The sight was breathtakingly sad. A middle-aged woman wearing a bright red blazer scurried across the tarmac to her waiting NetJets Cessna Encore. I sat on a bench just outside the entrance to our FBO, transfixed, wondering why she was hurrying. I had seen her before.
A few minutes earlier I had watched as she maneuvered a BMW 750Li to the front door of the elegantly appointed building, complete with its attractive ladies behind the counter, fresh baked cookies and Starbucks coffee brewing machine. On the tarmac, I had seen a thin, fit looking, gray-haired man swinging his newspaper, still in its delivery bag, around in an idle way. He radiated impatience. As this woman of a certain age and a certain weight scuttled to her jet, I walked into the linemen's office and said to nobody in particular, "I thought the whole idea of having a private jet at your disposal was that you never had to rush to a plane."
Bruce said, "He was yelling at her." He didn't say that the man was yelling at her to hurry, or that she was dawdling in the ladies room. He let his economy of words carry the load. This woman was terrorized and frightened. Whereas a private jet might seem to you or me to be the height of luxurious extravagance, could it be that to her it was a tubular prison? Rather than a liberating tool of sublime transport, could the confines of the jet be keeping her hostage with no way out?
Disagreements in airplanes aren't unheard of, regardless of the huge impropriety that such behavior represents. I've always thought that the process of jet flight was so remarkable that one should dress for and celebrate the occasion with attractive clothes and good manners. No doubt that separations and reunions are cause for anxiety that might infringe on polite discourse, but there seemed to be nothing but a private jet flight in the cards for the two people I saw get into the beautiful jet.
The worst example of this I've ever witnessed came many years ago. My wife, Cathy, and I had cashed in an enormous number of mileage points and secured a flight on the Concorde from Paris to JFK. This was the trip of a lifetime for us. Each bit of the experience was magnificent. We were herded into a small waiting area where every type of alcoholic beverage imaginable was at our command. Too bad it was 9 a.m. Newspapers and fancy magazines abounded. Our fellow travelers were a subdued and serious looking lot. This was not a fantasy trip for most of them. They rustled their papers with a practiced and bored air.
We were shepherded onto this unexpectedly small airplane. My request to see the cockpit was met with a curt "Non." The seats were comfortable but not opulent. Not that it mattered; we wouldn't be in them for long. We sat down and were offered a pretakeoff glass of champagne. Only my wife and I and a few others took the bait. We were jolted backwards and soon taxiing out. We looked around. A very serious looking man sat just in front of us, reading scientific papers. I later figured out that he was one of the two world famous scientists racing to characterize the AIDS virus. Across the aisle and up one row sat an obviously wealthy couple. The woman, about 60, small, demure and attractive, sat by the window. The massive husband, wearing a very expensive sport coat, loafers with no socks and an enormous gold Rolex, slouched in the aisle seat, muttering.
We took off with a lengthy seat-shaking roar about 10 after nine. We would arrive in New York well before 8:00 the same day. The food was good, not great. The airplane was hot. Those speeds make for a lot of friction. While the scientist read, the rich couple fumed. "You told me to go to Hermès and buy something," she whined. "I didn't tell you to spend that much," he quietly hissed through clenched teeth.
From the coast of France to Long Island they bickered, pushed food around on their plates and seethed. All I could think was, "You guys are fighting at Mach 2. Can't you put a cork in it until you're home in your mansion?" It was ugly and it was unnerving. I just couldn't take my eyes off this pair.
The guilt-huddled lady and the woman hurrying to her Encore made me think of a much more common airport sight: The unrestrained exuberance often seen around airplanes. Not just the excited chatter of a couple on the airlines going off for a weekend vacation, the reunions of friends, family and lovers, the quiet relaxation seen on the face of the homeward-bound businessman after the big presentation is over, but all the happiness I see around general aviation airplanes.
I thought of a recent experience where I dropped into Three Rivers, Michigan, attracted only by the sound of the airport manager's voice and his price for jet-A. It had been a long time since I had the fun of an unassigned night and the chance to let whim dictate my surroundings. Ray Galovich had been friendly on the phone and when I landed at this uncontrolled airport late one summer evening, he was there amidst a pile of construction debris and material. With no reason to hurry and nobody there to meet me, I savored the scene. There were a few hangars, a set of fuel pumps and the airport office, where at least two learning pilots were being briefed or debriefed by patient, earnest looking fight instructors.
