Day 195

I am here once again in the R&R center in Qatar. I just signed up for a city tour via air conditioned bus of the great city of Doha, Qatar. It has all of the earmarks of resting and relaxing, and I'm all for that. Not only that, it is scheduled for tomorrow, which gives me more time for my own resting and relaxing.
In more than one posting I have mentioned that I do not really like flying. Now that we have added the 15th follower, I think it is about time for me to tell the rest of the world why I do not like flying. I shall not refer to the 15th follower by name, but if he chooses to argue any points in this post, it is his right to do so. So, there I was, sitting quietly in my room in Grand Forks one sunny summer day, and my room mate, the 15th follower of this blog, approached me and one other fraternity brother and told us if we split the gas money that he'd take us flying. Having nothing better to do on a sunny summer day, we agreed and drove to the airport. Upon arriving at the flight line on this sunny summer day, our pilot brother was told by the operations staff that he had not been flying in a while and would have to first have an instructor take him on a flight check to ensure he didn't kill his passengers, or himself, or do damage to a UND plane. Then the instructor looked at us and asked if we wanted to ride along? Sensing a moments hesitation he quickly added, "It'll be fun." I've since learned that when I pilot says "It'll be fun", it's like a doctor pulling on a rubber glove, opening a tube of jelly, tellling the patient to drop his drawers and lean over the exam table, stating, "You'll feel a little pressure." Yeah, this was just like that. However, at this time in my life, as I was so much younger and innocent (stupid), I took the instructor at his word. So much like Hansel, I climbed into the rear of the plane, just behind the drivers seat. We taxied, we took off, we climbed, we flew. Now, remember, up until this point I had never had a problem flying. Small bumps and large turbulance never bothered me. I do get motion sickness on a swing-set, but have never once gotten violently ill, before, during, or after this instance. So, there we were, flying. It was a small aircraft, with seating for four, in the same way which a Yugo has seating for four. I don't know if I remember the entire flight check, but I do remember we did banks, left and right, at 30 degrees, and I had no problem. We then did banks, left and right, at 45 degrees, and still I had no problem. I remember trying to lift my arms and how heavy they felt. I remember looking out the window, straight down at the ground, and how cool it looked. I still felt no ill will towards anybody or anything that day, but it was early. After we straightened out we buzzed an empty field. I kind of felt like a WWI pilot strafing a Hun fighting position. And still, at this point, my outlook on life was kindly and open-minded. It almost felt as if angels were smiling on me. After the field buzzing, we once again climbed into the sunny summer day. We kind of had no choice, being as close to the ground as we were just a few minutes ago. Still climbing, and after gaining some altitude the instructor leaned forward, and with sadistic forethought and callous purpose, he pushed a red knob all of the way in. At first I was not sure what had happened. It got real quiet all of a sudden. Had the instructor activated 'whisper-mode' that I had seen in the movie "Blue Thunder"? I thought not. Had the instructor instead added another muffler to the engine to quiet it's overly loud roar? This seemed as unlikely as the 'whisper-mode'. In a flash it became clear to me that what had happened. The damned fool had shut the engine off! How did I finally become aware of this? It occured to me only when we began falling out of the sky; backwards. No warning! No throttling back! The moron had just leaned up and shut the engine off! Now, when the engine in my vehicle stops, I roll, gently, to the side of the road, where, out of the way, I call for help. Not so much in a plane. There's no such thing as 'gentle' in a plane without a working engine. The ground is not in contact with the wheels, but I was afraid it would be, and all too soon. All of this pulsed through my brain in a few moments, just about as long as it took us to stop falling backwards. This is when the full effect of gravity pulled upon the entire aircraft. The engine, being at the front, and being heavier than the tail, began to tip towards the earth, making the rest of the plane follow her. One minute I'm enjoying a pleasant sunny summer day with several of my fraternity brothers, and the next I'm in some sort of Grimm nightmare. Surely this instructor is a spy for NDSU. Why would a true employee of UND do this to fellow matriculators? And still we're falling. Forward now, where I can see through the windshield, the empty field rushing up at us. It's as if the dirty Hun had shot us down. At this point my brain ceased to function in a rational manner. My body began a rapid shut down for self-preservation. In a vain attempt to draw all body heat to the core, I became very cold, all over, yet started to sweat, also all over. My hands and my feet became ice cold, yet the perspiration on my hands left them clammy and slick. I was told by the others that I had become white as a ghost. No small feat for a man who is already so pale he almost glows in the dark. Just about the time I lost all feeling in my hands, my pilot brother had somehow, through a miracle of science no doubt, managed to re-start the engine. Not that my body, nor my brain, seemed to notice. We were, after all, still in the air, and pointed straight down. It was at this point that two or three of the neurons still active in my brain noticed that my hands had quit working. They would neither open nor close. They were, in fact, stuck half-way in-between. Imagine, if you will, the plastic spaghetti scoop with the small bowl with the 5 tongs. Those were the shape of both of my hands. With the one engine re-started the flight check was apparently at an end. After what seemed like two weeks later, we landed, taxied over to the operations building, and the plane shut off again, this time in the correct fashion, not while in the air. The two people in the front seats got out first, as there is only a single door on each side, and then those of us in the back deplaned. Well, one of us did, however I didn't have as much luck. My hands still wouldn't work. I had to maneuver using my forearms and elbows, and when I first tried to move, I found my legs did not want to cooperate. It appeared as though they wanted to remain in the aircraft. I supposed being below the sight-line of the window they were more unaware of the danger in which had found ourself than did the rest of my body. So, without the use of either my hands or my feet, using elbows and knees, I managed to extricate myself from the flying deathtrap which I had been tricked into entering. (Had the oven been in full view when I walked up to the aircraft I could passed on by and enjoyed the rest of my sunny summer day.) I did my best to stand up as straight as I could, enjoying the shade and comfort of the wing, not caring a whit how sunny the summer day used to be. The other three lucky passengers, none of whom appeared to be Gretel, who seemed not at all affected by the near death experience we all surely must have shared, stopped and stared at me for a few moments, each with the same look; he's gonna woof! Did I woof?! Nay!! Not before that fateful day nor since have I tossed my cookies while in flight or because of it. Once the other three were assured that I was not going to make a mess on the asphalt, either from my front or my rear, the instructor left for his office, and I heard somebody say, "Now that the flight check is over, let's get back in and have that ride." I can only think that it was my lack of neuron's firing on all cylinders that kept the laser beams from shooting out of my eyes and silencing, forever, the voice box of the offending speaker. In all honesty, I do not remember my response, however I am sure it contained language which should not be contained in a public blog. Due to my delicate nature the three of us went back to town, where I never again chose to venture that close to the flying oven. That was the only aircraft flight I ever took as a UND student, and ever since I have hated flying. I will say that flying more makes me hate it less. Since the 1st of October, I have flown; Bismarck to the Cities, to Seattle, to Sacramento, to Seattle, to Ireland, to Kuwait, to Tallil, to Basra, to Germany, to Kuwait, to Tallil, to Qatar. The only thing which really bothers me is the falling feeling. All other motion is more or less acceptable to me, but that falling feeling. Yikes! And how many of you have ever seen me walk around on a plane. Oh, I'll get up to let somebody in my row gain access to the aisle, but then I'm right back down. Here endeth the confession.
And that is why I do not like flying. And if the 15th follower wishes to make comment and/or corrections, or add a defense to this posting, he is more than welcome.
Some time I'll tell the story of a rough landing in Williston where my 'friend' said to me "We'll be ok, as long as the wings don't fall off". Oh, I guess I just told that one. Lots of fun to hear in a 12 seat prop plane, where the 12th seat is the toilet. It did my body good. Thanks for nothing, Don. :)