Flying

 

Flying

 

        I don't like traveling. I like being places, but not actually the getting there.  I think I have a reality-based fear of flying.  It’s based on knowing the reality: people make planes and people also make mistakes.  They call it ‘human error’ and it's sort of scary if you think about it.  There you are, hurtling through the air at hundreds of miles an hour, while the guy responsible for keeping you there is standing safely on the ground.  He might have a wife that just left with the plumber, or maybe a teenage son, and could have been thinking about mess his life is in while working on the landing gear, or replacing the fuel line in the big old piece of metal into which you are solidly strapped.

        It's not like I actually get sick: I don't.  I just get scared.  I don't get "green" scared, like Chris did the time we were flying back to Vancouver from Rupert at Christmas.  We hit turbulence so violent that we had to keep our seat belts on the whole time to stop from hitting our heads on the storage containers above us. 

        That was one of the longest short flights I ever took.  It seemed we just kept hitting every huge pothole in the sky.  It was terrifying; like riding one of those gravity drop rides at the Edmonton mall over and over again. I didn't get sick on that flight, so I suspect I never will.  I just don't throw up, like Chris's cat did.  Poor thing.  When we collected it from luggage it was just a smelly little ball of puke. 

        But I do get scared.  Flying to Mexico was never relaxing, but of course I did it anyway.  The big jets aren't too bad and the weather is a lot better when you travel over the United States than it is along the coast of B.C.  In my experience a ride in a big jet usually ends in some place warm!  Coming from Canada, that is definitely a good thing!

       I did get talked into flying with Michael a few times.  I loved the idea of that.  Buzzing around in his little Cessna was never really a good time, but I liked it when we traveled so far, so quickly.  It seemed extravagant and reckless to just take off and go somewhere for coffee. 

        But usually, I calculate my risks. I fly because I have to be somewhere else, even if I don't really have to go.

        Flying back and forth to work at Hartley Bay in the float planes, cut the trip by hours from the four hour water taxi ride.  While shorter, and usually a lot smoother, it sometimes did have its moments. 

        The weather on the north Pacific coast almost always makes flying questionable.  They are often delayed as we wait to see if the clouds will lift, or if the rain will let up, just a little. 

        The pilots always dress, not in those lovely crisp uniforms you see on commercial airlines, but in dark, grimy, heavy boots, dirty overalls and warm, canvas work coats.  It's as if they are ready to hike out of what ever mess they run us into. Thankfully they don't don life jackets, although they do mention where they are, acting as hostesses as well as pilots and navigators. 

        The bush planes used by Harbour Air in Prince Rupert when I was there, mainly Beavers and Otters were pretty old.  It was reassuring in some ways as they hadn't crashed yet, and that was a good thing.   But sometimes, the noises they make are just a little crazy.

        One Sunday night I was returning from Rupert and got chatting with another passenger while I waited, in the rain, for the plane back to the school.  I discovered the woman I was speaking with was a nurse, also on her way to Hartley Bay, and she had never been on one of these little bush planes before. As it was her first trip, she hadn’t yet developed an appreciation for the Beaver, these workhorses of the north. They feel pretty solid: like a Land Cruiser.  Mike’s 152 Cessna had felt more like an older Rav4, so this was good.

            Even when I’m a little frightened, I appreciated adventure and was far more relaxed than the new nurse.  She was a little uncomfortable as the staff squeezed three of us into the back seat, slamming the doors shut a couple of times to make sure the clasps caught.  She was also concerned about the fog and heavy rain thing.  I had flown back and forth a few times in far worse conditions.  We were once in fog so thick flying back from KitKatLa that the pilot got disoriented and we nearly ran into a mountain that seemed to appear out of nowhere. And then there was the time we took a wrong turn.  The inexperienced pilot relied on me to navigate our way out of wherever he had taken us and into the proper channel.   

        On this trip, I knew she looked to me for reassurance and not anecdotes about what a really bad trip looks like. I find the tougher bits of life easier to cope with when I am responsible for someone else so I began to explain: “He’s just putting in the choke; the engine just sounds like it’s dying... Don't worry about the bumps; it almost never drops too far.”

            He seemed to be flying higher than usual, but I explained that was just to get us out of the fog and rain, so he could see where we were going. It was a normal coastal day... cloudy, rainy.  And then there was a small sound.  Just a little.. 'pop'.  It was a new sound to me.  Then: ..Pop! Pop! POP...Pop! POP!   I didn't find it very reassuring when the pilot kept turning around and looking at us, like we were doing something other than just sitting there…listening.  He’d then look toward the back of the plane with a confused expression on his face. This couldn’t be good.  

            We were just sitting there: the nurse looking out the window, and me trying to look like I was relaxing, staring out at the scenery – clouds.

            The pilot started looking around at the fuselage.  Looking.. Looking! Now it was the nurse’s turn to be relaxed.  She wasn't concerned about this popping sound:  everything was new to her.  She was looking out the window, thinking about who-knows-what and not really noticing that the pops were coming closer together and not letting up and what the heck was going on?!      

      I was finding it a tad hard to breathe!  It was getting hot.  The plane leveled out and the popping finally quit.  Relaxed again, I caught my breath and chatted with the new nurse.  She was nice, and excited about this adventure.  It would be nice to have a new visitor in the community.  Time went by quickly and we were soon decending into the little bay.  

            Almost home free and it started again.  ..pop.. and then Pop.. and pretty soon it POP! Pop! POP! POP!.. This time I am sure it was even louder!  Well below the clouds again I was relieved to see the water not too far below us.  It was reassuring to think we might be able to land WHEN THE FUSELAGE RIPPED IN TWO!  I kept chatting about who knows what in order to distract the new nurse.  Ok.. to distract my self from the death and destruction!  How could the popping get faster as we got closer to our destination?  What was that noise?! 

            The pilot was wondering too.. I could see him scratching his head and looking around.  I am sure he still blamed us for the odd sounds coming from the back of the aircraft.  But it wasn’t us!!

            Finally though, we touched down on the water of the bay and glided smoothly, and quietly, up to the dock without incident.  The engine sputtered and coughed like it always did, as if nothing had ever happened.        

            I stepped off the pontoon and on to the floating deck, walked over to the pilot and very discreetly demanded to know: “What the heck was that about?!”

            He stopped tying up the plane for a moment, shrugged his shoulders, looked again at his big yellow bird with puzzlement, but not a lot of concern, scratched his head and said: “Damned if I know!”

            He then turned away and started to unload the boxes and parcels he was delivering.  I gathered up my bag and a box of groceries and when I reached the upper boardwalk I looked back at the waiting passengers and thanked God it wasn’t me getting back on that plane!

            And that was that.

            Until Thursday.

            Thursday night was the regular night for girl's basketball.  Everyone lived and breathed the sport in this First Nations Community.  Even the elders played.  Soccer (Football) is not as popular here as it is in other Indigenous Communities, mainly because Hartley Bay is built on muskeg: a town on stilts. There are no big ‘footy’ fields here.. or fields of any sort.

            But, for six months a year, life in the village revolved around basketball.

And tonight a team of Haida Indians, who had arrived on a large fishing boat from near Haida Gwaii earlier in the day, were playing our girls in the semi-finals. The Haida People were historic adversaries of the meeker Tsimshian, even taking some of them slaves before European contact. This was an important match and competition was going to be fierce!  Their girls were big but ours were fast, and even though I don't usually enjoy watching sports, I had decided I couldn't miss this one. 

        I walked up the thick wooden stairs, past two great totem poles announcing the Eagle, Blackfish and Raven clans, and stopped at the confectionery counter for a coffee.  I was putting powdered ‘milk’ into my cup when I noticed a big box of Nalley's potato chips on the counter: “FREE!”

            “Why are you giving out free chips? ”  I asked. “You not believe it!” the woman behind the counter exclaimed, and then explained… 

“We just got these off the plane. Look!  All open!  Not good company.  They send us more. Don want these!  Who you think do this?!  Terrible!  You want some?  Free!”

That explained my terrifying flight earlier in the day.  Bags of chips, opening under the pressure of the altitude we had been forced to climb to get out of the weather. 

Knowledge is good