I've been remiss in updating my posts here, so let me try to make up for almost an entire workweek of silence.
Here is what happened. We took off in a violent rainstorm on Tuesday that made the plane bounce so violently that we wondered why we ever agreed to go on this trip in the first place.
San Francisco, on that day, was slammed by winds and rains that were the remnants of a much worse killer storm that did its real damage far away from here.
The good news is we sped east at a record pace, landing at JFK about four hours later.
In my other favorite city, we had a good week. Yesterday, a big storm system (the same one that hit SF?) dumped rain in amazing volumes on Midtown.
This morning, at an ungodly hour, I rose and found my way back onto an airplane that then very gently delivered me and the other passengers back here to home.
That's my story. What is yours?
-30-
1 comment:
Bad Weather Flight Story...
Late one night in September, 1967 (was that really 42 years ago?) I boarded a chartered flight from New Jersey with about 220 other young men. I don't remember the actual numbers, but every seat was taken and every passenger had a full complement of military gear on board. Our 727 was fully loaded, perhaps overloaded, as it lumbered down the runway in a raging thunderstorm.
Our ultimate destination was the Republic of South Vietnam, via Anchorage and Tokyo. A very long flight, to be sure. But during our take off, all we prayed for was getting off the ground. The engines were straining at full throttle as the plane swayed, the pilot more than earning his salary keeping the craft on the pavement. The tires were taking terrible abuse under the weight, slamming against every surface anomaly, making the ride feel and sound like a semi racing down a poorly maintained gravel road. I was on the port side in a window seat, but could see nothing beyond the wing tip. Watching the wing flex and strain more than reason would suggest it should, I'd have given even odds against lift off.
Of course, the odds seemed less than even that I was ever going to survive the next year anyway. I could tell you that my deep religious convictions carried me through that take off - but I wasn't, so I won't. What did make the experience easier for me was the Alfred E. Newman conviction, “What, me worry?” Much like Maxwell Smart's “cone of silence” helped him keep secrets, my “cocoon of ignorance” protected my sanity back then.
My return flight, like yours, was entirely peaceful, although it was 361 days longer in coming.
That's my story – and I'm sticking to it.
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