Plane Crash Drill

On my flight from New York to Los Angeles, there was a crash drill, which is when they pretend the plane is going to crash, so that if it ever crashes for real, they’ll be prepared. I didn’t know it was just a drill, so when the engines sputtered off and the plane went into a spiraling nose dive, I was terrified. Everyone around me screamed and mumbled Bible verses. I pressed the button that called the stewardess (I wanted to request a parachute), but no stewardess came. There was a dinging noise above—the fasten seat belts light had turned on.
"Assume crash positions,” the captain said over the intercom. His voice was calm and sturdy. I figured they must give the pilots voice lessons at the flight academy.
I tried to lean forward and assume the crash position, but I’m rather tall and the man in front of me had his seat reclined all the way back. I tapped him on the shoulder. “Could you straighten your seat?” I asked.
"I don't have to,” he said. “That's only for landings and takeoffs. This is a crash.”
There was no time to argue. We might crash at any moment. I tried to squeeze my head into the tiny space behind his seat. It was a tight squeeze and I felt like I was being scalped by the carpet on the seatback.
“Stop kicking my seat!” he yelled amidst the screams.
Then I suddenly realized that I didn’t know the crash position. I knew to put my head down, but did it go between my legs or did I rest my forehead on my knees? And what about my hands? Was I supposed to leave them at my sides or cover the back of my head with them? I should have paid attention when the stewardess gave the preflight safety instructions. Now the unlikely event of an emergency had occurred, and I didn’t know what to do.
I glanced at the passenger next to me to see what she was doing. I would just copy her. But she stared back at me, waiting to see what I would do. Apparently she hadn't paid attention to the preflight safety instructions either.
I looked around to see what others were doing. Apparently no one knew the crash position.
I remembered the laminated safety instructions with pictures demonstrating the crash position. That would show me what to do. I reached into the pouch on the back of the seat and searched for the safety instructions.
I rifled through old magazines, a barf bag, a duty-free item catalog, head phones in a plastic bag, but no laminated, illustrated crash position instructions.
Suddenly, the plane started to level out. Soon it was flying straight again. We were no longer diving headfirst for the ground—we might not die. The plane began to ascend gently.
Everyone was breathing heavily. Some were sobbing.
"Yes, sir?”
The stewardess was standing next to me. She had finally answered my call for a parachute.
"What's happening?” I asked. “Are we going to die?”
“Someday,” she said with a sigh.
"How about today?”
"Are you threatening me?”
"No. I just want to know what's happening.”
She explained to me about the crash drill. We hadn’t really been about to crash. The captain just put the plane into a nose dive so they could be prepared if there ever was a real emergency.
I was, of course, furious.
"A drill?” I said.
"Sure. Didn't you ever have a fire drill? It's so you're prepared in case there's a real fire. Well, we have crash drills so you know what to do in case there's a real crash.”
"That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard in my life.”
"It's important to do. You didn't know what to do. I saw you. You didn't even know the crash position. If this had been a real crash, you would be dead by now.”
The stewardess was clearly insane, so there was no use talking to her. I'd have to talk with someone else.
“Go get me your supervisor,” I told her.
"He's busy.”
"Doing what?”
“Flying the plane.”
I unbuckled my seatbelt and leaped up on legs that were numb from sitting too long. They tingled from pins and needles.
“Sir, the fasten seat belts sign is on.”
I pushed past her and strode to the front of the plane.
“You can’t go up there!” she yelled after me. “That’s first class!”
I walked through the luxurious first class. The plane was ascending steeply, so I had quite an uphill climb through first class. I'm out of shape, so by the time I reached the cockpit, I was sweating and gasping for breath. The cockpit door was unlocked and hanging open. I climbed through it.
Two men with wings on their lapels sat at a desk of mechanical gadgets: switches, buttons, gauges, and meters. The older of the two men turned towards me. When he spoke, I recognized his sturdy voice as the one that had come through the intercom.
"Young man,” he said. “What are you doing in the cockpit?”
"I might ask you the same question.” That's what I tried to say, but I was hyperventilating from my steep uphill climb, and I couldn't get a word out. So I just stood there, gasping for air. The pilot and copilot stared at me and waited for my answer.
The stewardess, the one who had explained to me about the crash drill, burst into the cockpit.
"I'm sorry, captain,” she said. “I tried to stop him.”
"How did he get up here?” the captain asked. “Is he first class?”
"He doesn't look first class,” the copilot commented with a toothy grin.
The captain looked at me squarely in the eyes. “Get out of my cockpit,” he said.
I still couldn't speak. I was just trying to breathe. Sweat poured down my forehead. I managed to shake my head to let him know I wouldn't leave the cockpit.
”Have it your way,” the captain said. He picked up a small microphone and flicked a switch on the control panel.
“This is your captain speaking,” he said, using his most captain-like voice. “There’s an intruder in the cockpit. Would the sky marshal please come up here?”
He flipped off the switch, and set the microphone back in its slot. Then he set both hands on the steering controls, and calmly gazed out at the horizon. The copilot smirked to himself.
I felt intensely curious: now I would find out who the sky marshal was. I pushed open the cockpit door a crack and peered back to see who was approaching the cockpit. Apparently everyone on board was a sky marshal; they were all charging the cockpit, screaming, getting ready for a fight.
I knew this was bad. If everyone came to the cockpit, it would make the plane too top-heavy. It would pull us down and we'd crash.
Wait a minute. They weren't sky marshals. They were a lynch mob. Sure, they didn't have torches and pitchforks—those were confiscated at security—but they were still a lynch mob.
The first ones burst at the door. I tried to hold it shut.
“Call them off!” I yelled at the captain, finally finding a gasping voice. “Tell them I’m not a terrorist!”
The copilot snickered. The captain just kept his gaze on the horizon, his jaw set.
I managed to get the door shut all the way and bolted the lock. Then I grabbed the captain by the ears, pulled him out of his seat, and threw him on top of the copilot. They fell in a heap on the floor.
I sat in the captain's seat and scanned frantically through the buttons and switches on the control panel.
"Which one's the eject button?” I demanded.
The captain and copilot laughed from their tangled pile on the floor.
“That's only in fighter jets,” the copilot cackled.
There was only one switch that I knew for sure what it did. I flipped it, brought the microphone up to my mouth, and spoke in my sturdiest, most captain-like voice.
“Turns out I won't be needing that sky marshal after all,” I said. “You can take your seats. Sorry for the confusion.”
It didn’t work.
The stewardess unlocked the door and everyone swarmed in like hornets. They beat me and kicked me. Hands scratched and tore at me, trying to drag me out of the cockpit. I grasped onto the steering wheel like it was an altar.
"Sanctuary!” I yelled, but they kept beating me.
My fingers screamed in pain, about to snap like hard taffy, but I held on. My arms and legs were about to dislocate. But I knew if I let go, they would drag me out of the cockpit and possibly stomp me to death. Even if they didn't stomp me to death, I wouldn't get away unscathed. I would be fitted for an orange jumpsuit and sent to Guantanamo Bay, Cuba. I wouldn't even have the solace of being considered a freedom fighter. You needed a cause to be a freedom fighter. You couldn't just hijack an airplane accidentally.
I needed to do something, so I screamed, "Allah Akbar!”
I have a talent for always saying the wrong thing. This only made things worse. They bit my ears and nose.
The plane was ascending more and more sharply. It was almost going straight up. I worried that it would go too high. We would crash into a satellite or leave the atmosphere and get lost in outer space. Why couldn’t this pilot learn how to fly?
Oh. Right. I was the one flying. This steering wheel didn't just go left and right, but up and down as well. By pulling down the steering controls, I caused us to go up steeply. We were almost flying straight up. But I couldn't let go.
The passengers started tumbling out of the cockpit. They slid down the aisle through first class and down to the back of the plane. Soon I found myself alone in the cockpit; everyone had slid out. I pulled myself up into the captain’s seat and pushed the wheel forward as hard as I could. The plane tilted forward. Soon I the plane leveled out.
I was flying.
But I had no time to enjoy it. I heard the roar of the passengers once again charging the cockpit. Their barbaric war cries filled the air.
I picked up the microphone and flipped the switch.
“That concludes our hijacking drill,” I said. “Had that been a real hijacking, you would all be dead by now.”

April 18, 2009
Yueyang, China