We opted not to live on the edge

For many months the three commanders had been planning this journey—a two week trip to Hawaii.

Betsy, Judy, and Marian are three resilient mothers and grandmothers. You don’t want to get in the way of of these three commanders. Yet, late on the evening of Thursday, January 18, the airline started their shenanigans.

My wife, the Commander Supreme, who is affectionately called Nana by her grandchildren noticed that our flight to Hawaii had been changed. We had been scheduled to fly out of Raleigh-Durham(RDU) on Sunday morning at 8:15 a.m. stopping in Denver before heading to Hawaii.

Now, the airline had us flying out of RDU at 6:15 a.m. with a quick stop in Houston before heading west toward the Pacific.

Gradually, we figured out the reasoning for this change in our flight reservations—we were scheduled to fly on the recently grounded Boeing 737 Max 9. You might recall that a door plug blew out of an almost new 737 Max 9 back on January 5.

This was going to create a challenge for Saturday evening. Close to twelve family members and friends had tickets to hear in concert The Steep Canyon Rangers with the Greensboro Symphony Orchestra. The concert started at 8 p.m.

Our friends Dan and Judy Callow who were flying out of Baltimore for Hawaii were not impacted by the change. We quickly reached out to Butch and Marian Sherrill in Greensboro about this abrupt notice.

Lots of text messages and phone calls took place over the next hour. But before we all said goodnight, we had our seats reconfirmed, our trip insurance was back in place, and sadly, we knew there was no way we could make the concert work.

To attend the concert meant we would need to live on the edge. Go to the concert, drive to RDU after the show, stay up all night in the airport, and then board the plane in a comatose state.

I really didn’t mind the thought of a comatose state because as beautiful as Hawaii is, and even though airplanes fascinate me, I dread the long, long flight.

Wisely, we opted not to live on the edge.

We booked two hotel rooms within a mile of RDU. Just before noon on Saturday, we packed the car, and headed to Summerfield, North Carolina where our oldest daughter and her family live.

Our three hour drive to Summerfield was quiet. When we arrived, it was good to see everyone in better health. Our Christmas in Summerfield had been the Christmas of “germs.”

By 4:45 p.m., we had alerted the Sherrills that we were headed their way. Like clockwork, as soon as we pulled in the driveway, Butch walked out with the first suitcase. Because of the cold January air, we hustled the luggage into the car, and with Butch serving as navigator, we were off to Raleigh.

Traffic presented no problems, we found hotel row, checked in, and confirmed that the airport shuttle would depart at 4:15 a.m. Even though, we had a handful of restaurant recommendations, we kept it simple—The Cracker Barrel.

After dinner, it was back to the hotel, and we made our final plans for 4:15.

Sleep was sporadic, but we all acknowledged that we did sleep a little.

Before leaving for the airport, I checked the National Weather Service, and the temperature was 20 in Raleigh, 42 in Houston, and 75 in Honolulu.

One other hotel guest joined us for the early ride to the airport. Our driver knew the drill. We arrived promptly and in the correct terminal.

Somehow, we managed checking in, and we started the hike to the gate.

Of course, some things never change when boarding a big jet with wall to wall people. No matter the systems that the airlines try, boarding is organized chaos. I’ve said this before—the airlines should consult with teachers about improving their boarding process.

We found out seats. And, yes, we were scrunched tighter than a pack of tourist on a San Francisco street car.

I’m certain there is a reason for this. If our highly efficient Congress launched an investigation, they might discover something really important.

At night when passenger jets sit isolated and quiet on tarmacs, teams of mechanical engineers enter the fuselages. Using high speed tools, they unbolt every seat, reclaiming more inches not for passengers, but to add more seats that are not designed for human comfort.

In our seats, the crew and the pilot began their chatter about the flight being full. They review the safety procedures. Weather conditions and flight time are noted. And then, we start to creep out to the runway. Even with a walker, anyone’s great grandmother could beat the plane to its designated departure point.

We finally reach the assigned runway, and the pilot(The Captain) is back on the PA to tell us: “Folks, our fuelers overfilled our tanks. We’re going to need to sit here for about five minutes and burn off some fuel before we take off.” I internally groaned.

Yet, somehow I was thankful. Someone, probably a computer chip, had calculated that we were overweight. I don’t think any of us would want this big bird to land in a farmer’s field in Fuquay-Varina.

And while we were taxiing out, occasionally, I heard a clanking sound in the underbelly of the plane. I wondered if one of the loyal airline luggage loaders had been accidentally locked in a cargo bay. But, then I reasoned the clanking wasn’t urgent enough, not like a character clanking for his life in an Edgar Allan Poe short story.

At some point, enough fuel had been burned, and the A320 raced down the runway.

On the way down to Houston, I read. I’m reading Beth Macy’s book Raising Lazarus. This book is the follow-up to Dopesick.

In Raising Lazarus, she brings the reader into the post-opioid crisis. And true to the author’s previous books, she honestly captures the ups and downs of being human in really challenging environments.

It seemed like the two hour and thirty eight minute flight to Houston was quick. Just shows what a good book can do for me in moving the clock.

The captain came on to tell us we were making our descent into Houston. I’m no expert on time management, but I believe the actual flight time into Houston was thirty eight minutes with the descent taking two hours. Again, I think your great grandmother flying a single wing experimental plane propelled by a lawnmower motor could have beat the A320 to the terminal.

Cloud cover coming into Houston was thick. The clouds reminded me of bags of grayish, white cotton balls or marshmallows woven together.

Flying like a desert tortoise with wings, we gradually broke through the clouds and continued to lumber toward the landing strip.

Finally, we touched down, and luckily the United terminal was the first one we came too. I could not imagine trying to maneuver this plane into a parking spot, but they do it. As soon as the plane stopped, people are up, opening overhead bins, and jockeying for positions toward the one open exit out of the plane.

We hustle up the jetway, get our bearings, and figure out the course to our next gate. With our feet hustling, we navigate the Texas sized corridors, and take a monorail shuttle to our terminal.

At our gate, the boarding process is already in its chaotic motion. Making sure we have each other and our belongings, when called, like good traveling soldiers, we march toward our seats.

As soon as we sit down, the Commander notes the first downer—no monitor screens on the back of the seats. I’m sorry, but at that moment, I have an internal volcanic meltdown. How in the world am I going to survive this eight hour plus flight without being able to watch a movie?

So, we are finally loaded, and we start the snail trek out to the runway. We arrive, and we sit long enough for your great grandmother with her walker to make it out to the runway to wave goodbye to us.

And as luck would have it, when the jet makes its turn to line up on the runway, the jet wash from the two massive engines on the B777-200 whisks your great grandmother up into the stratosphere.

Once we have reached our cruising altitude of 34,000, the head of the attendants gets on the PA to give us some more surprisingly bad technology news—there is no access to the streaming system. This system would allow you to use your phone or laptop to watch a movie. No one was happy with this cheerful announcement.

As the flight progresses, I have no idea where we are. My window seat looks out over this massive wing, and the cloud cover is preventing me from seeing the ground. I’m hoping we are out over Pacific heading to Honolulu.

I’m excited for our return to Hawaii. To share this experience with Butch and Dan and their wives is very special. We became friends in the fall of 1971 when we were beginning our freshman year at Greensboro College. Included in that friendship are three other gentlemen from our four years in Greensboro—Steve Boone, Steve Hodge, and Doug Kinney.

Since 1975, those loyal friendships have withstood the roller coaster of life. In those forty nine years of companionship, we have managed to gather once or twice a year.

Just as I’m about to stand up on my seat and scream out: “I can’t take this anymore,” the Captain finally makes an announcement: “Folks, we are about 163 miles from Honolulu, in about twenty eight minutes, we should be on the ground.”

Suddenly, I had renewed hope, that is until I looked out my window. I saw your great grandmother. Using her walker as a steering wheel, she roared by us like Jan and Dean’s “Little Old Lady From Pasadena.”

After going full throttle across the Pacific, suddenly the plane felt like it had stopped moving forward. How was this big bird’s frame covered in riveted pieces of perfectly planed sheets of aluminum defying gravity?

The massive plane came down through the layers of clouds. Eventually, the oversized tires found the runway. The plane slowed. We ambled toward the terminal. Inside the terminal, I thought about kissing the floor, but my bladder urgently called.

We found our baggage. Marian and Betsy waited while Butch and I walked across the street to secure the rental car. The line was long, but the employees were polite and efficient.

Butch and I walked back to the terminal. We waited patiently for the arrival of our friends, Dan and Judy, from Maryland.

The wait wasn’t long. They arrived, along with their luggage, and we piled into the rental van and headed toward  Waialua. On the way, Betsy placed an order to go from Jerry’s Pizza.

We made it the house where were staying for week number one.

Pizza, salad, wine and beer hit the spot, and then we collapsed.

While we opted not to live on the edge to attend the concert, I’m thankful for the loyal collective wisdom of our longtime friends in the decision making to adjust our travel plans.

I pray our forty nine years of friendship that have been bonded with love and loyalty will not be worn weary over the next two weeks.