I've become used to flying, not the stuff of dreams but the metal box... with wings.
On the whole, I prefer the dreams.
I flew to the UK sixteen days ago when the temperature was in the low thirties and the turbulence coming into Heathrow was, until that point, the worst I'd ever experienced. It was an absolutely clear sky and the plane was riding the thermals as we swooped in over Windsor Castle. There were a lot of kids on the flight, they thought they were riding a roller coaster and set off the kind of infectious laughter and glee that dispelled any mood of impending disaster, most of us had forgotten the pilots words on departure that the co-pilot was flying the plane 'home'. I just hoped the pilot was alongside. The landing was the hardest I've ever experienced, we bounced onto the runway accompanied by an ironic cheer.
It was the kind of flight you just know is a one off, it's behind you, the 'gods' have done the worst and you survived.
Last Tuesday I flew back into the UK from Ireland after a weeks filming for the big September arts project. It was a late flight, dark.
About ten minutes from landing, my good friend alongside me decided now was the time to 'open up' and tell me of his fears and troubles now he'd reached the big 50. I'd been trying to have this conversation with him all week, he'd hinted 'he needed to talk' and I'd guessed what was coming.
He began a rather depressing litany of lost opportunity, advancing years and salacious desire in conflict with his Catholic upbringing just as the pilot instructed everyone to return to their seats and buckle up.
"Things might get a little bumpy." The pilot warned.
I glanced out of the window and saw the clouds lit by lightning.
The next twenty minutes were truly horrific as he fought the plane through a thunderstorm that appeared to have materialised all around us. The lighting was continual, you couldn't see the end of the wings even in the flashes of light and the plane dropped and soared like something possessed. There was no laughter this time, the girls across the aisle were crying and someone nearby was chanting a rosary.
My friend was talking incessently about how close he came through irrational thoughts and depression to ending his life... I came close to helping him. For fleeting moments I thought we were going to die. The plane seemed to be at the whim of the weather, dropping like a stone one minute and the pilot pulling it back to where we were supposed to be. This happened time after time, until you can't avoid thinking just how much abuse a plane is design to take.
In the UK, I live in the triangle formed by London's major airports. At anytime in the evening sky I can see a dozen or more planes stacked overhead waiting for landing clearance, I could only hope that when we were plunging down, no other plane was beneath us.
Of course we came through, and landed smoothly, no cheering. Just a few sobs. We were the last off the plane, the pilot was standing at the gangway, smiling, not so much with reassurance but relief.
"Did you enjoy that?" I asked, trying to inject some levity.
"No. Were not supposed to get caught up in that kind of storm, it came out of nowhere, it was pretty frightening." He looked young and vulnerable.
As we waited for the baggage I apologised to my friend for being less than attentive when he needed to talk.
"No, it's fine," he said, "you're right, I'm going to take your advice."
I've no idea what I'd said to him, and I didn't like to ask.
On the whole, I prefer the dreams.
I flew to the UK sixteen days ago when the temperature was in the low thirties and the turbulence coming into Heathrow was, until that point, the worst I'd ever experienced. It was an absolutely clear sky and the plane was riding the thermals as we swooped in over Windsor Castle. There were a lot of kids on the flight, they thought they were riding a roller coaster and set off the kind of infectious laughter and glee that dispelled any mood of impending disaster, most of us had forgotten the pilots words on departure that the co-pilot was flying the plane 'home'. I just hoped the pilot was alongside. The landing was the hardest I've ever experienced, we bounced onto the runway accompanied by an ironic cheer.
It was the kind of flight you just know is a one off, it's behind you, the 'gods' have done the worst and you survived.
Last Tuesday I flew back into the UK from Ireland after a weeks filming for the big September arts project. It was a late flight, dark.
About ten minutes from landing, my good friend alongside me decided now was the time to 'open up' and tell me of his fears and troubles now he'd reached the big 50. I'd been trying to have this conversation with him all week, he'd hinted 'he needed to talk' and I'd guessed what was coming.
He began a rather depressing litany of lost opportunity, advancing years and salacious desire in conflict with his Catholic upbringing just as the pilot instructed everyone to return to their seats and buckle up.
"Things might get a little bumpy." The pilot warned.
I glanced out of the window and saw the clouds lit by lightning.
The next twenty minutes were truly horrific as he fought the plane through a thunderstorm that appeared to have materialised all around us. The lighting was continual, you couldn't see the end of the wings even in the flashes of light and the plane dropped and soared like something possessed. There was no laughter this time, the girls across the aisle were crying and someone nearby was chanting a rosary.
My friend was talking incessently about how close he came through irrational thoughts and depression to ending his life... I came close to helping him. For fleeting moments I thought we were going to die. The plane seemed to be at the whim of the weather, dropping like a stone one minute and the pilot pulling it back to where we were supposed to be. This happened time after time, until you can't avoid thinking just how much abuse a plane is design to take.
In the UK, I live in the triangle formed by London's major airports. At anytime in the evening sky I can see a dozen or more planes stacked overhead waiting for landing clearance, I could only hope that when we were plunging down, no other plane was beneath us.
Of course we came through, and landed smoothly, no cheering. Just a few sobs. We were the last off the plane, the pilot was standing at the gangway, smiling, not so much with reassurance but relief.
"Did you enjoy that?" I asked, trying to inject some levity.
"No. Were not supposed to get caught up in that kind of storm, it came out of nowhere, it was pretty frightening." He looked young and vulnerable.
As we waited for the baggage I apologised to my friend for being less than attentive when he needed to talk.
"No, it's fine," he said, "you're right, I'm going to take your advice."
I've no idea what I'd said to him, and I didn't like to ask.
