We sat on the plane for 90 minutes in Atlanta before finally taking off for Buffalo. The first delay was a computer unit that needed replacing. It should only be 10 minutes, the captain told us, and his estimate was accurate. As we pushed back from the gate, the flight attendants prepared for departure, cross-checking and demonstrating the safety equipment.
We had barely made it to the end of the terminal when the captain’s voice interrupted those proceedings. Folks, I’m afraid we’ll have to return to the gate, he reported. We have a warning light that needs to be checked out. Once back at B31, the crew was required by FAA regulation to open the cabin doors, but they promised our gate time would be brief.
Sure enough, the doors were secured 10 minutes later, but opened again 5 minutes after that, because our original flight plan had us cruising at 29,000 feet and the air was too rough up there now. Lower altitude means more fuel, and so we sat waiting for them to onboard an additional 1500 pounds.
We were offered short pours of water from plastic liter bottles to slake our impatience, but it didn’t seem to appease the four-year-old behind us. He was a verbal processor who gave high and loud, minute-by-minute reports of his observations, both internal and external, including: the poop is out of my guts, we’re not moving, this trip is taking a long time, it’s still raining, my scarf is itchy, it’s still raining, now we’re going on the highway, that airplane is really big, it’s still raining, are we already there? In between he wailed like a siren and sang songs of gobbledygook and gibberish in a piercing soprano. His continuous sound track was punctuated frequently by the guttural whoops of a non-verbal young man a couple of rows ahead of us.
Slipping in my earbuds, I was amazed at how little noise they filtered, but I cranked a podcast anyway and closed my eyes. A little while later I was roused from a very light doze by the jolt of the plane leaving the jetway for what we dearly hoped was the last time. Shortly after that we slipped the bonds of gravity and flew up, up, up, through the drizzle and fog and burst through the clouds into a golden late December afternoon.
We had barely made it to the end of the terminal when the captain’s voice interrupted those proceedings. Folks, I’m afraid we’ll have to return to the gate, he reported. We have a warning light that needs to be checked out. Once back at B31, the crew was required by FAA regulation to open the cabin doors, but they promised our gate time would be brief.
Sure enough, the doors were secured 10 minutes later, but opened again 5 minutes after that, because our original flight plan had us cruising at 29,000 feet and the air was too rough up there now. Lower altitude means more fuel, and so we sat waiting for them to onboard an additional 1500 pounds.
We were offered short pours of water from plastic liter bottles to slake our impatience, but it didn’t seem to appease the four-year-old behind us. He was a verbal processor who gave high and loud, minute-by-minute reports of his observations, both internal and external, including: the poop is out of my guts, we’re not moving, this trip is taking a long time, it’s still raining, my scarf is itchy, it’s still raining, now we’re going on the highway, that airplane is really big, it’s still raining, are we already there? In between he wailed like a siren and sang songs of gobbledygook and gibberish in a piercing soprano. His continuous sound track was punctuated frequently by the guttural whoops of a non-verbal young man a couple of rows ahead of us.
Slipping in my earbuds, I was amazed at how little noise they filtered, but I cranked a podcast anyway and closed my eyes. A little while later I was roused from a very light doze by the jolt of the plane leaving the jetway for what we dearly hoped was the last time. Shortly after that we slipped the bonds of gravity and flew up, up, up, through the drizzle and fog and burst through the clouds into a golden late December afternoon.
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