Frank Watson: The Joys of Flying

I just returned from parents weekend at my grandson’s college in New England. He likes this school even though it is all the way across the continent and requires a long flight to get there.

I remember when flying was fun. I took my first airplane ride when I went back east to college not far from where my grandson is now. It was a great adventure. I dressed up, even wore a tie as I recall. Everyone was smiling and helpful. I checked my bag, went directly to my gate, then on to the plane. The pretty young stewardess made sure I was comfortable and brought me lunch. The lunch resembled a TV dinner, but it was hot, and I felt special. Times have sure changed.

When I arrived at the airport last week, a grumpy ticket agent told me to check myself in, collected my $25 for luggage, then told me to follow the signs to security. At security, I had to empty my pockets, remove my belt and shoes, and send them in a plastic bin to be x-rayed. The metal in my legs set of the alarm, so I had to spread my arms out for the pat down search while my pants descended to the level of my knees. After navigating that obstacle, I picked up my bin of belongings in one arm while holding up my pants with the other and found an empty bench so I could put myself back together.

I was in boarding group four, so the overhead bins were all full by the time I got to my seat and stuffed my small back back under the seat in front of me.

I thought myself fortunate to have an aisle seat, but the two guys to my left were also full grown men with shoulders wider than their assigned space, so I overlapped considerably into the aisle.

The seat in front of me left me just enough space to wedge my knees against the seat-back when the occupant of said seat reclined all the way back into my lap hyper-extending my legs.

The flight steward parked the service cart next to our row which forced my shoulders back against the pressure exerted by my seatmates.

At the same time, the cart trapped my right arm at my side rendering it immobile.

Then, very business like, the steward handed me a small bag of pretzels and a plastic cup of juice.

He informed me that I could have a full snack for five dollars, credit cards only.

As my trapped right arm prevented me from reaching my credit card, I passed on the snack.

My left hand held both the both the juice and the pretzels.

I thought about setting the juice on the forehead of the man with his head in my lap, but I didn’t want to wake him up and increase the pressure on my legs.

I decided to drink the juice and wedge the plastic cup between the seat and my lap.

I opened the pretzels with my one free hand and my teeth and quickly consumed all eight of them.

I thought things would get better when the service cart went up the aisle, but that coincided with the man in the window seat wanting to use the bathroom. My right arm was now free, so I could use it to brace myself as I executed a semi-graceful, sideways limbo dance out into the aisle. My maneuver was repeated by the middle seat and finally the window. We gave the window an open path to the rear latrine, but seeing a line there, he decided to go forward which required him to do a very close circle dance with each of us before proceeding up the aisle. Middle seat and I limboed back into our seats only to repeat the entire procure when window seat returned from the lavatory.

I then had a couple hours to ponder what could be done to return smiles to the faces of the flying public.

There is nothing we can do about security.

The terrorists won that war.

The airlines could, however, disable the recline feature and give me a bigger seat.

The seats in our plane allowed 17 inches of shoulder room.

I’m not a huge man, but my shoulder width exceeds 20 inches.

I feel like I'm packed in like sardines because I am.

There is no reason for the airlines to change unless they are forced to.

Their goal is to maximize profits, and the passengers are hostages with no voice.

If we travel any distance, we usually need to fly.

If there is to be a change it has to come from the FAA. If we complain loud enough maybe they will do something.

(Frank Watson is a retired Air Force Colonel and a long time resident of Eastern Washington. He has been a free lance columnist for over 18 years.)