We made it!

“Welcome abroad!” boomed the pilot’s voice his bald pate glinting in the sun, “We shall shortly be on our way, but before we start let me go over a few important safety instructions.” For a second the words seemed familiar but a fly buzzing in my ear reminded of where I was-- next to a ridiculously small plane on a hot tarmac under a blazing late morning sun and not safely ensconced in the air-conditioned comfort of a wide bodied jet.” So we are all set”, the pilot continued his face curving into an impish smile, “but one last thing before we start, I need someone to help me out as my copilot.” Most eyes looked down, some brave ones even smiled in amusement. “What? No volunteers? Then let me choose one” he smiled sadistically like an executioner ready for his kill. “You! Why don’t you join me?” An elbow poked me sharply in my side—it felt more like a knife twisting into me—and my wife whispered into my ear, a bit too loudly for my liking “It’s you he is pointing towards, come-on be a sport, step forward”. Before I could mumble something Mr. Pilot was moving towards me ready for the final blow. “Young man. What’s your name? Let’s get you briefed”. And before I could stammer a reply, his huge hands were patting my shoulders and everyone was nodding their heads in approval. I was officially their co-pilot!

Before long everyone was abroad, Mr. Pilot had shut the passenger door, completed a manual inspection of the fuselage and climbed into his seat. No need for any ground crew, no stewards around to help seat the passengers---just one brash pilot and a copilot who has never seen an airplane cockpit before I thought caustically. He fished out a worn book from under his seat and opened a bookmarked page. Was it ‘Flying for Dummies’ I thought cynically? But it was merely a checklist of some sort. In front of me was a bewildering array of dials and instruments—the only familiar though not very reassuring object was a small bag labeled ‘Air-sickness bag’. I sat with bated breadth waiting for his instructions but he just smiled at me and said “Relax! I’ll let you know if I need help.” I could only smile weakly back not sure what he meant.

We were soon airborne; the ground fell away quickly beneath us and the monotonous drone of the nose propeller drowned out all our conversations and we were forced to put on our headphones. Beneath us the flat desert plains continued, broken only by red and brown colored hills rising from the surface like a rumpled tablecloth. As we went over the hills the plane dropped suddenly and I had that familiar stomach churning feeling that you feel in an amusement park roller coaster. “Sorry! It’s the hot air rising from the hills”, Mr. Pilot explained nonchalantly as if swatting a fly. “No big deal” I mumbled hoping he did not notice my face turning a shade of green. Apparently he did not for soon thereafter Mr. Pilot turned into a tour guide, pointing out the sights below. The serene blue waters of Lake Powell slipped beneath our wings, Hoover Dam appeared somewhere below us and before I knew it we were over the piece de resistance—from the air The Grand Canyon was a awe-inspiring sight. For a few minutes I was transfixed by the raw primal beauty of nature; the immense canyon walls rising vertically from the waters of the Colorado River snaking its way on the canyon floor below.

But just as I was getting carried away by the majestic vistas in front of me, I was brought crashing down to earth (perhaps not a wise choice of words given the circumstances); by a female voice screaming into my ear “Can you close your window? The wind is really messing up my hair”. I reached out and shut the window. Trust my wife to be practical and keep my feet firmly planted to the ground no matter how high I’m flying (this time quite literally, I thought with a smile); while I was getting goose bumps she was worried about her hair!

Our aerial sightseeing over we headed back and after what seemed an eternity our wheels finally kissed the ground. Mr. Pilot taxied to the end of the runway, switched the engine off, beamed at me with child like glee and readied his punch line. Wiping his brow he deadpanned, “Whew! We made it!”  If it hadn’t been for his 6 foot 2 inch frame, I swear, I would have hit him.