Worst Case Scenario

For some reason I associate propeller planes with a certain degree of antiquity that makes flying in them an uncomfortable experience. Not all flight paths require a 300 seat Boeing 777 with its jet engines, especially a hop from New York to Burlington, Vermont. Thus I'm not surprised (though largely dismayed) to see a barely-commercial prop plane being taxied toward the terminal.

Early November isn't quite snow season, but there's a definite chill in the air. The remnants of fallen maple leaves are slicked to the ground with a light misty rain that's been falling all day. I already hate the idea of flying at night and the weather only heightens my sense of anxiety. The plane isn't even big enough for a direct connection to the terminal so passengers are ushered out onto the tarmac. Whether the plane is legitimately older than any jet engine Boeing or Airbus I've been on or not, it doesn't distract from the fact that I have a natural, guttural aversion to prop planes.

The rain has stopped beating the windows and the clouds have broken. Looking down, there's nothing but blackness below with the exception of a few faint sparkles of light. I imagine that this is what flying over North Korea looks like. We've entered into Adirondack air space and the steady, loud hum of the propellers has lulled me into a white noise induced half-sleep. The beverage cart is passing. There's maybe a half hour to go.

Either it's the sound of screaming or the powerful jolt that wakes me abruptly. My head ricochets off the window. The floor suddenly drops beneath us. The beverage cart makes a run for the front of the plane while the flight attendants struggle back to their feet to catch up with it. There's a collective gasp and children begin to cry. My head is spinning from the hit and in an attempt to grab onto something, anything, I find myself clutching hands with the stranger beside me. The plane jolts again and again. With every jolt, a fresh lung full of air is released in loud, random screams throughout the plane. Two of the flight attendants have wrestled the cart into its holster in the front of the plane. The third crawls on hands and knees down the aisle and into her seat where it takes her three tries to fasten herself down. She clinches her eyes closed, grabs the seat frame with one hand and shoves the other into her pocket. Her lips are moving rhythmically, reciting something over and over. If she's clutching a rosary, which I suspect, it's well concealed.

There's a moment where you think to yourself that this cannot be real. You begin to think you're peering in on someone else's peril--that even though it's your heart racing, your hands clutching a stranger, and your tears pouring down your face it's someone else's horrible fate you're witnessing. It cannot possibly be me. I'm not supposed to die this way.

The plane dips and rolls to the left, then jolts back to the right. The once steady whir of propellers begins to oscillate. Then, all noise fades and there is silence. Movement slows. Mouths are still moving, people are still clutching their seats, contorting their faces, eating air, but there is no sound. Dozens of soda cans still roll down the aisle, and the 'fasten seatbelt' sign blinks. The cabin lights flicker slowly. A woman in the row opposite mine has wrapped her arms around her sobbing child while tears draw lines of black mascara down her face. I take a breath in, there are no thoughts in my mind, I hear nothing and everything is at a standstill. Then the plane dips for one last time.