Simon Moya-Smith: A death song for a flight out of New York

On a commuter jet now—US Airways flight 2128—New York City to Boston.

The takeoff was hard on the nerves—muscles tightened. The whole ordeal drove fear into the face of that Wall Street tycoon sitting across the aisle. We rocked in the air like a rickety boat on angry water about to capsize. The plane hit air pockets and vicious streams, firing the beast up into the ether and then back down again in what felt like a fatal nosedive. You know something has gone terribly wrong when the harried blonde flight attendant sits tensely by the cockpit, eyes wide shut. She grips at her chest on what can only be a rosary, and she mouths something of which could only be a prayer.

Moments later, things settle. The plane balances out. The long take off is over. Your guts slither back down your throat and assume their natural positions. Then the voice of a calm captain comes over the speaker: “We’d like to thank our loyalty club frequent fl…” His seduction is suddenly interrupted as the plane banks hard left, throwing me up and over the armrest. I’m alone in this row, but were there a person sitting next to me our heads would’ve surely collided, and then a crack of the skull would’ve sent me into a deep euphoric delirium.