I remember a flight to a show in New Orleans where it turned out that most of the airplane was headed to the show.
I do believe we frightened the civilians just a bit.
This was the last flight I ever took, and almost got me over my fear of flying. We had one of those "air pocket" hits where the plane dropped. It was just enough to give me a taste of what it felt like. (I knew the physics involved.) Once my stomach came down out of my sinuses I thought "well, I've done it and survived. Yay, me."
The San Diego airport was built by a psychotic. Landing and takeoffs are the bane of most pilot's existence. Our pilot cut the runway a tad short, touched the wheels down and immediately floored it (or whatever) and took off again to circle the bay. Normally, that would have frightened the life out of me, but Providence had provided an exhausted mother and her three small children. I was amusing them and letting her rest. I assured the children that the pilot had known they wanted to see more of San Diego and did the "if you look out the window, you will see Coronado Bay and the beautiful Coronado Bay bridge." (I was quite touched by the number of adults who took their cue from me and began to breathe again. It's funny how diffusing some situations merely requires one person to look like they know what's going on.)
However, I no longer fly. Never again.
Shame, too. I'll never again have a handsome, silver-haired flight attendent on Air Canada enquire "would madam care for more coffee?" as he held a silver coffee pot.
Damn, Canadians do it better.
I was going to Vancouver and my driver's license was sufficient proof that I'm me. That and an impossibly cheerful attitude that made them believe I wasn't really an American anyway.
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