Poor quality of picture explained by emotional state
of photographer.
The last leg of my journey from Hawaii was supposed to be an easy one. A quick hour and a half puddle jump from Guam to Palau. I was a bit nervous about the flight because flying over the ocean makes me queasy, but I was comforted by the shortness of the flight, the fact that I was tired enough to sleep through it, and my confidence that (for the first time in years) I would be going a whopping four months without getting on a plane.
My relief was premature. We were scheduled to take off from Guam at about 6:50 pm Guam time and were supposed to land in Koror, Palau, at about 8 (gaining an hour). Just as we pulled away form the gate, the pilot came on the plane and announced that there was a “mechanical issue” and we would be delayed. But about twenty minutes later, the issue was resolved and we took off.
About a third of the people on my flight were Micronesian. I didn’t have a good sense for how many called Guam home and how many Palau. But I am fairly certain now that the folks chewing betelnut or carrying bagfuls of McDonald’s were heading home to Palau. Most of the people on the flight were Japanese tourists. Although there is direct service from Tokyo to Palau, the most regular and established routes to the islands are through Guam or Manila. Continental is the the go-to airline for Micronesia. Most of the folks from Japan were young couples dressed like hipsters in plaid and cute boots. Totally. Awesome. Outfits.
The remaining haoles on the plane were a motley bunch. Some easy-to-spot divers. An older dude who had the look of someone simultaneously worn down and invigorated by many many years of travel. A few odd businessmen whose motives in going to Palau I couldn’t help but be suspicious of—development in a place like Palau is obviously a double-edged sword.
We took off twenty minutes late, but were apparently going to make up much of the time in the air. The flight was a little bumpy, which prevented me from sleeping, but was uneventful other than that. I was sitting next to some Americans sporting Goldman Sachs-logoed backpacks and sour expressions. They had clearly been traveling for too long and were desperate to get to Palau for sleep followed by adventure. On the seats across the aisle, one of the Japanese couples shared a row with a Micronesian woman reading a book that was long enough to be War and Peace. She was about two-thirds of the way through it.
About an hour and change after take-off, I felt the first perceptible shift in pressure on the plane that suggested we were fixing to land. The clouds were low and it was raining. We circled the barely visible islands. There was only a scattering of lights below, which was a little surprising because Koror is the only population center on the islands and I assumed the place would be bumpin’ at 8 pm. As we got lower, rain started to splatter the windows and the turbulence increased. We circled...and circled...and circled. I assumed that the complicated approach could be explained by the weather and the small size of the airport. But after about fifteen minutes floating tantalizingly close above Palau, the flight attendant made a terse announcement: “The captain has indicated that we will not be landing in Palau; we are returning to Guam.”
What? What! I looked around. Everyone looked pretty confused. After about 10 minutes returning to thirty thousand feet, the pilot (who comfortingly sounded a bit like John Wayne) announced that due to a “mechanical problem upon approach,” we would be unable to land in Palau. He had consulted the folks in Houston (oh shit, this is serious—like Apollo 13 serious?) and they had agreed that returning to Guam was our best option.
The announcement was not made in Japanese so Tolstoy was translating for the hipsters. My neighbors looked annoyed. The wife muttered about how it was now going to take four more hours to get to Palau.
Four more hours? Are you fucking kidding me? HE JUST SAID WE CAN’T LAND THE PLANE! He didn’t say “we can’t land the plane in Palau, but we can totally land it in Guam, no problem!” He said, “we can’t land the plane.”
I started to feel adrenaline-laced sweat pouring out of my body even as I began to shiver. My mind was going about a thousand miles an hour: Could we land on the water? Would we pass out before we crashed? Would the pilot attempt some kind of landing gear-less collision with Guam?
I desperately needed some mental coping strategy. I first thought about Jeff. Nope, no thinking about Jeff. No thinking about your happy future at all. Morbid thoughts were easier to stomach. Inevitability of death: yes. Happy future with Jeff/house/hounds: no.
I couldn’t pray. It felt desperate and dishonest. It would have been bargaining insincerely: “please let me live, and I promise I’ll be good.”
But bargaining seemed about right. So I went the more secular humanist route.
Important aside: When Jeff is watching sporting events (usually the Ducks), he makes deals with the universe that if his team wins, he will donate a certain amount of money to war orphans. So war orphans have received substantial support from Jeff when Oregon wins (How does that make you feel about your ill-gotten championship, Auburn?). I obviously have mixed feelings about Jeff “betting” on sports, but...war orphans!
Prayer involves requests, thanks, and rituals. I didn’t have a rosary or prayer beads. But I had the ability to count. So I counted up. The familiarity of the numbers, like the familiarity of a Hail Mary, slowly lowered my blood pressure. My bargain with the universe, my request, was to not die in a fiery crash in the godforsaken stretch of the Pacific between Guam and Palau. In return, I promised the universe I would pay war orphans the number of dollars that matched the number I reached in the hour and a half back to Guam. I equivocated a little and told myself I didn’t need to count every second, just during the waves of panic. And I permitted myself to take a lifetime to pay off my contract with the universe.
The flight went by at a snail’s pace. But I just kept counting. I was so tired (I had woken up about 24 hours before) that the counting put me to sleep a few times. A few times during the flight, I looked around. Maybe these people were just also trying to look calmer than they were, but Tolstoy was almost done with her book, leisurely turning the pages. A gaggle of girls in the back were giggling. And the couple next to me were bickering about when they had to wake up to go out on their first dive.
I must have looked pretty horrified. When I walked back to the bathroom, the salty traveler looked at me and laughed: “Don’t be nervous! It’s not often you get a free flight from Continental!” His nonchalance was comforting, and I started to realize I might be overreacting a hair. Nonetheless, every bump on the flight sent me into a fit of counting. I skipped 666, since I was being superstitious anyway. And I was a little wary of numbers like 1982, 2011, and 2012 (being that they were my birth year, the current year, and the year in which the world (or maybe just the Mayan calendar) ends).
I reached 2,050 just as we completed the smoothest landing of all time. But it was not yet time for thanks. We still had to get on another plane to Palau. We got off the plane fast. And I was somewhat convinced that I would never get on another one. Guam looked beautiful from the sky and I was confident I could make a life there. But the couple hours we had in the Guam airport calmed me down and with some hesitation I got on the next flight. As I boarded, I confirmed that this plane (1) was not the same plane we had before and (2) would not crash. The assurance of the gate attendant was enough to get me on the plane.
Distracting and cool Chamorro mural that helped me forget
about impending death.
Walking to my seat, I asked the flight attendant, earnestly, when we would get our free drinks. I really needed a free drink. And she said we wouldn’t get a thing. Not a thing for the four extra hours in the air panicking. Even though the problem was mechanical. Even though they knew there was a problem before they took off. If there were a functioning damn phone on this island, I would definitely call and complain and call the FAA. Fortunately, Palau’s isolation prevents me from wasting energy on confronting the inefficiencies and evil of the airline industry. But I will say this to be recorded for all eternity: Fuck you Continental! That makes me feel much better.
[UPDATE: The “salty” traveler turned out to be Bill, a yachtie who moors off Palau who had been in New York to visit his son in grad school. He recognized me at a dive shop (I probably looked similarly shell-shocked after day one diving) and called me over. Turns out the plane COULD have landed just as easily in Palau as in Guam, but because of the lack of maintenance equipment on the islands, they would have to fly in a crew and equipment to inspect it from Guam. Which would be expensive. So instead Continental elected to waste its customers’ time and wear down its customers nerves by flying all the way back to Guam. And no free drinks. Indeed: Fuck you, Continental.]
I got pretty giddy as I got off the plane. Joked with the very nice immigration officer. Got my bonsai tree through customs. And was greeted by the lovely Ona and (yes) Romeo, other court employees, who helped me get to my apartment.
I feel pretty ridiculous to have saddled myself with additional debt (as if I didn’t have enough—maybe LRAP will pay it back?). I wish I had been a bit more mentally tough. But when the universe throws something at you that you fear and know you can’t control, it sure is comforting to have some, imagined, negotiating power.
