Planes against the clouds…
There's an eerieness in the middle of the night at 35,000 feet. Especially on long haul flights after the first meal's been served, passengers lulled asleep by wine, eyes heavy from watching bright movies on small screens. Window screens shut, sun down, lights dimmed, everything relatively quiet but for the background hum of the Rolls Royce engines. Those still awake find themselves at the effect of the vessel, drowsy and drunk from the white noise drone of the turbines.
Through the dark cabin creeps a faint glow dancing from various light fixtures: itty bitty No Smoking signs, the odd TV screen watched by a jet lagged passenger, even from the illuminated buttons on the personal remote controls. The light glow intoxicates.
Music is another drug of choice in the mile high mind muckers club. Inevitably some of your past favourites wait for you in the genre sensitive channels. The smart music directors once worked at Amazon, following an "if they like that popular song they'll love this uncommon song" philosophy. Thanks to that strategy I've discovered lots of audio treasures: Coldplay long ago when they first emerged, Katie Melue, Amy Bell to name a few.
Years ago I read a fantastic story about the Whitbread Round the World Yacht Race. The writer described how one night, sailing through the crazy life-threatening southern oceans, the crew listened to Rachmaninoff beneath a searchlight-bright full moon, the reflections of which danced like fire off the wind chiseled waves. I'd heard the composer but never got that piece of the story until Cathay Pacific added to their classical channel a heart-stopping, stunning version of Rachmaninoff. Then the picture was complete – fire, waves and all.
I wouldn't say it's a spa up here, obviously far from it. More like a memory time machine that uniquely plays on one's senses. Yes, I've made many flights down the Reminiscent Runway. I've lost track because Tess & I started using our miles years ago, but if we hadn't we'd probably have over 3 million CX miles to our names. That's a lot of time on planes. Even Sebastian has a frequent flyer number!
I remember the first time I went around the planet in 1998. Hong Kong -> Delhi -> London -> Toronto -> Chicago -> Hong Kong. My first time on English soil I arrived just as the early dawn broke. I'll never forget the orange rays on the still quiet city as we descended on final approach into Heathrow, flying over Buckingham Palace. Those moments, high above the earth, are burned hard into my memory.
I recall years ago in the late 1990s on one of my many trips from India to Canada via London or Frankfurt, the US was starting it's second major assault on Iraq. That night was the start of the air campaign. Security was a big issue since I was flying United Airlines and everything was buzzy at the airport. (CX wasn't flying to Delhi at that time.) Our flight path altered slightly to insure we flew clear of the trouble. But knowing we were so close to the action was odd. That night was eerie and there have been many similar occasions.
In late August 2002, as my CX flight flirted with the dateline on it's way to Canada via Alaska, my mother passed away. My sisters and father were at her side, while I sat in CX First Class (thanks to a very compassionate CX employee) listening to Robbie Williams' renditions of old classics at Albert Hall. I didn't know my mother had passed away, but then again, I knew. I knew all too well, especially after waking up from a light sleep, present to a deep, deep peace. I later learned that was right around the time she slipped away.
Knowing that I knew what I didn't know on that particular flight, and after the Rolls Royce engines' hypnotic hum settled into my sub-conscious, I wrote a tribute to my mother that I later read at her memorial four days later in Toronto. Tough task. There in the green glow of an oddly quiet but noisy aircraft, I entered words into my laptop in honour of my mother. Of course I wept, wouldn't you? Despite my discrete attempts to conceal my state, the radar-like green glow surrendered me, reflecting itself off the regularly escaping tears. Other passengers, and the crew, surely thought me crazy. I completed the tribute long before phoning Toronto during the Alaska re-fuel to confirm in the physical world what I already knew. My father, married to my mother for five decades, was more concerned that I was okay on that call than he was for himself. A flight I will never forget.
Another journey where the plane's spirit got its hooks deep into my mind was when Tess, Sebastian & I flew to Antigua in March of this year. Having recently achieved CX gold status I got bumped to Business. So we splurged, burning points for Tess & Seb upgrades to Business Class for the HK -> Toronto sector. We had to pull a few strings to get there, but CX complied.
This trip had a special place in my heart. For the first time in years the entire family was together except for my Mother. Our trip was one of her last wishes – a family reunion in Antigua. With no memories of Antigua (I had only been there when I was six months old) deep into the depths of my soul I knew I was in a sacred place. You can imagine the thoughts swirling through my head during those ten days in the West Indies, never mind on the flights to Toronto/back to Hong Kong as the slipstream played with my senses. Just as we have friends and family with whom we grow old, we also have constants like movie stars and rock stars who we watch grow old with us… well so do books, companies, and even airlines.
I am not sure why this environment makes me so introspective. Maybe something about looking out at the world from high above. Even on a recent trip as I flew out of Sydney and Melbourne, Australia, I was acutely aware how close I was to the Sydney-Hobart yacht race course: we would have flown directly above the route for the race that started December 26. Punctuate that with the knowledge that while in Sydney I had a short glimpse of Ragamuffin, one of the favourites to win the Sydney-Hobart Race.
There's more to looking down on the southern hemisphere than just the Sydney-Hobart, for me anyway. That's also where the most daring of adventuring sailors find the Roaring Forties – a windy stretch of water that lives not only south of the equator but also in the dreams of many a venturer. Successful passage through the Roaring Forties places a rare star of Salty Dog Accomplishment on the lapels of not that many yachtsmen. Having the foresight to play Rachmaninoff would certainly enrich the already intense experience, too. Obviously, flying overtop doesn't earn anyone the ribbon, nonetheless there I was, just a stone's throw away from a lifelong dream.
Not surprisingly, sunsets and dawns regularly present a gorgeous array of colours at these altitudes. I remember flying out of Singapore en route to India in 2002. It was dusk. We ascended through gigantic, puffy clouds of all shapes, sizes and tones. I was already interviewing and planning my escape from Rockwell so everywhere I traveled I video taped. I didn't know when I'd be back to India – amazingly in my first two years at Juniper I spent more time on the Indian sub-continent than 5.5 years at Rockwell.
As tough as long haul flights can be, especially the vast number I always find myself on, the environment plays tricks on the mind, provoking all sorts of introspective thoughts. Music plays a huge part, as do movies, towards the altitude poignancy. Nowadays I even plan my flights to be awake at the quietest moments when others are asleep. That's when I'll find some music, crack open my laptop or Blackberry, and write. Most of my writing is about the past but occasionally I look forward as best I can… trying to capture who I am to create a better future. I wish I could capture precisely what it is about flying that captures me, but like understanding life itself, it's a little illusive.
So we fly on, planes against the clouds, borne back ceaselessly into the past.
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