CUSCUS FUR, STILTON CHEESE AND A THREE TOED SLOTH

BY SALLY COOk

The forecast was for storms as I headed towards Wellington airport. Once there I heard my name being announced over the loud speaker which was quite concerning. And then I relaxed. It was a message from a local postman whom I’d met during my travels. John Smith was wishing me a safe journey.

And yet once on the Melbourne bound plane I counted heads. There were eighty. Good – I thought, if anything happens we’ll be okay. The plane is only half full.

I settled into the flight and enjoyed the meal in what to me at 18 and returning from my first overseas trip seemed like a flying lounge room. I sat next to the wing peering into the dark when suddenly there was a massive bang with the plane tossed up and down like a crazed elevator. Suddenly the food I had eaten stuck in my guts like a bad dream. I looked out my window again and saw six foot flames searing off the wing, sharp red licks against the black sky.

The steward moved me away from the wing. Our plane was on fire. A couple linked arms and crossed themselves, a man’s hands trembled as he tried to read the newspaper, a baby screamed as if a portent of doom. I sat there feeling sick, heart thumping then the captain’s voice. He faltered as he said, “ I am declaring a state of emergency. We are turning off the electricity.” I can’t remember if he said any more but there were to be no lights, no alcohol. But the exit lights still glowed like angry cigarette stubs.

The air stewardesses got out the passenger lists. They were preparing to get out the rubber rafts. I kept willing the plane forward as if psychologically moving back and forth in my seat would help. I worried that my family would be worried by my late arrival. I tried to reach them by telepathy. At eighteen, I told myself I was too young to die.

In the movies plane dramas usually show people screaming, Oh My God-ing and running around in a frenzy. It was nothing like that. People were silent, internally panicking, clutching at their partners or newspapers in  quiet terror.

I thought of our bodies floating in and out of a twisted wreck as it sank in the Tasman Sea. I imagined people seething to the exit not caring for anyone else. These ugly images filled the space of not knowing where the fire was.

The crew looked as terrified as the passengers. There were no further announcements.

I felt my life was about to end and after my initial terror and trapped helplessness I started to feel an unexpected calm. Maybe I had used up all my adrenalin, maybe I was giving into a stark reality beyond my control. But I remember saying in my head to an all embracing power, “I hand myself over to you.” I am not and was not particularly religious but I had this sense of loving, embracing arms reaching out to receive me. I was prepared for total surrender. I had a strong sense of being received. To me this all embracing power felt like it must be God. I am in no hurry to experience this or anything similar again. But it was a powerful yet peaceful moment.

We continued over the Tasman. I asked the chief steward where the fire was. He said they didn’t know but that we would be flying on two propeller engines instead of four –on one each side. Clearly they had shut down the burning engine and were feathering the plane to balance it.

Despite feeling an unexpected calm, I remember some plea bargaining with God beforehand. If I didn’t complain about the heat or blow flies again, could I please be spared.

The chief steward told us that we would be flying to Sydney because they had better crash services. That was concerning but acceptance seemed the only possibility. We seemed to take ages to land in Sydney. We kept circling round and round which the steward explained was to us up fuel to lessen the chance of fire or explosion on landing.

I remember seeing myriad of emergency lights as we amazingly landed safely on the tarmac. Captains and crew from other planes ran over to greet us. There was a love for strangers.

Once inside the terminal a Sydney TV station trained its cameras on us and I remember thinking, “I can’t go on tv with such greasy hair.” Another woman said she couldn’t be interviewed until she had put her baby’s booty on.

Clearly we had already transgressed the terms of our plea bargaining. Such is human frailty, I thought.

I like to think the experience changed me for the better but am not entirely sure. I have certainly flown many times since and for a while used to listen for a give away quiver in the captain’s voice. Once I gave that up, I used to check the sky for unruly clouds the day before and the day of departure. That was until I told myself that planes fly way above the clouds and such indications from the ground carried little meaning.

I don’t know what became of the other survivors of that dreadful flight except to say that no-one had died or was injured during the ordeal. I must say I am relieved that very few large planes have propeller engines these days but try to fly more or less unguarded as the urge to travel stills spurs me on.