“Brr capn speaking, we’re chrool dist long with you howr’d feet and twenty minutes.” If that sounds familiar to you – and if you actually understand it – then you must be a frequent flyer, and pilotese must be your second language. It could be because I hard ears, but I swear to you
that I have never, ever understood my pilot, on any flight whatsoever. Talk about blind faith at high altitudes. My pilots fly seriously close to divinity. In fact, a pilot could be telling me that the flight would be thoroughly turbulent, and I would be none the wiser until we experience the heavenly havoc.
Which reminds me of a story: On a trip to the Spice Isle, Ronnie Clarke and I were fully satisfied as we sat in the now Maurice Bishop International Airport, recounting how we managed to fit a week’s work into only three days. “I hope the flight is smooth,” I droned.
“Turbulence?” Ronnie shouted, as he rarely speaks sotto voce. “I can sleep in the worst turbulence; in fact, when I was a rapper I would rap about laughing in the face of storms,” Ronnie went on, as he usually does, boasting about not being affected by any sort of aviation agitation. Surprisingly, LIAT was on time, and I was relieved to board and get home.
It was pitch-black night. Mid-flight…bruggadung! I thought we had a flat tyre. (That tells you how much I know about aeronautics, right?) I looked around as passengers began gripping their armrests. One voice could be heard, distinctly. In fact, it
was the voice of the man right next to me. Screaming like a banshee, in Bajan but with a tinge of British. “Father, in the name of Jesus, I wash this plane in the blood of Jesus…oh Lord, have mercy!” Ronnie revealed that his talk was long, although the turbulence was short.
The turbulence lasted about ten seconds. Ask Ronnie about it, I’m not sure he’ll tell you. But the pilot came on and calmed us, with his soothing speech. “A bit of turblen ford five rungs, Barbados soon.” That, coupled with the smiling hostess, pacified us across the Caribbean Sea.
But, on a flight across the Pacific, I can tell you that I thought I had died in heaven. It was like a Newtonian free fall. Passengers screamed, and had good reason to. Apparently, our BWIA plane had almost collided with another. It was all over the news. A friend from Australia even called me the next day, since I had been interviewed by the Press upon landing.
“Were there any Bajans on the plane?” my friend asked.
“I’m sure there was at least one. Amidst all the ‘Hail Mary’s’ and ‘Our Fathers’ I could hear one distinct voice from the back of the aircraft.”
“How did you know it was a Bajan?”
Reader, I just knew. And you would have, too. Amidst all the traditional supplications, all I could hear coming from the back was an incessant, “Murder! Murder!”
Veoma Ali is an author, actor, broadcaster, advertising exec, and most important, a karaoke lover.
