The Holy Ground of Boeing
For those that read Weather or Not, you know I planned to fly myself to Atlanta for the weekend. The universe apparently had another idea for me since a wicked line of thunderstorms barreled through the southeast on Thursday. Given the scenario, and expected rainfall projections for the southeast over the weekend, I passed on flying myself and opted for a commercial flight instead. I prefer being the pilot versus the passenger because I usually learn something new about flying or about myself when I sit at the controls. But the flight wasn’t wasted in regard to learning something as there were a couple of things I noticed that still have me thinking about them.
The first thing I realized is, now that I fly myself often, I don’t derive the same pleasure I once did from looking out that 8 x 10 window on a commercial flight. In the past, I loved the window seat with the view it offered. But after sitting in the cockpit, experiencing the whole view, that tiny glass pane can’t compare. It’s like getting a scenic tour of the grand canyon through the peep-hole of a hotel door.
The other thing I noticed happened during takeoff. Lots of chatter and small talk filled the jet when at the gate and during the taxi to the runway: traveling coworkers discussing company business, vacationers excited about their trip, people meeting for the first time spilling life stories to each other.
But something occurred when the plane swung wide onto the runway and the jet engines whined upward. The conversations throughout the aircraft started to die down. Then as the plane charged forward, pressing passengers into their seats, everyone on the plane went silent. I’ve noticed this phenomenon before, but this time it hit me as significant.
What’s happening here? Maybe some were nervous and tried to calm themselves with a silent prayer. Some were gazing out the windows, I suppose watching the gray runway blur before it dropped away as the plane lifted skyward. But even someone who had been reading, silent already, set her book down for a few moments and seemed to stare into space.
Who knows the exact thoughts going through everyone’s minds? I’m sure apprehension plays a part for some. Maybe others are tired of talking and want a break. But I believe something bigger is happening. That something is this: no matter how often most of us have flown, there is a subconscious reverence and awe for that magical moment of flight when we first lift off the ground. For thousands of years, most humans believed flight was impossible. Only in the last hundred years or so have we achieved it. For a moment in time, that aircraft is more than the sum of its parts, more than bolts and metal and electronics. For that moment in time, it’s transformed into something sacred, like holy ground in the sky.
After some contemplation, I realized the comparison goes beyond those first few moments when we become airborne. The airplane seats remind of pews in a place of worship. In the cockpit, we have this powerful figure called a pilot, who, for a period of time, is in control of our destinies. We trust he’s there even though we can’t see him. At least we think he’s in that cockpit, but how can we know for sure? On this particular flight, I never saw the pilot. The cockpit door was closed the entire time.
I suppose paranoia could set in. How do we know the plane is not on autopilot, that pilot-god didn’t bail on us, already miles behind us, fingers on the parachute ripcord leaving us alone on this adventure to fend for ourselves. But sometimes as we wonder if he’s really up there, he speaks to us, a voice from thin air to comfort and soothe, telling us there may be turbulence. It won’t last forever, the pilot says, but we’d better fasten our seat belts anyway. Then he sends smiling flight attendant angels to take care of us, answer our questions, and focus on our immediate needs.
And we depend on him (or her) to protect us, to bring us safely to our destination some endpoint many miles ahead in our journey. But we aren’t guaranteed the final destination, are we? We think we know where we’re going, but only the pilot can say for sure. She may have changed destinations long before we know it due to some necessity we aren’t privy to yet. We may think we’d know if we veered off our flight path, but would we? The pilot can make a slight course change of 5, maybe 10 degrees at the beginning of a 3000-mile trip, and it might mean the difference in arriving in Seattle versus Los Angeles. None of us would know until we arrived. But eventually, we’d learn there was a good reason for diverting.
I always learn something when I fly myself, but this time I learned something unexpected from a commercial flight. I learned the value and comfort of sitting back and relaxing while trusting the pilot upfront knows what he’s doing, where he’s taking us, and that we’ll get there safely, wherever the destination ends up being.
