MadameBastet-Firing-Neurons

Fly Me to The Moon

Tonight whilst I was studying science
(geology and rocks and minerals to be exact)
the movie "Fearless" came on TV.
I seem to actually study better with the TV on
so I just left it on, recalling so clearly
how I'd seen this movie at a theatre in Pacific Heights
in San Francisco with my brother in 1993.
God I love Peter Weir; he is definitely one of my favourite directors.
The Year of Living Dangerously one of his masterpieces I think.

Anyway, the movie is about this man, played by the oh so gorgeous
Jeff Bridges, who survives a horrific plane crash and afterwards
becomes 'fearless' an goes into a profound state of denial about the crash.

The scenes of the crash were so realistic and so horrifying;
yet I could not look away now, as I could not look away 13 years ago
despite my deeply entrenched fear of flying. In fact, it dawned on me
that it was yesterday, June 10, 1996 that my mom, brother and I
were returning from Hawai'i (a trip my mom thought would do us good
as we'd both just finished grad school and we wanted to get our minds
off my dad's death - as if that were possible).

And naturally, a little over 4 hours into the flight, I'd just
finished eating - a major feat for me as I'm usually too nervous
to eat on flights - though I've gotten better. Too bad the food hasn't.
And the credits were rolling on some Al Pacino movie called "City Hall" and
we were flying over the Pacific Ocean with about 45 minutes left
when I heard the loudest sound - it was like the plane had hit a building
but the plane itself was still intact. It is indescribable how loud this sound was; it drowned every other noise out and immediately we all knew it was BAD.

It was simply deafening. Immediately all the electricity went out
and I remember looking down at the floor lights going up the aisle
and thinking, this can't be happening. What was happening? The most
frightening thing is no one seemed to know...even the flight attendants
were running up and down the aisles looking out the windows - really
not the most reassuring image. I distinctly recall one getting on a phone -
no doubt talking to the pilot. I felt like screaming, "Are you fucking kidding me?"
"Is this your idea of a disaster/emergency plan? LOOKING OUT THE GODDAMN WINDOWS!???" I mean, why didn't they just have the passengers do it and make a game out it. "Oh I'll put $100 on the tail."
"No Bob, I think it's the hydraulic system."
"Hey put me down for $500 for the left engine."
"No, no, I think the wings fell off."
MY GOD.

I remember I was sitting on the aisle, and I looked across at an older
couple sitting in the window seats and said in small voice, "What was that?"
They just smiled wanly at me, and didn't say anything.
Inside, I was frozen. I was gone. My mother grabbed my hand. She leaned over to tell us she loved us. My brother kept saying we'd be OK, we had two more engines. And Delta, those fucking assholes, never told us anything.

My mother says a woman behind me was crying. I didn't hear this.
I didn't hear anything. I kept thinking, oh who will take care of my babies,
my cats....and dad, I'm coming to see you a lot sooner than I thought.

You know it's never like you picture it will be.
I always imagined, with my panic attacks and fear of enclosed
spaces, 30,000 feet up, I'd be screaming. But I wasn't. I sat
silently in my seat, looking straight ahead. I did not pray.
If I said any kind of prayer, it was that it would end quickly.
Please God, just let it happen. Don't let us sit here and suffer and wonder. Let it happen now. Please God. I can't take the waiting.

Later we found out the engine had exploded and caught fire.
The only thing those fuckers said to us, about 20 minutes after it happened
was that when we landed (ha, if we landed) we'd see a lot of emergency vehicles
on the tarmac. Waiting no doubt, to see what kind of landing we would make.
And in my head, the chant went on. I don't want to die I don't want to die
I don't want to die I don't want to die.
But still I was silent. I'd moved to a place deep inside myself.
The same place I went to after I found my father dead.
I was practical and efficient; waiting for the coroner, signing his papers, talking to the police. Oh I'm a peach in a crisis. It's daily life that's a bitch.

I also thought what everyone must think, at one time or another.
This can't be happening to me. This can't be happening to us!
This kind of thing only happens to other people. True.
Until one day you become The Other People and it is happening
to you.

No one on the plane screamed I was told; it was very quiet.
And the scariest thing I thought was that it doesn't happen fast;
it probably rarely happens fast.

Pan Am 103 probably happened in an instant, pray to God.
And you always think, well, if I go, it'll be quick.
Not always. In fact sometimes there is an eternity of agony.
And so when those images from inside the crashing plane flickered
across my television set tonight, I sat and watched them, mesmerized
and I started to cry and I didn't know why.

I have, like so many people, thought so much about the people on the 9/11 planes...we know some of what happened on United 93. But what of the other planes? How much emotional and psychological terror did those poor souls
go through before oblivion blessfully took them away?

When we landed, I could see the flashing red and yellow lights of the fire trucks
and ambulances and the entire plane burst into spontaneous applause.
And I have never seen an entire jumbo jet full of people get the hell out of their
seats so fast. They stood up, ignored all the rules and the only thing that made me smile, was seeing a guy standing behind me, a cigarette in one hand and a lighter in the other, waiting to get off. I thought, "Oh fuck it buddy, just light up!"

I grabbed my things and left my mom and brother behind and as I left the plane
the flight attendant went back into Robotic-Perky mode, saying goodnight, thank you for flying Delta. I said "Thank you for taking ten years off my life and scaring the shit out of us." Seriously, they acted like nothing at all had happened out of the ordinary.

I was never so happy to see LAX in all my life. I was even happen to go into the bathroom. I went into the stall and just leaned my head against the door. But I did not cry. I never felt more alive. Everything was illuminated. Everything held some kind of strange inner glow to it.

We got our bags and got in the shuttle to take us home.
Ha - that's what you should really fear. The airport shuttles. This was the time when they were working on the new 105 freeway and it was dark and our shuttle driver was driving like he was in the Indy 500 and I leaned over to the driver and said, "Are you sure this freeway is finished?"
I don't think he thought I was serious. I was.
Because in the dark, it looked like we were going to sail off into oblivion.
And the lights in the San Fernando Valley glowed and glittered and everything
was a miracle. Stoplights, road signs, drustores, houses, apartment buildings, everything I looked at - it was like the first time I'd ever seen anything in my life.

We made it home and I joked about it to my friends.
I've told the story many times, but without much feeling.
The first time I flew after that Ride From Hell was January of '97.

I took a plane to San Francisco to see my brother, my mom and her boyfriend, who were visiting up there as well. I flew alone. Luckily going up, I sat next to a pilot. He was sweet, and I told him my story and he helped keep me calm.

Going home was another matter.
We took off in a nasty rain storm with a lot of turbulence.
I was having an anxiety attack on the plane; I could feel it.
I fucking hate turbulence. I don't care how 'normal' it is.
A woman across the aisle must have noticed my white face and my shaking hands. She kindly leaned over and said,
"Is this your first time flying honey?"
I almost laughed. What was I going to say?
I literally grabbed the flight attendant's arm and said, "Is this normal? Should the plane be shaking so much?"
She tried to reassure me, to no avail.
I turned to the woman and said, "No. I'm just not a good flyer."

What was I going to say? No, this is just my first flight since I had engine explode and catch on fire over the ocean coming back from Hawai'i. Why get everyone all upset?

Oddly, when I am scared, I start saying Hail Mary's and I am not even Catholic. Somehow, it comforts me. Mother Mary, who will take me into the abyss ....or into the light. I just don't want to go alone.

A month later TWA Flight 800 blew up leaving New York...for France I believe. All sorts of conspiracy theories abounded about that; missiles shot it out of the sky, etc. A while later, I saw a Dateline episode that focused on a woman who lost her husband and son on the flight. Her name is Anne Allen. Her family was traveling to France. But for some reason I can't recall, the father and the brother took an earlier flight, and Anne and her two other children, a boy and girl, would meet them there. It was heart-wrenching to see what this has done to the family.

I believe they did a follow-up story on her later...they were doing OK. What can you do? But I have never forgotten her. I have never forgotten her and her family. As Grant McLennon said (RIP)...funny how some people manage to stay with you, even if you've never met them. So ten years later I still wonder about Anne Allen and her family and how they are doing. I will always remember her.

So I don't know what happened tonight.
Reading SK's blog on flying was reassuring.
Sometimes I feel like the only idiot on earth who's afraid to fly. I know people who adore flying and it makes me sick! It's like somehow they're morally superior to me. But most of these people have never had ANYTHING happen on any plane they've been on. Wait until your engine blows up, wait until you're told emergeny vehicles are going to meet you on the ground and you are 29 years old and you've just buried your father.

Wait until you become The Other People.
So tonight, I think I cried, for the first time, over what happened.
I watched the scene inside that plane and I wept at how lucky we were.

I love travelling, so I will not let my fear cripple me. I take drugs, get philosophical about my own demise and just keep getting on those big tin cans
filled with jet fuel going 500 miles an hour. I still approach every flight like it's going to be my last - haha. Drama queen. My will is here, my cats will be taken care of, please bury me here. It's all worked out.

Flying is a lot like life. Hours and hours of tedium interrupted by brief moments and sheer terror. My advice? Bring tranquilizers and a lot of magazines.
As for the possibility of being taken hostage? The brave souls of United 93 taught me one thing. I may go down, but goddammit, I will go down fighting those bastards. That is one thing I'm sure of. I will not sit passively. At least I've made some progress, sad as it is.