Story of the Day

We waited for the final boarders to get in the aircraft and to get situated. If one was a toe-tapper, the wait was trying. For everyone else it was a so-what. When all were in who were going to go this trip the last vestige of ground attachment pushed our plane away from the terminal into the roomy area of the ramp. Finally, this vehicle of lift was to begin its journey in its own right. We bobbed along the taxiway as another plane gave up its affair with the sky to land on our runway in front of us.

We waited for the invisible devils that followed the MD-11 to the ground to become bored and confused and dissipate. It was not appropriate for them to play with our smaller aircraft. When our time had arrived the Captain pulled our ship into alignment with the center of our landing strip and applied the crop. The jet reacted and launched it self and its contents down the runway faster and faster. We got going so fast that we could no longer stay on the ground and leapt into the air, grabbing for and getting the support we would need to flee the surface. Now we were in a hurry. The 737 roared its gravitational defiance as it tried to and got farther and farther from the water-sogged lands around the Rose City.

We waited for our leader, the pilot, to deign to allow us passengers free roam of the cabin. When our air steed had brought us to an externally ordained cruise altitude of 33,000 feet, it was allowed to breathe more easily. To use a more economical thrust of power in this thinner air, to carry its burden... profitably to its goal. He did it. A few spectators got up and gawked. First one side, then the other. One would think they hadn't seen a flood like this in 30 years. I sat. Strapped to my seat. Camera empty of unexposed film. Gawking out my own window. Seeing how the rivers were not stopped. How the flows went where they needed as we went where we needed much much faster.

We waited for the flight attendants to distribute the obligatory snacks and drinks. Why do they bother? In the OLD DAYS, a breakfast would be served on a 1 - 2 hour flight. This is the new days. It is much cheeper to fly much less comfortably. But, we got our peanuts and our cookies. We got our free beverages, and our costly booze. We consumed. It took our minds off the dullness, the routineness of flight for those with little appreciation for the ground. A geologist studies the Earth. A geomorphologist studies the forms of the Earth. The Face of the Earth. Observations from off the surface give strong hints of what lies below it. We gobbled our snacks and swilled our drinks until it was time to start down.

We waited for that first sensation of the brakes being applied. For that feeling that we were trying to pull over as though chased by the air police. It came and our mount shivered a bit as its reins we hauled in. We tip-toed over some clear lumps in the air and lo and behold! DONG! The little icon lit and the words were pronounced "...Fasten Seatbelt sign...". The wind speeds were up and counter intuitively, well stirred air is more lumpy. The Boeing slowly slid down the slopes of the Coast Ranges. Lower and lower. Venturing out over the Pacific a grand view of the Golden Gate was to be had. Venerable old Keesar Stadium was passed over with nary a ripple. Our transport eased lower and slower until we could be seen to enter the earth browned layer above our destination. The well educated (some would say anal) campus of Stanford was pointed out by the arrow of its LINEAC as we slid over the San Andreas fault without a quiver. We were lower. We were slower. Gawking again became the fashion. "Where are we?" "Is that....?" "I looked for the colors on the map but I can't see them."

We waited for that final turn that would aim us to the threshold. To the very door to the airpark. We had do successfully enter that door. Or else. Our carrier slowed. Not as though out of breath. Not like it was about to give up the ghost. But like a ballerina spinning across a floor, in a precise line with a final target set wan waiting for that last leap. Lower and slower until we could go no lower, go no slower in the air. The wings had given away all of their hard won lift here where someone else would need it. The tires of the landing gear remembered what they were for and started rolling again. But the mighty turbines had one last effort to make. The sang out strongly to snatch away the rest of our speed. They roared as loud to keep us on the ground than they had to put us in the air. And then they were done with the hard work for a while. They could whine for more fuel and sigh for the rest between the flights. And they did.

We waited as instructed. like a well behaved public. For the aircraft to come to a complete stop at the terminal and for the Captain to turn off the seatbelt light before we moved about the cabin. We left. We deplaned. Thus ended another successful flight. As it should have. As nearly all do. Now, I am in the Valley of Silicon. Oh well.

Sunday night
February 11, 1996