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Staring death in the eye
-------An in-flight emergency totally transforms
------- the behavior of passengers -- and flight attendants.

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By Elliott Neal Hester

Jan. 25, 2000 | Late one night, as our 727 aircraft began its descent toward rain-swept Augadilla, Puerto Rico, as my three flight attendant colleagues and I stowed and locked the service carts, as we completed the passenger seat-belt check and strapped into our jump seats, as our three-leg, two-country, 14-hour work day was about to transform into a 30-hour layover filled with laughter and cold beer, the captain rang on the crew phone with distressing news. "We've lost both hydraulic systems," he said. "We're diverting to San Juan ..."

Without hydraulics, our pilots flew the aircraft in a condition known as "manual reversion." It's like driving the world's largest tour bus without power steering. The plane responds sluggishly. Manipulating the steering wheel, or in this case, the yoke, requires a level of physical exertion that can make sweat pour from a pilot's wrinkled brow. But the scariest aspect of our hydraulics-less 727 was that the landing gear refused to deploy automatically. Upon approach to the San Juan airport, where clear skies promised less hazardous landing conditions than in Augadilla, the captain would attempt to crank down the landing gear by hand.

As the captain announced an abbreviated version of our dilemma over the P.A. system, an eerie silence swept through the cabin like a fog. The 60 passengers stirred in their seats, exchanging disconcerted glances. Throughout the two-and-a-half-hour flight, strangers who had yet to acknowledge one another, who had yet to partake in casual conversation or trade a simple smile, were suddenly locked in tacit communion. The previously unintroduced leaned toward the previously unconcerned, drawn together by a sudden need to share previously unthinkable emotions.

In a potential life or death situation, even the most condescending passenger will bestow upon flight attendants a level of respect that is usually reserved for priests and emergency room practitioners. As I walked toward the front of the aircraft for an emergency briefing with my crew, one woman turned and stared at me as if searching for her soul inside my own. An elderly man smiled nervously while clutching a rosary that dangled from his neck. Another passenger -- a gentlemen who had refused to cooperate during the safety check -- tightened his seat belt and stared at me wide-eyed like a foot soldier awaiting the lieutenant's command.

We were at the mercy of a God who seemed to care little about aircraft hydraulics and even less about final destinations. This made me nervous. More nervous than I'd ever been in 14 years of flight service. But like a professional athlete matched against a more powerful opponent, I flashed my game face to the worried crowd -- hoping to instill in them, and in myself, the belief that our pilots had the situation under control.

The purser, a senior flight attendant who retired shortly after this incident, let his nerves get the best of him, however. When he stepped out of the cockpit to relay critical information from the captain, his eyes seemed to swim out of focus. "Oh my God," he said, after repeating what we already knew about the landing gear. "Oh God." He blinked repeatedly, as if trying to clear a wayward eyelash.

He turned left, then right, then left again. His mouth hung open in a lingering O. Standing in clear view of the passengers, looking like the bumbling professor who could not remember where he'd left his car keys, or his car for that matter, the purser descended into a functionless stupor. The crew agreed that emergency preparations would be best accomplished with him sitting in his jump seat.

A moment later, there were shouts from the main cabin. The man who had been clutching the rosary was now trying to open the emergency window exit. His fingers cupped the exit handholds; he started to pull. "What the hell are you doing," I said, as I yanked the man away by the back of his shoulders. Though cabin pressure makes it impossible for anyone to open an emergency exit at high altitude, such an attempt is distressing for everyone on board. The offending passenger babbled a nonsensical excuse. His chin fell to his chest, and he began to whimper like a scolded child.

Next page | The simple grace of holding hands