| 07 September 2006 Number Two for Departure The airplane was third for departure at Reagan National Airport. Fortunate, really, that the fog had not burned off sooner and the controllers were being cautious on separation for the departing jets that snake off above the Potomac River for noise abatement. Certain concessions in routing the airplanes over the capital have been made to minimize inconvenience to the residents of the condominiums who purchased their homes in the buildings along the GW Parkway, and were astonished to discover that a major airport was right across the street from their new homes. I say it was a good thing, since as the jet lurched forward, I could see a man seated in seat 9A against the window pop up out of his seat, and struggle to the aisle. Not a good thing, I thought, but this would not be the right time for a hijacking. Terrorists would probably want to wait until we were off the ground and at cruising altitude. Still, anything out of the ordinary was not welcome, particularly at this airport, and not this close to the anniversary of the attacks. I leaned out in the aisle to watch what was happening. The man moved forward toward the Chief Purser, who was strapped in her jump-seat in the forward galley. He leaned forward and appeared to be speaking into her ear, and then he began to slump down until he was prostrate on the deck. Not good. Very not good. I did not think we were going to go flying to Atlanta with him flat on his back, and I was not convinced that this was not some ruse to get the fortified cockpit door open. I wondered if I should unstrap and get ready to do something. Presently, the pilot hit the throttles and we turned out of line and began the long taxi back toward the terminal. There was a call for medical personnel to come forward, and at length we were back at a vacant gate and the aircraft door was opened. I did not think it was going to be possible to make the first meeting in Atlanta. Over the course of the next hour and a half the Captain kept us updated on what had happened. It was a case of diabetic shock. There was the usual pandemonium at the gate, and then the usual pandemonium as the crew attempted to insert us once more, out-of schedule, into the stream of aircraft coming and going on Reagan's single man runway. Eventually we were number two for take-off again, behind the later flights that were also going to Hartsfield International. I felt sorry for the man, and hoped he would recover without incident. There was only a little resentment about the fact that all the rest of us had done what we were told, got up early, showed up on time, passed security, checked our gels and liquids and took the right dosage of our drugs. The vague resentment made me feel a bit small, so I put it aside and did the crossword puzzle in the back of the in-flight magazine. I wondered if this was an omen about this trip. Which is how I came to be lost some hours later in Atlanta, that bold and soaring city of the South. Home of Doctor King and the Coca-Cola Corporation and Mr. Turner's Cable News Nework. But that is another story altogether. Copyright 2006 Vic Socotra |