I read today of another pilot who died while flying a plane over a massive body of water.
Until very recently, I wasn’t afraid of flying. In fact, I welcomed a chance to be away from phone and e-mail for a few hours. I stuffed my carry on bag with 2 novels I wouldn’t read, a couple of magazines I wouldn’t read as well, my ear plugs, my eye covers, and my personal pillow. I tried and tried but couldn’t ignore the human swill around me. But I did my best. Either be out of contact range or share a small, midair cabinet with riffraff and make the best of it.
I have no tolerance for people who don’t respect personal space. I know the seats are small but doesn’t mean that I put strangers on my lap. No, you can’t rest your head on my shoulder, you are not my child. Don’t even think about drooling on my sleeves, I will kill you, you fucking baboon!
Keep your toddler’s hands off my face. Don’t give me a dirty look when I tell her: “little girl, stop it”. She is your spawn, not mine. Air hostess, I have no use for your poison food. Don’t wake me up or I will address you as the stewardess.
I can tolerate all that. What I can’t tolerate is some gluttonous asshole who spent his life overdrinking and overeating dying suddenly while flying the plane that I am on. Listen, asshole, just because it is your day, don’t make it mine.
They should pair up these 60+ year old pilots. One of them croaks, the other can land the plane safely. I have sympathy for people who have heart attacks. Almost all. The guy flying my plane is the exception. I will chase you into hell.
