The Sky’s the limit

This week everyone is talking about, mourning and remembering the events of September 11th last year. "I am a New Yorker!" declared the Irish-born and -bred Bono of U2 as he visited Ground Zero—and at that moment and perhaps even before it, we all were, living our lives as if we were the center of the universe (and New York is!), looking for love, success, the elusive cab and a good restaurant amid the everyday routine, and then, with a crash and a thud and a burst of flames, our lives—and the universe—are changed forever. Since then, within and beyond Manhattan, nothing is the same: in some places, where there once was peace, there is now war; conversely, in other places, where there was indifference, there is now love, understanding and forgiveness. Such is the stuff of terrorism and terror, it either draws out the finest thread of your courage, or the worst of your fears. I, for one, on that day, while watching those airplanes explode on television, was afraid that humanity would never fly again.

After that, airline industries did suffer and airport security got crazier as war planes decimated the deserts of Afghanistan. And I thought that it was the saddest thing.

I like flying. I really like it. I love the idea of "flight"— both as "flying" and "fleeing." The first time I was ever on an airplane I was but a fetus in my mother’s womb, and perhaps that’s why I’ve never been airsick nor aerophobic. It is through air travel that I’ve had my life’s peak experiences, my most liberating moments, and also my most distressing.

One particular flight I hope to live to tell my grandchildren about happened three years ago, when I was a neophyte TV reporter. It was a press junket trip to General Santos, my first time ever to Mindanao, to accompany the then-Secretary of Defense, Orly Mercado. And since it was a military exercise, it also meant that we were going to ride a warplane.

As we all know, our Philippine Air Force isn’t exactly Top Gun or even Iron Eagle — meaning, I and our 40-person junket had to ride a C-130. To First Class-only, 1,000,000 Frequent Flyer miles, jetsetting, unacquainted readers, a C-130 is a fat, green, hollow, propeller-run air vehicle; its special feature is that it can carry and drop off parachuted army tanks to the ground. It has no chairs, no flight attendants, no vacuum toilets, no seatbelts. During take-off, little spouts all over the ceiling let out plumes of whitish smoke as they do in Nazi gas chambers.

Bug-eyed, I asked my cameraman why on earth the exhaust mufflers were inside the aircraft and not out, like the way they engineer every other car, factory and chimney in the rational universe.

"Ah, hindi ’yan tambutso, air con ’yan," he said nonchalantly.

I nearly gagged. "Bakit ’yung air con dito parang refrigerator?"

He explained. "Ang C-130 kasi, usually, pang-transport ng mga patay, mga casualties. Siyempre, kailangan malamig."

Ah, so that’s why, I smiled numbly while watching Secretary Mercado doze off.

How charming — a flying refrigerated coffin.

So except for the return flight to Manila, I never rode a C-130 again.

But I did fly again, and each time I do it is special. I’ve had the most comfortable air trips, like on PAL Business Class, and the funniest, like on easyJet (a pan-European budget airline), where, to make up for the lack of in-flight meals and entertainment, the pilot never stopped talking over the PA, cracking those dry British jokes that make you pause and think for 10 seconds before you burst out laughing.

Airports, too, have become close to my heart. How can I forget that time tears streamed down my face as the immigration officer in Schiphol, Amsterdam told me, "Hope you enjoyed living in Holland" and I replied, "Yes, so will you please let me stay forever?" Or when I was held up at customs in Athens simply because I carried a Filipino passport. Or each time I used to see my boyfriend off at the NAIA, a site with which I associate all the ardor and arduousness of a long-distance relationship.

Take-off and landing, life’s like that, isn’t it?

The sky’s the limit, I’ve always believed, and up there I feel so alive. On a plane, suspended above the clouds, you seem to transcend time zones and geographical borders, and, if posh enough to go on Concorde, you even actually break the sound barrier. Up there I feel so vulnerable — my survival dependent on the skill of two pilots who hopefully don’t drink — to hijacking, inclement weather and annoying seatmates. Up there I feel so light and speedy, perhaps from breathing the same incubated air as a hundred other passengers, or from having one too many glasses of complimentary economy class wine. Up there I feel so free, so far away from home and destination, completely unreachable to anyone on land and sea.

God did not give human beings wings, but we were meant to fly, as the Wright brothers believed, as Richard Bach (Jonathan Livingston Seagull) wrote, as Bette Midler (Wind Beneath My Wings), R. Kelly (I Believe I Can Fly), the Steve Miller Band (Fly Like an Eagle) and diehard Ateneans all sang, and as Lucio Tan (Philippine Airlines) would hope.

9/11, one year later, is telling us the same thing. Like New Yorkers have shown us, we are meant to move, and move on. We are meant to soar. We are meant to overcome the paralysis of terror, we are meant to fight fear — be it of flying, or commitment, or heights, or hijackers, or failure — and keep looking up. On land or air, in skyscrapers or Ground Zero, with wings or without, human beings are meant to rise above.

So enjoy your flight. And may it never, ever be on a warplane.

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I’m quite thrilled that some of you have actually noticed my new picture. It was taken by photographer extraordinaire Paolo Lim, on location on his front yard, with the special assistance of fashion maven Pia Rojas and her aluminum car sun shade cum light reflector.

E-mail: star_polanox@yahoo.com