For the second time in as many months, my fellow passengers applauded shortly after our safe arrival at Newark-Liberty International Airport. It's not because we were all so delighted to be in Newark; then again, maybe it was, I didn't exactly take a survey. I do feel reasonably confident attributing the applause to the 'safe' part of the arrival following a choppy approach. Two months ago, it was Sandy. Tonight, it was a low visibility approach through Wintry Mix. Both times, my fingers firmly acquainted themselves with the adjacent armrests.
The situation lends itself to superficial interpretation. Was the city, with its black clouds and angry winds, making it unmistakably clear that I was no longer welcome here? Was the Great Spirit suggesting a little extra reflection with its application of minor terror? Is safety not in flight but in l'atterrissage?
Enough of that. That's not what I was thinking. I did put my book down, an absorbing one at that, but I was not scared. Shaken, a little. But I gazed out above that bouncing, obscured land below, sleet pouring in sideways over the engine and illuminated by the modest wing light directly out my window. I thought about the professionals inside that cockpit. I thought about how I've been on a lot of these flights, seen a fair bit, but not like these guys. They've been in Situations. These guys napalmed 'Nam or spiraled their way into Baghdad, been manning a 'copter in a Perfect Storm while their Coast Guard buddies dangled on a line above an Atlantic raging a few feet below. This was flight 1205 to Newark and it probably wouldn't even merit mention over beer.
And then I thought, what would? On those nights when they're not seducing in hotel lobbies or saying early prayers, when they're with a colleague at some far-flung bar and having a good ol' fashion Drink Up away from the missus, what do they talk about? What were the real harrowing times, the ones where they thought they might disappear off the map forever? the ones they can't share with you or me, the ones we'd appreciate but could never properly understand because we hadn't Been There and have no proper frame of reference? And I thought about how I have those.
Not those, at least not the ones where I was in The Shit or hanging by an ice pick on K-2. I won't pretend I've got anything near it. I say those in the sense of having Been Somewhere else, been an odd bird and deviated a little bit away from the prescribed path. Maybe at some point turned a couple heads or received some odd variant of acclaim, or what passes for acclaim according to my own idiosyncratic currency. What do I talk about? At that bar. What am I slurring about to some kindred spirit when the bartender is still reluctantly serving? What's inside of me that doesn't or can't come out everywhere else in the day-to-day? Who is that kindred spirit?
I suppose we keep flying, just keep going to wherever it is we think we're going and pass through as best we can whatever turbulence lies in the way. We bag the story, compare it to the others, bring it to light after a few cold ones if it's particularly deem-able. And, shit, I guess the path, not just the Flight 1205 path but the whole path, with all it's little air pockets sprinkled throughout; that whole path just really makes you question if you want to get to Newark. Do you want to make it where you are going. I smiled because I did, and because I felt there was a reason I was supposed to make it. I felt protected. I just hope it's because of the kindred spirit.
The situation lends itself to superficial interpretation. Was the city, with its black clouds and angry winds, making it unmistakably clear that I was no longer welcome here? Was the Great Spirit suggesting a little extra reflection with its application of minor terror? Is safety not in flight but in l'atterrissage?
Enough of that. That's not what I was thinking. I did put my book down, an absorbing one at that, but I was not scared. Shaken, a little. But I gazed out above that bouncing, obscured land below, sleet pouring in sideways over the engine and illuminated by the modest wing light directly out my window. I thought about the professionals inside that cockpit. I thought about how I've been on a lot of these flights, seen a fair bit, but not like these guys. They've been in Situations. These guys napalmed 'Nam or spiraled their way into Baghdad, been manning a 'copter in a Perfect Storm while their Coast Guard buddies dangled on a line above an Atlantic raging a few feet below. This was flight 1205 to Newark and it probably wouldn't even merit mention over beer.
And then I thought, what would? On those nights when they're not seducing in hotel lobbies or saying early prayers, when they're with a colleague at some far-flung bar and having a good ol' fashion Drink Up away from the missus, what do they talk about? What were the real harrowing times, the ones where they thought they might disappear off the map forever? the ones they can't share with you or me, the ones we'd appreciate but could never properly understand because we hadn't Been There and have no proper frame of reference? And I thought about how I have those.
Not those, at least not the ones where I was in The Shit or hanging by an ice pick on K-2. I won't pretend I've got anything near it. I say those in the sense of having Been Somewhere else, been an odd bird and deviated a little bit away from the prescribed path. Maybe at some point turned a couple heads or received some odd variant of acclaim, or what passes for acclaim according to my own idiosyncratic currency. What do I talk about? At that bar. What am I slurring about to some kindred spirit when the bartender is still reluctantly serving? What's inside of me that doesn't or can't come out everywhere else in the day-to-day? Who is that kindred spirit?
I suppose we keep flying, just keep going to wherever it is we think we're going and pass through as best we can whatever turbulence lies in the way. We bag the story, compare it to the others, bring it to light after a few cold ones if it's particularly deem-able. And, shit, I guess the path, not just the Flight 1205 path but the whole path, with all it's little air pockets sprinkled throughout; that whole path just really makes you question if you want to get to Newark. Do you want to make it where you are going. I smiled because I did, and because I felt there was a reason I was supposed to make it. I felt protected. I just hope it's because of the kindred spirit.
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