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Moments later, in the opposite lavatory, the smoke detector began to chime. One of the flight attendants walked in and found smoke billowing from an abandoned cigarette. Someone had left it burning on the wash bin, inches away from a roll of toilet paper.

Oblivious to our hydraulic crisis, to the outbreak of precarious behavior that followed in its wake and to the fact that the aircraft was about to attempt landing in San Juan instead of Augadilla, an attractive, albeit inebriated, female passenger suggested that she and I get to know each other better. Much better. So much better, she promised, that her attentions would prevent me from leaving my hotel room until 30 hours later when it was time for me to fly back to Miami. Sitting alone in the last row of seats, she'd had one too many vodka tonics, but apparently not enough companionship. I respectfully declined her invitation, though under less stressful circumstances I might not have been so noble.

As the aircraft prepared for its final descent, our captain began cranking down the landing gear. To insure that it had been successfully deployed, the flight engineer and I were dispatched to the first-class aisle where we proceeded to rip the carpet from its Velcro emplacements. Beneath the carpet lay a small manhole cover. While worried passengers peered over our shoulders, we pried open the cover with a flat-head screwdriver. The flight engineer shone a flashlight down into the darkness, hoping to spot the proper indicator that would tell us the gear had been successfully deployed. Apparently, he saw what he was looking for. He gave a thumbs-up, then told me to follow him to row 23, where we repeated the procedure with similar results.

With both gears seemingly deployed, the plane was now ready for landing. But as the engineer returned to the cockpit, one unanswered question still haunted me. "The landing gear is down," I said, after the engineer gave me the first thumbs-up. "But did it lock in place?" He muttered an answer, something brief and halfhearted. Something I was unable to discern.

The purser, having regained limited use of his facilities, made the routine "prepare for landing" announcement. I made a final compliance check -- as did my other two colleagues -- insuring that seat belts were fastened, tray tables were locked and emergency exits were completely clear of carry-on bags.

Along the way, I made direct, penetrating, see-through-to-the-soul eye contact with each and every passenger on the airplane. Sixty upturned faces were framed against the black wall of my consciousness: the whimpering man with the rosary, the apologetic smoker, the jittery-eyed cocaine couple, the lonely woman in the last row of seats the previously uncooperative gentleman who'd probably kill if we instructed him to do so. Some sat quietly, others prayed out loud. A few cried softly in their seats.

I squeezed hands, patted shoulders, gave verbal encouragement to those who seemed to need it most. After strapping into my jump seat, I exchanged a look with the female flight attendant seated beside me. What was her name again? Where did she grow up? How many children did she say she had?

We had flown together for the last 14 hours, yet most of her conversation had prattled into one ear and faded, like so much elevator music, in some forgotten recess of my mind. I wanted to ask -- no, I needed to ask a hundred questions about her life.

But as her hand closed around mine, as we skimmed the tops of San Juan's high-rise apartment buildings, as the airplane wheels kissed the runway and my heart tried to leap from my throat, I realized that by simply holding my hand, my colleague had answered the most important questions. Yes, I am as scared as you. Yes, we're here for each other when it really counts. And hell yes ... that was a close one.
salon.com | Jan. 25, 2000

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