Parenting humor: Terror at 5000 feet

Terror at 5000 feet

"What does that button do, daddy?" asked my son Jack, 4, as the plane soared to a height I am sure man was never supposed to go.

"It's the switch for the air-conditioner,'' I said, trying to stay calm as sweat beaded on my forehead.

"And that one?" he asked, pointing to another button above our heads.

"It's for the reading light," I said, trying not to let my voice quiver so he didn't pick up on my nervous-flyer vibes.

"What about that one?" Jack asked.

"That one? I don't know," I said, forgetting my nerves for just a moment and instinctively reaching up and touching it ever so lightly.
Ping!
Uh oh, now I knew what it was. It was one of my biggest button fears on a plane, second only to my terror of accidentally hitting the ejector button and plunging, sans parachute, to my death. It was the button that summoned the flight attendant.

A smiling woman appeared quickly, which is hardly surprising since the aircraft was a little Dash 8 and she didn't have far to come.
"How can I help you, sir?" she asked.

"Er, sorry," I said. "I didn't mean to push the button. I haven't got a problem."

"That's all right, sir," the flight attendant said. "Those buttons are very sensitive, aren't they?"

Great.
As if I didn't hate flying enough.
Now they make me feel guilty about hating it with kind flight attendants and sensitive call buttons.

We were on the way from Canberra, Australia's capital, to Melbourne. Later we would catch a connection to Launceston, Tasmania, to stay with my mother for a week.
I think flying is unnatural but it is a necessary evil in this great big world if you want to get from A to B quickly.
Tasmania is an island, which cuts the driving-there-in-a-car option out completely.

People with scientific minds have attempted to explain to me why it is possible that chunks of fuselage as heavy as my house can take to the sky and stay up there until it is time to come down, then land as if nothing terribly unusual had happened.

Others have tried to tell me that I am more likely to be killed by a runaway No 2 bus than meet my end on Flight 356.

I don't care.
I still hate it.

he first thing I noticed on our Southern Airlines Canberra-to-Melbourne flight was the size of the plane.
Our boarding pass said we were in row seven.
"Oh goody," I told Jack, trying to feign excitement so he would enjoy the experience. "We're near the front of the plane."
Wrong.
We boarded the unseen plane through a tunnel and found we were two rows from the back. It was a very little plane!

The consolation for me was that we were right next to the wheels, which we could clearly see once we were in the air.
I have to say I would much prefer early in the flight to sit where I can see the wings, just so I know the plane actually has wings. But it is a great comfort, too, when I can look out my window during our descent and reassure myself that we have at least one wheel.

One of the first things I DID NOT notice on our flight was the safety demonstration by the flight attendant as the plane taxied up the runway.
Well, does anyone actually watch these demonstrations?
And if they do, would they actually remember which arm goes under which tab of the life jacket in the confusion of an emergency?

It is not good enough that the life jackets come in a variety of fashionable colours and are equipped with reading lights that come on when in contact with water, whistles that only old sea dogs can hear and party hats.
Airlines need to find a way to make people actually watch the life jacket-fitting demonstrations.
On our Canberra-to-Melbourne flight, I convinced myself that the best way to achieve this was to have the flight attendant perform the safety routine while dressed in a skimpy swimsuit.
On the flight home, however, I realised this was a sexist idea. Co-incidentally, two of the three attendants on this much bigger plane were male.

Why do they show you how to put on life jackets on a flight from Canberra to Melbourne anyway?
Ever look at a map of Australia?
Apart from farm dams, there isn't a whole lot of water between Canberra and Melbourne.
What is the likelihood of a big plane - or even a little one like a Dash 8 - coming down the middle of a farm dam?
Far less than being hit by a runaway No 2 bus, I suspect.

In case of an emergency, we were told, an oxygen mask would drop down from above us.
Oh please!
What if you don't want oxygen?
The airlines ought to give all passengers a choice at the check-in counter.
"Would you like a window seat, sir?"
"What about a vegetarian meal?"
"Would you prefer sitting next to a nun, a former prime minister who has fallen on hard times and now has to sit in the economy section or a four-year-old boy?"
"And will that be smoking or no-smoking?"

Yes, I know smoking is technically prohibited on Australian flights, but I think that only applies to tobacco.
Why can't the passengers who request it get an emergency mask hooked up to a giant bong?
"Place the mask carefully over your face and breath normally."
You might still be about to die but, heck, who would care?
"Man, this stuff is gooooood."

And why life jackets?
When I fly, believe me, drowning is the furthest thing from my mind.
I am much more fearful of plummeting to the ground sans parachute after hitting the ejector button.
So why don't airlines provide a parachute for every passenger?
And not under the seat either, like the life jackets, but on your seat where you can get at them easily.
Nervous passengers like me should be able to strap on parachutes before take-off, long before the cabin fills with smoke and panic.

These thoughts were buzzing around my brain as the Dash 8 surged into the sky.
Finally, the intercom crackled into life.
"This is your first officer speaking."

Really? Where the hell was the captain? I couldn't hear him in the background.
What is a first officer anyway?
I have never heard someone come on the air in a plane and announce, "This is your fifth officer speaking."
There's only ever two of them up there in the cockpit, right?
We have the captain, whom Jack is absolutely convinced is not a pilot but a pirate, and someone else who calls himself or herself a first officer but is in all likelihood a parrot on the captain's left shoulder.

The good news was that the seatbelt sign was now being turned off.
We were free to move about the cabin.
Oh, and the toilet was at the rear.

"Toilet!" said Jack, his eyes lighting up.
He is at the age where toilets hold a fascination for him.
He also insists on standing up to wee, just like daddy.
Unfortunately, he is still at an age where he needs a degree of supervision - especially with the added difficulty of air turbulence.

Do you know how small those plane loos are?

There's not enough room to swing a cat, let alone a fully grown man manoeuvring a four-year-old boy into a sit-down position against his wishes.

And there's buttons in there too, including one I didn't immediately recognise as a call button for the flight attendant.

"What's that one do, daddy," Jack asked.

"I don't know," I said as I pressed it ever so lightly.

Ping!

Uh oh.

Toilet terror at 5000 feet.

How would I explain this one?

For once in my life, I wished it had been the ejector button.