Loud popping noises. Staccato like machine guns firing. Then silence. I glance out over the wing and watch as sparks fly from the right engine. Seconds later a metallic scent wafts through the air.
We’re at cruising altitude somewhere east of the continental divide.
“Hey, did anyone hear that?” I ask.
No one answers. A male voice comes over the speaker.
“Good afternoon, folks, this is your captain here. We’re having engine trouble and will need to shut down the right engine. Not to worry, it’s not the only engine. We’ll still get you to Seattle on time.”
There’s more than a few hours left to go. Can we really make it there with one less engine?
Outside the window pale grey smoke curls out of the silenced engine. A teenager behind yells, “Smoke! Someone tell the pilot the engine’s on fire.”
Don’t jinx us, kid. It’s just smoke. It’s not on fire. Yet.
A flight attendant peers out the window then rushes to the cockpit. Other passengers stand up to look. I begin to regret sitting in the window seat of the exit row nearest the smoking engine.
I peer around. The flight is full. I can’t change seats. The captain comes back on.
“Folks, looks like we’re going to have to take a little detour to the land of a thousand lakes. Minneapolis-St. Paul airport is less than thirty minutes away. We’ll switch planes there and get you back on your way.”
We all sit and wait in silence. I look at my watch, then at the smoldering engine, then back at my watch again. Five minutes. Ten minutes. Fifteen minutes.
A whiff of smoke begins to permeate the cabin. A lady in the back hollers something unintelligible. The flight attendant says something to her and she turns quiet.
Twenty minutes. Below us I see emerald-green lakes dotting the landscape and I wonder out loud whether we were going to land in one of those lakes if we don’t make it to the airport.
Thirty minutes pass and still no airport. The plane banks hard to the left and passengers gasp. The captain’s voice comes back on.
“Folks, it’s your captain speaking. Only a few more minutes to the airport. Before we make the final approach, I’ll circle the plane around a few more times to dump jet fuel and empty the tanks. Standard procedure.”
Is he going to empty the entire tank? What then? Is there a reserve?
“Now please direct your attention to the crew as they demonstrate how to brace yourself for the landing.”
We watch the flight attendants demonstrate how to lean forward in the seat with feet flat on the ground, tuck our heads in our arms and brace our bodies. I find the nearest safe exit across the aisle. I wish I didn’t have heels on.
Black smoke billows from the engine.
The plane levels off and I see the airport. But it looks deserted. All the runways are completely emptied of planes and over in the far corner fire trucks and ambulances line the edge, red lights flashing.
“There’s our welcoming crew,” says the captain. “We should be on the ground shortly. I’m turning off all the engines and we’ll glide down the rest of the way. Now get in brace position.”
I lean forward against the seat in front of me and tuck my head in my folded arms. All the engines cut off. The plane immediately slows. It feels like a lead brick. Like the momentum will stop at any time.
We are falling out of the sky.
A few more seconds drag on. The cabin is eerily quiet. I feel sharp pains in my ears. The baby in front starts to cry.
“Brace for impact,” says the captain. “Heads down. Stay down! We’re about to hit ground.”
I shut my eyes and hold my breath. It occurs to me that I forgot to pray. I search for words but my mind is blank.
Dear God…
The plane tips down and slams hard onto the tarmac. The front tires explode. We lurch forward. Someone screams. The plane skids before stopping at the edge of the runway. The screaming stops. Silence. A man in front claps and slowly other passengers join in.
Then the cabin begins to fill with smoke.
Holy crap.
Moments later flashing red lights surround us and the burning engine is quickly doused in foam. The crew opens only the forward and rear exit doors. I gauge their distances. Front. Back. Either way I’ll be close to last getting out.
So much for sitting in the exit row.
I hold my breath and rush to the back of the plane. I scrape my bare feet sliding down and limp along with other dazed passengers across the hot tarmac.
Never wear high heels on the plane again. You have to take them off during emergency evacuations.
We board a bus to the terminal. No one says anything to the local news crew.
Back at the gate agents hand out meal coupons and vouchers for a $200 airfare discount. A few passengers tear up their vouchers swearing never to fly this airline again.
Since no one dies and no one is seriously injured, the incident makes it no further than the local news. No global social media exists in 2000. No cellphone cameras to record the flaming engine. No tweets to broadcast live eye-witness accounts.
Just another near disaster that will soon be forgotten.
Five hours later we board another plane for Seattle.
I spend the next five days in silence hiking and photographing the damp Pacific rainforest, taking only black and white photos. It rains every day and my mood is glummer than the skies. For the remainder of the year my images remain colorless.
The red-eye flight home is turbulent. I sit awake all night staring out the frost-etched window at the little flashing red light on the darkened wing.
The next morning I head straight from the airport back to work, bright and early as usual. I return emails and phone calls and sip my huge mug of lukewarm black coffee as usual. I jot a quick email to a friend detailing the experience then I never speak of it again. Until the train wreck thirteen years later. But that’s another story for another day.
