An Aerial Reminiscence

I am still too down about the world to write about it. The situation in Ukraine is getting more and more out of the range of palatable solutions, and, I fear, Cheney is right,

"We have created an image around the world, not just for the Russians, of weakness and indecisiveness," Cheney told Charlie Rose, filling in for Bob Schieffer. "The Syrian situation is the classic. We got all ready to do something, a lot of the allies sign on. At the last minute, Obama backed off."

That's the key.

When you create an atmosphere of weakness and indecision, the other side takes advantage. It is not about one situation or another, e.g., Syria, Egypt, Libya, Iran, Venezuela, it is about the whole mosaic, and the image it presents of the United States and its willingness and ability to act in its own best interests.

So instead of writing about that stuff again, I am taking a very brief trip down memory lane; won't be a long one, and it does not involve a S&W .357 or a Colt Government Model .45. Sorry.

Reading about the horrid disappearance of a jumbo jet in Asia reminded me of all the flights I took during my nearly 35 years at State. Given the number of flights, and the places where I flew, it is amazing that I had so few problems in the air. Lots of lost or delayed luggage; canceled flights in dark and dingy airports; incorrectly written tickets; a passenger throwing up on my shoes; a flight attendant dumping a whole tray of Cokes on me; nothing too serious in retrospect although at the time of the events it was good that I did not have my S&W or Colt with me.

One flight does stick in my memory because of what it tells me about, well, I am not sure what it tells me. You tell me.

It was late 1979 or early 1980--I remember Christmas and New Year decorations. My wife and I were flying back to Georgetown, Guyana from Bridgetown, Barbados via Port of Spain, Trinidad. We were on a plane belonging to the now defunct BWIA (British West Indian Airways). I think it was a B-707, but could be wrong. The flight had been very late leaving Bridgetown; it underwent further delay during our stop in Port of Spain when the airport lost power for nearly three hours. It was now two or three in the morning; we, finally, were underway; every seat filled; the overhead and under-seat areas bulging with boxes, cartons of various shapes, and bags; a long automobile exhaust pipe lay in the aisle. People brought whatever they could into Guyana. That poor country was a typical socialist wonderland: in other words, not fit for human habitation. All the passengers seemed to be smoking, drinking rum or whisky, and talking somewhere around the 100 db range. I remember somebody singing, too. 

Suddenly, as Professor Reynolds would say, this flying frat party was interrupted with a huge "Bang!" A jolt and a brief flicker of the cabin lights followed. In a second it seemed almost every passenger, except for the Diplowife and me, had scrambled out of his or her seat and begun running in both directions down the main aisle, many tripping on the exhaust pipe. The decibel rating jumped into the 110-120 range. 

I am not a brave person. I do not, however, tend to panic, especially after having three Johnny Walkers on the rocks. I get mellow and fatalistic. Besides that, I hate crowd behavior, and have spent much of my life avoiding things such as rock concerts, political demonstrations, and Black Friday sales. My wife, who hardly had flinched, asked me, "What happened?" Becoming an instant aeronautical expert, I told her, "We got hit by lightning. No problem." The Diplowife then asked the question that I was too polite to ask, "To where are these people running?"

Gradually, we saw order being restored thanks to the booming voice of the British captain, who obviously had seen a lot of Battle of Britain movies or at least "Sink the Bismarck!" Cutting through the din, sweeping over us thanks to an at-peak-volume intercom, we heard, "Bloody hell! Sit down you idiots! We have been struck by lightning. This is no problem for a modern aircraft! NOW SIT DOWN!" As the captain bellowed, the Trinidadian flight stewards managed to get people to stop running for the exits (I guess), gently reminding them that we were many thousands of feet in the air. 

I think I learned a couple of, or maybe even three things here. First, the Diplowife is pretty solid and can keep her head in a "crisis." Second, well, don't be on an airplane full of partying Guyanese when you get hit by lightning. Third, if you do find yourself on such a flight, better have a pilot with a stereotypical British accent--the British do authority very well--but do not think about the Titanic. 

That's it. Maybe there's a deeper moral to this story, but I can't think what it would be.

Have to go check on the two dogs. They are being very quiet. They are either up to something or one has killed the other . . .