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PLANES
Granted that I must die, how shall I live?
Michael Norvak
Two hours into a smooth flight from Texas to Oregon, our jet encountered some of the worst turbulence I have experienced in 30 years of flying. The plane was full and I was traveling without a companion, trying to appear nonchalant. I checked the demeanor of the other passengers and noticed that no one else seemed disturbed by the severe jolting and rocking.
Between moments of calm, the plane pitched and dropped sharply in altitude. No longer able to contain my composure, I put down my book and gripped both armrests. A woman sitting across the aisle, one row back who appeared to be well into her eighties, caught my eye and yelled, "Don't worry, honey; the first 100 years are the hardest!"
I burst into laughter even as the plane continued to dip and swerve, completely disengaged from the fear that had seized me moments before. I leaned forward, turned toward the woman and mouthed, "Thank you."
The turbulence continued for another 20 minutes but I remained calm, replaying the woman's comment in my mind and recognizing for the first time that traveling solo is one thing; dying solo is a completely different matter.
If the plane was going to crash, all the white-knuckling in the world would not stop it. Faced with such an immediate inevitability, I knew I could make peace with it. What had frightened me, though, was the thought of doing so without any final human connection. The woman in the plane had given me that. I knew that if it came to that, she was the one I would turn to, smile and mouth, "Good-bye."
Never underestimate the lingering effects of a dash of spontaneous comfort.
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