The Trip

In 1984 I made a trip to Australia. I flew from

Kansas City to San Francisco, about a 2-hour

flight. I changed planes and flew off to Hawaii,

I believe 6 or 8-hours more. From Honolulu to

Sydney was the longest leg, 10-hours in the air.

That for me was the scariest prospect, for a lot

could happen at such a distance over so much

ocean. At 35,000-feet, a crash over water would

be as devastating as a crash over land, I suppose.

But 10-hours mechanically, who in hell knows?

I flagged down the stewardess in the aisle, and

asked for another vodka. And after about three

or four of those my nerves seemed to settled

down marginally.

After a brief nap, I got to thinking about those

ancient mariners who traversed the high seas in

sailing ships. It took months to get from England

to Australia I was told later by an old-timer who

had made such an excursion. He had no complaints

about sea sickness, there were far more serious

liabilities which could befall those held on board

a wooden rig at the mercy of an ofttimes raucous

and unpredictable sea, he told me.

“Then thar war scurvy,” his head dropped as

he went on, “and a raft of other sea-born mala-

dies. A sturdy swig of rum to numb ya perhaps,

if you was lucky. When you reached the Dol-

drums thar waren’t a whisper of wind to fill

the sails. Then you was at the mercy of the

currents to direct the ship and crew to where

only the good Lord knows.”

“And thar war sharks, man-eaters in them thar

waters,” the old salt went on. “Spring a leak

in one a them old vessels and yer done for.

Mind ya, mate, tain’t no service stations or

Triple A s out that far.”

One saving grace, and fortunately for me, I was

flying Quantas Airlines. At that time they poured

your drink out of full-sized fifths, not those chint-

zy little one-hot bottles they hand out these days.

I asked the stewardess if she could just leave the

bottle with me. “No sir,” she smiled sugary fake

at me, “That would be against regulations.”

What happened next, you may be thinking?

Don’t leave us hanging there, you say. Well,

how in hell do you think I felt, hung out to

dry for damn near ten hours at 35,000 feet?

                     -30-

Chris Hanch 1-18-2020