Passengers on the Brink

I love flying. Actually, it's not about the bit in the middle. It's about the beginning and end that's always the thrilling part for me. Whether it is a long haul flight to another continent or a short trip interstate, just as long as I get to take off and land, then I'll be a happy man.

I've always got the biggest grin on my face when I board the plane and waste no time strapping myself into my seat. When I hear the pilot over the speakers I try to imagine how old he is and then gauge the confidence in his voice. It's funny to think how much trust we have in the people locked away in the cockpit, when we haven't even seen their qualifications, experience, let alone seen their grey hairs and poker face gaze.

When that plane starts to move on the tarmac, that's when my adrenaline starts to flow through my veins. I can barely hide the sheer excitement and nervous energy, the same raw feelings people seem to fear and despise, feelings I so often hold back and disguise, are suddenly unleashed and out of control. I'm rolling down the runway restrained in my armchair coffin, bolted down in pretty little rows inside an aluminium vibrator with wings. The plane takes one last turn and enters the runway, the pilot centers the cockpit and then we stop.

We are all passengers on the brink of disaster, either pretending to be asleep, saying our Hail Mary's, sucking on candy, while our under garments are secretly drenched with sweat. Am I the only one thinking I'm lucky to be alive, high on my brain’s chemical imbalance like giddy teenager falling in love for the very first time? Then the walls begin to shake and the engines roar. The rush of speed is a cocktail of opium; rocket fuel and sex, shaken not stirred and tipped down the back of my neck. It's like asphyxiation with a vacuum or masturbation in a pool of breasts. It feels so fucking good I could be plowing into a concrete wall at the end of the runway, but I don't care. Just as long as is hard and fast! How will it end? This I don’t know as this joy flight is out of control.

Once we take off and we’re flying that's like the eye of the storm, because despite the gorgeous views, the trollies full of miniature drinks and food, the swollen feet, cramped legs and video entertainment, all I really want to do is come down.

"Please fasten your seat belts!"

Here we go again! My adrenaline is convulsing in the aisles, fondling itself back to the safety restraint of my seat. The warning lights are flashing and the flight attendants are on edge. The duty free bottles of grog tremble overhead and butterflies begin to flutter as the plane banks left and right. The floor drops from our feet and the landing gear is engaged with a rumble and drone. I look from side to side and watch the ground swell appear and disappear from the windows. This is it! This is the feeling I love, that I have no control. I'm on autopilot flying through a cloud with no end or will it end? The turbulence, the roaring engines, the inertia and wind, this is a battle between the elements, technology and the pilots wits end.

I'm high on hurtling back to earth. The wheels hit the tarmac, rubber burns and we bounce once or twice or not at all. We slide and swerve, while the pilots try to hold course. The flaps drop and the engines are thrust into reverse, the plane rattles and my bones shake. Maybe there’s some sparks, a puff of smoke or maybe we're already done, but whatever happens when we land, I'm holding on tight and I'm loving every second of this rush. I just don't want to let go and I don’t want this trip to stop.

We are passengers on the brink of death and disaster, over and over again.