While
we all prepare for emergencies, most boaters seldom witness the effective
execution of a well-conceived plan.
The second leg of our flight was to be
from St. Louis to Atlanta. Only 43 people boarded the MD80 for the 90-minute
hop, seated in separate and remote clusters throughout the cabin of
the large plane. Jan and I sat on the port side of the aircraft, just
aft of the wing, and we waited while the remaining passengers came aboard.
The
cabin lights had begun to fade as the plane climbed very quickly to
a cruising altitude the captain had announced would be 32,000 feet.
In the relative quiet of the idling jet, we heard a weird noise. The
sound wasn't engine related, but reminded a listener of a laboring electrical
or hydraulic system. From just overhead in the cabin, a noise would
begin at a very low pitch, rise to a moderately high frequency, cycle
off completely, and then immediately begin again. Racking my memory,
I still couldn't place this particular noise among the group of sounds
one expects to hear aboard an aircraft. I was tempted to dismiss the
noise as insignificant, but then Jan spoke up.
"I'm not really happy with that
odd noise," she said, attempting to disguise a note of minor concern.
Jan is a brave boater, but could be fairly
characterized as a "nervous" flyer. It wouldn't be unusual
for her to wonder about an inexplicable noise, but I had to agree this
particular sound was unique. After listening to the mystery system labor
through a few more cycles, I decided to attempt a humorous inquiry as
the flight attendant passed down the aisle.
"Pardon me, but can you tell us
what causes this particular noise? It reminds me of the time the power
steering went out on my '63 Rambler."
The flight attendant laughed, courteously.
"Yes, that's it exactly!" he joked. "The power steering!
Actually, I'm not sure what it is but I can assure you that it's nothing
to be alarmed about or the captain would be looking into it. Would you
like a pillow or blanket?"
As soon as the cabin door was closed,
the laboring system appeared to ease. I assumed that we had been listening
to some portion of the cabin pressurization equipment. I would soon
have good reason to doubt my diagnosis.
My
mind began drawing parallels between the MD80 and a boat.
We taxied to the runway and took off normally. The cabin lights had
begun to fade as the plane climbed very quickly to a cruising altitude
the captain had announced would be 32,000 feet. The seat belt sign was
turned off, and we were informed that it would be okay to move around
the cabin or use personal electronic devices. I cued up an Etta James
CD on our portable player, and hooked up the headphones to enjoy her
definitive rendition of "Misty." All heck broke loose before
Etta could get her first breath.
Something shorted out. The cabin lights
began flickering and proceeded to strobe rapidly on and off throughout
the plane. The annoying tone that precedes a PA announcement was chiming
away like a broken doorbell, but after about 10 seconds the lights went
out for good and the obnoxious dinging stopped. Jan had a firm grip
on my forearm.
"There's something going on, isn't
there?" she asked.
I was concerned, too, but tried to be
as objective as possible. "Well, there does seem to be some trouble
with the cabin lights, but the good news is we still seem to be flying
straight and level. It looks like all the important stuff must be okay,
but we'll just be flying in a dark cabin." I was wrong.
The PA system cracked and popped, but
then the pilot's voice was audible in the cabin. "Ladies and gentlemen,
we are experiencing electrical difficulties throughout the aircraft.
Please return to your seats and fasten your seatbelts for the remainder
of the flight. We have lost some of our electronics in the cockpit,
but we are able to maintain physical control of the aircraft and still
have enough instrumentation to land. We will be making an unscheduled
stop in Nashville, and if the ground crew can make the necessary repairs
this plane will then continue on to Atlanta."
"Oh, no!" said Jan, as her
grip on my forearm threatened to disrupt circulation below the wrist.
"Do you think we could crash?"
I took her hand in both of mine. "I'm
absolutely certain we're going to be all right," I replied, expressing
more hope than conviction. "The pilot seems to have good control
of the plane. Obviously the radio is working and he's communicating
with the ground controllers or we wouldn't be allowed to divert to Nashville."
"Well, I guess there's nothing we
can do about it if there is a big problem," concluded Jan, but
it was obvious she was very concerned.
My mind began drawing parallels between
the MD80 and a boat. We still had power, and apparently to all engines.
Loss of engine power aboard a boat is typically survivable, but a plane
has to be designed to loose an engine or two and continue flying. The
cabin lights were still off, but the malfunctioning PA system was either
back online or had a redundant amplifier on a separate circuit. Redundancy
is very important aboard a boat, but on an aircraft it could prove to
be the critical difference between a major inconvenience and a potential
catastrophe.
The captain did a good job of managing
the passengers, I thought. He had given us enough information to allow
us to feel informed and somewhat reassured that the electrical problems
were under control. The cabin crew was well trained and never appeared
unduly alarmed. A kindly flight attendant noticed the visible signs
of Jan's distress and took the seat immediately in front of us.
"There's really no reason to be
frightened," she said. "We have lost some of our electronics,
but it's the pilots who fly the plane, not the computers. We're flying
perfectly. Tell you what, when you see me get worried, then you can
worry too, okay? Would you like me to sit here near you until we land?"
"No, that's all right," said
Jan, "but thank you, anyway."
We aged six months in the following 20
minutes. All the passengers held a collective breath as the plane banked
steeply to port and began descending rapidly on an approach to Nashville.
We dropped through a weightless, motionless void of billowed clouds
that changed from shiny white to dismal gray as the sun retreated beyond
the western horizon. It occurred to me that one factor in the decision
to land the plane at Nashville could be a desire to get the compromised
plane on the ground while some shred of daylight remained.
"What about the landing gear?"
asked Jan. "If we're having electrical problems, are they going
to be able to get the wheels down?"
"Why, of course," I replied,
hopefully. "I'm sure they have a back-up system. You know, a crank
or something." We were both reassured when we heard the landing
gear deploy a few moments later.
"Ladies and gentlemen," said
the pilot, "we are about to land at Nashville. You will notice
some emergency vehicles lining the runway as we touch down. Please do
not be unduly alarmed, this is simply a routine precaution."
"Right," I thought. "Just
as routine as the rest of this flight."
Atheists were in scarce supply aboard
that MD80 as we approached the end of the runway. Jan laced her fingers
into mine and summoned up the remains of her courage. I watched the
ground through the cabin window and was amazed at the steep angle and
rapidity of our descent. We slammed down, hard, onto the tarmac and
"bounced" 50-feet back into the air. The port wing dipped
toward the runway, but we leveled off almost immediately and touched
down, (more gently), again.
As the scenery raced by the cabin window,
one could see a series of flashing, blinking, firetrucks and ambulances
spaced at intervals along the runway. There were no other planes visible
on the runway or taxiways. With the wheels finally rolling along the
pavement, the cabin crew engaged every braking system available and
reversed the thrust of the engines. We lurched forward against our seat
belts as the plane decelerated very rapidly and finally made a turn
down a taxiway. When the plane had turned 90 degrees to port, we could
see the lighted emergency vehicles chasing after us down the runway.
Once safely on the ground, the pilot
activated the PA system and gave us a full explanation of the situation.
"You can thank our first officer
for the safe landing," admitted the pilot. "We lost all of
the instruments on the left side of the plane, and a good portion of
them on the right. I had red flags over all my indicators, but the first
officer was able to control the aircraft. We landed the old-fashioned
way: we earned it. We will be turning the plane over to the maintenance
department and let them figure out what's wrong with it. Please see
our agent at the gate to make arrangements to continue to Atlanta, and
thanks for flying American Airlines."
As we disembarked, we noticed that the
obnoxious "power steering" noise had stopped. I now realize
why my '63 Rambler wasn't licensed to fly.
A few boating principles were reinforced
on that memorable flight: the importance of redundancy; the ability
of a rehearsed drill to help contain panic and facilitate clear decision-making
during a "situation"; the critical need for navigation and
control skills not entirely dependent on the latest electronic gadget;
the value of a well-trained crew and the essential function of emergency
rescue services. The next time I'm awkward when docking Indulgence,
my customary quip, "They say any landing you can walk away from
is a good one," will seem slightly less funny. (At least to me-nobody
else thinks it's funny to begin with.) 
