Everyone has their bad flight story, and now, thanks to this weekend’s “storm of the century,” I have mine. It all started in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico. I woke up at 9:30 a.m., stumbled out of bed, pulled open the curtains and stared at the flat cool blue ocean that spread out far below the bright yellow sun. I could still taste the salt from the margaritas. (On the rocks, on your back, as I like to say.) I stuffed my clothes into my suitcase and threw Capote’s “In Cold Blood” into my backpack. I was ready to fly.
I arrived at the airport around 11 a.m. and saw a few my friends who were on the same flight. After a few tastes of tequila at the duty-free shop, we had had our fill of Mexico and it was on to our first stop, Houston. In Houston we grabbed our bags and hustled to make our connecting flight to Boston.
Bisecting America was no problem in our 787 equipped with DirecTV. I hammered through “In Cold Blood,” a story about the murderous duo of Perry Smith and Dick Hickock. But as we approached Boston the cabin lights dimmed and the first of a series of ominous announcements came over the loud speaker.
Beep. Beep. “Please everyone take your seats, we’re expecting turbulence.”
Almost immediately the plane bounced and dived. Was this an airliner or a hummingbird? My friend Charlie and I exchanged looks, but I kept reading. More jumping, more diving. It felt like I was driving too fast through the White Mountains of Vermont. The captain informed us we were beginning our descent into Boston.
The plane sliced into the cloud cover. It was shaking like an old bus. There had been rumors of 60 mile-per-hour winds below, but my Mexican sojourn had made me forget what those were like. All I could see out the window was whiteness, while fellow flyers stared at the ground, closed their eyes or put their hands together. I nuzzled my nose into my book.
Kelsi from Bentley College was sitting next to the window. She had just returned from Alternative Spring Break in Costa Rica. She reached forward, grabbed the blue paper bag from the seatback and lost her lunch inside.
We pulled through the cloud cover and I could make out the lights of the city. In front of me another woman was puking. A hard wind blew the plane to the left, the pilot corrected and dove toward the runway. The buildings were getting bigger, the lights brighter.
Suddenly &- an upward jerk, a loud swoosh, the buildings got smaller, the lights dimmer.
Beep. Beep. “Hello, this is your captain speaking. Currently the winds are too strong to land in Boston. We’re going to enter a holding pattern to see if it gets any better. If not, we’ll land in Hartford, Connecticut.”
The captain looped the plane above the clouds a few times, revved up the engines and headed south. After a short ride we were descending again. Through the clouds: buildings again, fields &- we weren’t in Boston. I could feel the landing gear come out of the bottom of the plane. A few shakes, some bumps and we were gliding along the runway. The passengers erupted into applause. The woman in front of me was now crying, her face buried into her husband’s shoulder.
Beep. Beep. “We’ve landed on a cargo runway in Hartford. I’m not sure how long we’ll be here. We’re waiting to hear from Boston.”
The seatbelt light flickered off and my friend Yale emerged from his seat 10 rows up and bee-lined back to where Charlie and I were sitting. His sandaled feet were covered in puke. The stewardess gave him a bag of coffee to fight the smell, and also poured some on the ground where the accident occurred. Yale pulled out his phone and showed us a picture from CNN that his friend had sent him. Below the disaster photo was a caption that read: “60 MPH winds in Boston, 500,000 without power.” We waited for two hours on the cargo runway, the maximum time legally allowed. All the other passengers were given free DirecTV, but my row’s sets didn’t work. Eventually the engines fired back up and the plane turned around. We were heading into the storm again.
The 15 minutes from Hartford to Boston were rough, but the weary passengers were getting used to it. We descended quickly through the clouds for our second attempt. I could see the lights of the runway. All of a sudden, a huge gust of wind pushed the plane to the right and raised the left wing. Reacting quickly, the pilot threw the nose up into the air. We were 150 feet from landing and ending this terrible journey, but it wasn’t to be.
Beep. Beep. “The wind speeds in Boston are too high for this airplane to handle. We’re heading to Newark where there’s a Continental hub.”
In Newark, the Continental agents rescheduled our flight for the next day and we got a hotel nearby. After being on an airplane for almost 13 hours that day, I was so content to be in a bed that I instantly fell asleep &- a sound sleep to end a frightening day. The next day we arrived in Boston. Upon getting home, I fell right into my bed. I was glad we were safe. It was a rocky flight, but I couldn’t be happier to be on my back and finally sleep off my spring break hangover.
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