The First Flight

I'm typing this first post while several thousand feet in the air. This is the first time I've flown in ten years. The last jaunt was so far away I can only remember the book I was reading. Not even the thoughts and emotions I had remain. So this experience is effectively new to me. I'm not sure how to describe it, because either you've flown before and know exactly what I'm talking about or you've never flown and will not understand what I could say. How do you describe the feeling of your body pressing in on itself to a person who's never experienced the G-force? The edge of excitement just before the plane ascends? The centrifugal swing as the airplane banks and turns? I guess a rollercoaster would count. Used to be afraid of those things, now I need to try one. There is one thing I can try and describe though, being more visual than tactile.

There is another world above this one. A world where the ground is always white and hilly, a world were islands are bordered by empty space. We entered that world a few minutes ago, the quilted farmland giving way to a tundra. First we passed the low-hanging patches that fell from the sky. Next came the bulk, long sprays of foam frozen in time. Finally nothing was visible but the endless expanse of white.

As I write this we pass the edges of a skybound country. Below is once again the lands of man, clashed and chaotic with a million kinds of earth. Only a few scattered reminders of this other place passing us by. Only dots of white and the cirrus ceiling, forever out of reach.

Suddenly the Mississippi is cutting up the land. Saying the water glows is an understatement. It's a long, winding band of light that completely blinds out the surrounding land. Just as fast as it appears the clouds hide it again. I can't see it off in the distant; the fog is too thick. There isn't much in existence.

We just passed another plane. I barely noticed it, it moved so fast. Must be the difference between seeing one a thousand feet away and being "right next" to it. It's a miracle either of us can navigate without the land. I can't say I suddenly see why being a pilot is so difficult, but I least I can get a glimpse into it. The intercom goes on; the long white continents were storms. We skimmed passed them and got ahead of schedule.

We are preparing for descent. The sky takes a mad skew as the cirrus clouds jut out at 45 degree angles. And slowly the plain goes down. A hundred glowing ponds dot the landscape. If I crane my neck I can see the first rays of sunset. There's a small chance, too small to expect but enough to hope, that the sunset will continue into the next flight. I wish I could document the final dive, but all electronics must go off. This is the last sentences I can write in the last few seconds. I hope I covered the flight well enough.

Afterword: Writing this on the second flight. We took off at night, so I didn't get to fly into the sunset. I would love to describe the sprawling, burning city underneath, but then I would have to title this "The First AND Second Flight". That's not a step I'm willing to take! There was one thing that happened after shutdown, though, that I think I need to mention.

Just before the final descent we made one last ascent. The plane climbed higher than ever before. That combined with the late hour put the plane for a few seconds, a few brief seconds, above the sun. My breath caught when I saw it. I don't know what else to say about it, so I will just leave it at that. The seconds above the sun. Even if every other aspect of the plane ride was torture, it would have been worth it just for that.