Beware the fate of Icarus. Recently, the news broadcast scattered wreckage, burned vacationers, and black earth. Airplane crashes are back, after a long delay. A friend of mine is a former mechanic at United. She has a credit card with Amtrak Miles Rewards. "Maintenance is done overseas, and not by mechanics. By handymen. When the planes return to the States, one American mechanic checks the work over. He or she can't check it all, so he or she has to just...hope."
I flew to San Diego last week. I looked at the passengers, imagining if they were the faces of doom. Could you tell who was soon to be a baked bean? We taxied, I opened the newspaper. It bled ink on a recent European flight, oxygen masks popped, many failed to work. Was there an announcement from the pilot? Was there fuck. Nothing. He had his mask on first. Whimpering broke the icy cold cabin. A young boy hyperventilated. Many sobbed. No chance of a cup of tea. Some fucking service that.
Descending into San Diego, rocky, dodgy, and through the buildings, the most dangerous landing in the United States, it was hot. A Catholic held beads. Afterwards, on youtube, I listened to the last words of the pilots on Swissair 111. He followed procedure, but you could tell in his Germanic timbre, that there was a tremble. He got the all clear to make an emergency landing, instructed to dump fuel...instructed to dump fuel...clearance to dump fuel....a man on the ground kept saying that, and then a squawk from the plane, some punctured primal fear, mangled in static. He was almost down.