangerous,” I hear myself say soothingly. The plane shudders yet again as it starts to taxi into position for takeoff. “We must be close to fifty knots,” I catch myself thinking. The plane picks up speed. Soon it hurtles down the runway. I find myself feeling a mixture of fear and excitement. There is something romantic about being one amid a crowd of strangers. All of us have taken the leap of faith necessary for flying. Collectively we have decided to trust our pilot. Perhaps his flush is just sunburn, I speculate. Yes, that is a more comforting thought. As the plane takes off into the wind, I quickly pray:
Dear God, please keep us safe.
Please guide our pilot.
I repeat it like a mantra.
Dear God, please keep us safe.
Please guide our pilot.
Just as promised, we hit turbulence. The plane bucks and bounces.
Dear God, please keep us safe.
Please guide our pilot.
“I hate this. I hate this,” mutters the window-seat flyer.
“Me, too,” joins the middle-seat flyer.
“It will be over soon,” I tell them and myself. How calm I am able to sound! I deserve an Oscar. I find myself wanting to be a source of comfort to my companions. I try to soothe them just as my friends tried to soothe me.
“GOD, HELP US!” I add under my breath. I am trying to practice a spiritual slogan, “Let go and let God.” I want to let go of my apprehension and trust God to guard and guide us.
Dear God, please let me trust you!
Amen.
Unexpectedly, I find myself believing in the skills of our pilot. And surely he must pray as well.
God, thank you for helping our pilot.
Thank you for keeping us safe despite the turbulence.
Please cushion our choppy flight.
Thank you for your help.
Amen.
The plane continues to buck and drop. I feel calm despite the turbulence, but then my brief moment of faith evaporates. I feel a surge of anxiety, something close to panic. How long can I tolerate the choppy air? Not much longer. I remember the pilot’s promise of smooth air at 10,000 feet. I pray again:
God, please guide us to smooth air.
Please let us reach 10,000 feet.
Please, please, end this turbulence.
Quiet my nerves and give me faith.
Thank you for your help.
Amen.
This time it appears my prayer is answered. The turbulence stops. Blessedly smooth air takes its place. I catch myself sighing. I “hear” a soothing message:
Little One, all is well.
Why do you doubt my protection?
I watch over you with care.
“Thank God that’s over,” says the window-seat passenger.
“On cargo flights, they stay in the turbulence,” the middle-seat traveler volunteers. “They don’t change altitudes. That’s just for us.”
“How did you hear that?” I ask.
“My brother-in-law is a pilot,” comes the reply. “He’s full of stories about how safe it is.”
“Really?”
“Really. He thinks it’s hilarious that I’m frightened.”
“I don’t think it’s funny.”
“Me neither.”
Just for a beat, I relax. My neighbor is as frightened as I am—a kindred spirit.
I feel our shared fear bonds us somehow. Just for a moment I appreciate the beauty of all of us strangers sitting so close to one another. Comforted, I settle in for the long flight.
There is no sport equal to that which aviators enjoy while being carried through the air on great white wings.
—WILBUR WRIGHT