ON A LIGHTER NOTE

There are some occasions when Trinbagonians are so wonderfully professional that they make you forget the amateurs who pretend to lead this twin-island nation, you know the ones with the political party with two or three heads, or those belonging to the side which is talking First World but acting Third World as it goes about t’iefing grounds from communities and evicting Parliament from its home. And at those times that you see the expert in our people, you feel moved to admit, “But you know, we REAL good,” and you wonder if there’s not hope for us all. Let me elaborate. I must first tell you that I don’t exaggerate when I say that I’m the world’s worst flyer. 

So when the BWIA attendant at Piarco International started to explain that the flight in from London had been late and the plane was being serviced and that’s why departure time had come and gone and so on, I interrupted the young man to inform him that his explanation for the delay was more than acceptable to me and that unlike the other grumbling passengers in the lounge, I was in no rush to leave this terra quite firma and that moreover, better late than sorry had always been my motto when it came to airplanes and that’s why I always flew BWEE. And with that mouthful I returned to my seat.

Soon enough, the inevitable announcement instructing passengers to board came and we — my travelling companion, the older relative who had despatched me to ascertain the cause of the delay — were embarking the airbus, then we were taking off and a few seconds later, roaring toward London. I immediately reclined my seat and since I was determined to be the best of flyers, I swallowed a sleeping tablet and followed it with a wish and a prayer that I would snore until we landed at Heathrow. For good measure I fortified the pill’s soporific effect by drinking a glass of wine, this last action premised on the conclusion that since I seldom imbibed, a bit of nectar of the vine would put the finishing touches on the knock out punch I desperately desired and needed to sleep through a nine or ten hour flight.

A little while later though, you’d never have guessed that I’d washed a tranquiliser down with wine, not if you’d seen me, the veins on my hands pumped up as I clung to the seat’s arm rests. You see, we’d just left Antigua and the airbus had begun to rattle around in the most unnerving of ways. I could tell we had hit some extremely bad turbulence, pockets of air treacherous enough for the “Fasten your seat belt” sign to light up and soon enough I was proven right for the sign flashed on and the head flight attendant was instructing passengers to take their seats and buckle up. And I was a mess, wondering why I still flew, even if it was BWEE, because flying only made me very ill. I was damn annoyed at life for being so ironic and at me for being so daft: for surviving a year of surgery and more surgery, only to perish in a plane crash. I was certain some member of my quite cynical family would suggest that my epitaph should read, “Not six feet under, but at 30,000 above.”  I was also becoming exceedingly nauseous.

My relative called the flight attendant assigned to our section and asked her for a glass of water for me. I could also hear her explaining to the attendant whose first name I believe was Gwendolyn that I was a terrible flyer; that I was recovering from recent surgery. I must have looked pretty awful because that BWEE flight assistant spent the rest of the three hours of turbulence following our departure from Antigua, if not the greater part of the flight, taking particular care of me- the hopeless flyer.  I’m not embarrassed to confess that she must also have told the pilot who had announced that he was trying to get us out of the turbulence that I was nervous and nauseous and to have a word with me for when the man came out of the cockpit to use the bathroom, he stopped at my row to convince me that I’d arrive safely in London, that this was BWEE and that there was no need to worry. And you’d think I’d be grateful, wouldn’t you? But I wasn’t because all the time the pilot was talking to me I could only wonder who was flying the plane in this bad weather and asked him as much when he’d finished his reassuring speech.

A few hours later as the turbulence subsided a bit and I started to feel better — a bit — I reflected on whether attendants on another airline would have been so compassionate, so understanding. And I wondered which pilot other than a BWEE pilot would leave the cockpit to soothe an anxious passenger. Not many, I concluded, would. When after what seemed like an eternity of being tumbled around, we landed at Heathrow, I thanked all of TT’s gods for not letting me go down in blazing metal. I also expressed my gratitude to the attendant for her attention, for her concern and bade her goodbye. She wished me well in turn. I entered Britain that December day thinking that for the most part, I was happy to be a Trinbagonian. We, not me in this particular case, but people like that BWEE attendant, could show real class and be exceedingly professional when we were of a mind to. Today, I thank her again.

suz@itrini.com
This column is in remembrance of Clive Bradley