Anyone who knows me has no doubt that I hate to fly. Placing my life in a hollow metal tube under the direction of Captain Bob as he takes us to 30000 feet is not my idea of a fun time. Grant it I fly solely out of necessity for work and the periodic experiencing of fun places. My latest adventure was cause for pause the next time I even think about boarding the friendly skies. I had to travel the most northwestern county in California to the grand metropolis of Crescent City. I actually contemplated driving the nearly 8 hours instead of flying the 1.5. Since this was a business trip and I had a co-worker the decision was already set in stone.
Arriving at the airport at suggested hour before boarding I avoided the long line by going to the Check-in terminal. My first indication that my flight was doomed was when I retrieved my boarding passes from the machine and acquired a rather deep paper cut. Onward I went upstairs to security. Expecting a long wait I was pleasantly surprised that I was able to breeze through security without much incident. Making my way to the assigned gate I greet my co-worker and engage in idle chat. Twenty minutes before departure a small Hispanic airline employee announced, with such a strong accent I thought I was at a Taco Bell drive through: “For dose of jou on flight pipty seben oh seben jour plain has been delayed. Please go down stairs to de ticket counter and dey will try to get you on de bus. Internachional trablers have priority and dere are only six seats abailable. Please, don’t blame me.”
So off we head, with luggage and laptops, to the ticket counter, following a woman from Germany who, unlike us actually understood what the employee had just announced. We make our way to the first available counter which happened to be for first class passengers. In the next line there two men began to loudly and arrogantly complain to us “Hey, the line starts back there!” Combined with the fear of flying, the frustration of the possibility of missing my flight, and the sting from the sweat I wiped from my brow burring into my fresh paper cut, I retorted in manner that was one step short from having their testicles presented in a glass display as a warning to others.
Waiting patiently for the ticket agent to tell us if they had room for us on the bus we look up to the monitor to find that the flight was now boarding. Up we raced, taking off shoes, removing metal, and placing our 1 quart bag to once again be scrutinized by an overworked TSA agent. I looked at all the Barbie sized bottles of shampoo, conditioner, bath gel and toothpaste and quietly thanked the citizens of our fine nation for not converting to the metric system because a liter plastic bag would be slightly smaller and I might not have been able to shove in my bottle of Visine.
We quickly present our boarding passes and are escorted outside the terminal, down a stairwell, across the tarmac to our Embraer 120 waiting in the drizzling rain. (I remember the make of the plane because scrambling to find the air sickness bag I rummaged through the seat pocket and memorized the information in the safety procedure – but more about that later). Having only 20 percent of the total 30 passenger capacity the flight attendant was rather relaxed about which seats we chose. I chose my assigned seat while my mind conjured up various plane crash scenarios where the authorities are questioning which limb belonged to what passenger.
The short flight from Sacramento to San Francisco was non-eventful except the slight whistling that was coming from somewhere above the isle between my co-worker and me. It was reminiscent of having a car window opened ever so slightly to which the noise becomes louder and at a higher pitch as speed increases. I try to examine exactly where the noise is coming from, knowing full well I did not pack my handy MacGyver kit (complete with bubble gum, paperclip and non-stick band-aid), so a repair of any sort would not be possible. As I glance over my shoulder I notice the “No Smoking” sign and think to myself how good a cigarette would be right about then. Then I saw it… directly below the “No Smoking” sign… an ashtray. I quickly try to calculate how long smoking has been band on flights. It did not need to pull out my calculator (because anything with an on/off switch was prohibited from being turned on) but quickly concluded the plane and/or many of its key parts were older than I can remember. The panic racing through my mind was accompanied by a whistling I tried to convince myself was the theme from the Andy Griffith show being played very, very slowly.
We safely arrive in San Francisco and are escorted across the tarmac and up another set of stairs. Before leaving our flight attendant announced our connecting flight would be at gate 76. Looking at our watches (ok, the clocks on our cell phones) we had about an hour before boarding. We casually get a quick bite and drink and head back to gate 76. As the boarding time neared it appeared that we would be the only two people on this flight. As I walk to the trashcan to discard the remnants of our fine dining I notice the departure monitor stating our gate was now 79. We gather our belongings and arrive at gate 79 just in time to have them announce that our gate would now be 84B. A whole herd of weary passengers migrate to the correct gate. Somehow, perhaps fueled by the caffeine I just had, I managed to end up at the front of the line. An airline employee, Hector, who could easily pass as a pensioner working as a Wal-Mart greeter, instructed us to follow him as he descended a stairwell until we congregated in front of two glass doors. Hector entered his five digit pass code to open the door… it failed. He did it again… it failed. Before his third try he glanced over his shoulder with a look that expressed a fear that there would be an angry stampede of travelers. After several attempts Hector was able to get the door open and waived us on toward the wet tarmac and our awaiting Embrear 120.
As I make my way up the stairs in the drizzling rain the flight attendant standing at the door says “Sir, you need to wait there, ‘ and using her hand palm side down gave me a motion to step back which was accompanied with her actually saying “Shooosh, shooosh.” Now, I know that when I am sprouting a baseball cap and jeans I resemble my father but that was not the case here. With a slightly bruised ego, and drenching hair I boarded the plane and quickly found my seat. All of the above could have easily been forgotten had the remainder of the trip gone without incident. Sadly as we begin to gain elevation and the rocky ride began something told my mind it was absolutely necessary to take note of every detail of that flight because it may very well be my last day on earth. (As I am writing this, you can conclude that I did indeed live through it.)
For those of you that remember, the first weekend in January we in Northern California experience weather of Apocalyptic proportions. As fate would have it, that was the weekend I made this trek. Now, I am not sure what I did to piss off the gods unknown, but for some reason they decided to play avionic ping pong with our plane. Having a window seat I could see the horizon bobbing up and down. Seeing the wing rise and fall increased my bodies cry to purge itself from anything I had consumed in the last week. Freezing rain pounded against the wings. The turburlance was so extreme I began to believe covered wagons were a smoother ride in their time. I found myself clutching the arm rests as I felt my body twist in motion with the plane as wind pushed one wing backwards, causing the plane to turn unexpectedly. An hour and a half this continued. For a freakin’ hour and a half I gazed at the little white bag in the seat pocket in front of me, praying that the $14 of airport snacks would not come up to haunt me.
Suddenly we felt our “Little Plane That Could” began to make its decent. My heart stopped pounding in my ears and I could unclench the arm rest long enough to wipe the sweat from my brow. Damn… that paper cut stings again. Through the darkness I see lights and faintly see the coastline below us. The pilot begins to circle. I am finding I don’t have to remind myself to “Inhale, exhale, inhale….” The Hallalujah chorus plays in my mind as I see runway lights. I turn to my coworker and give him the “thumbs up”. We will live to see another day.
As I and other passengers stare out the windows to welcome the ground below unanimously we were confused when the plane began to gain altitude once again. It was then that those of us on the right side of the plane noticed… below us was the wrong airport.. Believe it or not, our pilot, good ol’ Captain Bob, was going to land at the wrong airport. As we were led to understand, the weekday flights to this region originate in San Francisco, connect in Arcata and continue on to Crescent city. The weekend flights originate in San Francisco, connect in Crescent and continue to Arcata. So, maybe it wasn’t a lack of direction on the part of Captain Bob but simply that he forgot what day of the week it was. With a shorter but just as volatile version of the previous hour and half, I was now clutching the white paper bag tightly in my hand. With each rise and fall of the wings I was inching closer to having wasted $14 at the San Francisco airport. As we once again make our decent into the airport I am not overcome with joy as I was on our previous decent. Lights, coastline and runway lights were clearly visible. Fool me once, shame on you… fool me twice… shame on me.
At last, we had indeed landed at the Crescent City’s McNamara Airport and Snack Bar. Shaken, cold and wet we walk across the tarmac, into the airport and find our way to the rental car counter. Ok, it’s not really a counter per say. It is more like a small two drawer file cabinet that contains copies of your online reservation attached to the keys for your rental car. One signature later we were in the car off to the hotel.
We had the foresight to have asked those hosting this business adventure for a recommendation for lodging. Without hesitation they suggested Hampton Inn. I was grateful for their bit of advice having looked at other hotels in the area before I booked online. Our second choice would have been the hotel that boosts “The Worlds Largest Collection Of Jim Beam Bottles” and they were not kidding. We check in to our rooms and quickly gather in the lobby to venture in finding a restaurant.
With a tip from the desk clerk we make our way to “The Grotto”. It had a very rustic feel to it and I am still wondering if the management was attempting to give it a romantic feel or trying to hide the décor by dimming the lights. The first thing I noticed on the menu was Red Silk Panties. No, this was not actual undergarments, although that might have made an interesting story. I quickly ordered the advertised martini and something I can’t recall off the menu. I began to salivate like a Pavlovian experiment when the waiter walked closer with my little glass of peach/pomegranate heaven. The glass bearing a slight frosting on outside from the chilled liquid it contained. I took one long sip and let the sweet alcohol sooth my weary nerves.
Laughing about the ordeal we just endured our meal arrived. It was then I was relieved that the lights were dim for I feared a closer inspection of what was on my plate. No sooner had my meal arrived when the young man, I am assuming was the bartender, announced that it was the last call to order drinks. I looked at my watch (ok, cellphone) and the time was 8:12pm. Boy, they close things down early in this town.
Part 2 later
uncledoreen
