Warm air streamed north from the Gulf of Mexico, clashing with cold air knifing down from Canada. The airspace over northern Alabama had become a meteorological war zone. It was the worst outbreak of tornadoes in the nation’s history. As people on the ground scrambled for their lives, a lone Boeing 757 attempted to thread the needle through the exploding Cumulonimbus clouds.
The airliner rattled so violently that it squeaked like a cheap Styrofoam cooler.
The passenger in seat 22c looked up at the flight attendant pushing the drink cart. He stared into her eyes — if he saw fear, then he’d be afraid. Her eyes darted to the right and to the left. He tightened his seatbelt.
The P.A. system came to life.
“This is the Captain speaking. We’ve hit a patch of rough air. Everyone fasten your seat belts. Flight attendants, cease drink service and strap yourself in.”
Chuck Yeager could not have sounded more calm.
The passenger in seat 22c emptied out his little bottle into his plastic glass and killed it with one gulp.
He had been flying for 40 years and this was his worst flight yet. And it was his last — His last business flight before retirement. He really didn’t want to die today. The irony would have been nothing short of annoying. The local paper’s headline would have read, “Death of a salesman.” He looked at the picture of his wife in his left hand. “Please.”
The plane dropped suddenly, sending the flight attendant and an elderly male passenger flying off their feet. The flight attendant hit her head on the overhead compartments. CRUNCH.
She pulled herself up off the floor, stunned. Her head was bleeding — the first-class flight attendant quickly tended to her head wound with the first aid kit. The elderly passenger was shaken but OK. Another passenger in the back of the plane screamed, “My arm!”
The passenger in seat 22c looked over at the passenger in seat 22a. She was crossing herself. He said a little prayer himself. “God, please get us down in one piece. Pretty please.”
It seemed like a reasonable prayer under the circumstances.
More severe turbulence shook the plane. The lady in seat 21b threw up, causing the child next to her to begin crying.
The passenger in seat 22c looked out the window, expecting to see the devil himself because this sure felt like Hell. You could tell the pilot was fighting this. The engines revved and whined in protest.
The wounded flight attendant was strapped in a seat, holding an icepack on her head. Blood soaked her uniform. A doctor who had moved up from first class was tending to her. The plane dropped again, causing several of the overhead compartments to fly open. A black bag fell out six rows up, hitting a man in the head. His glasses broke and flew off his face. Casualties were mounting quickly.
A lady in front of him screamed. That wasn’t helping, he thought. Someone in front of her yelled in a Brooklyn accent, “shut up!”
He closed his eyes. Calm. Peace. Breathe.
Flight 212 was being tossed around like a cork in a hurricane. The Boeing aircraft designers’ handiwork was being tested like it had never been tested before. And so far, all their hard work had paid off. The wings were still attached. Which was good.
Panic had the passengers in its grip.
The lights dimmed. Four more overhead compartments popped open. Drink cups rolled down the aisle as the plane continued to be tossed around.
And then it was calm. The shaking stopped as did the rattling. The pilot, a veteran who had over 17,000 hours of flight time, had successfully weaved the plane through the storms. Lightning flickered harmlessly behind them, like a dog who had given up its chase. “This is the pilot again. We’re out of the rough stuff and back into smooth air. We’ve been given landing priority in Atlanta so we can tend to our wounded.”
The passengers broke into thunderous applause.
The passenger in seat 22c looked out the window and said all he could say, “Thank you.” Like the plane he was riding in, his faith had been shaken but not broken. And at that moment, the setting sun broke through the storm clouds, painting the giant jet a pinkish orange.
The passenger in seat 22c smiled. God had just said “You’re welcome,” in the most glorious way imaginable.
