The Kindness of Strangers on a Plane

I never flew on airlines when I was a kid — family and friends were merely a long, merry, snack-filled, music-saturated car ride away. A motion sickness tablet and I was good to go — a few exciting, miserable day camp bus rides revealed that absolute necessity. All the way through college, I took road trips to get where I wanted to be.

This changed when I was interviewing for jobs after graduate school. Shining opportunities across the country meant flying to meet, to talk further, and figure out if we were a good match.

My first flight was to a much vaunted organization in the Midwest. I’d packed with care, checked in with trembling hands proud and nervous about going to a strange city, made polite noises at the businessmen to my right and left as we buckled out seat belts.

The doors closed, instructions droned. My heart clenched, stomach dropped, and sweat drenched my business casual clothing. A crescendo of dire blasted from my brain: I was going to die. Nausea, pain, everlasting torment were the only reality I knew.

“You’re starting your Ferrari,” said the man on my left. “You’re revving the engine. It is powerful, ready to win.”

I looked at him. He smiled. “Stay with the story. You’re going to be fine.”

For a full half hour, he talked me through take-off, banking the tight pattern out of our city, and the resolute climb to 30,000 feet. In the story, the car was nimble, responsive, the best possible driving experience that you could ever have. The car engine explained the roar of the plane engines; the hard acceleration was my passing the competition.

Leveling at our cruising altitude, I realized that my panic was gone. I fell asleep while he read his magazine.

Landing was the triumphant conclusion to the best car race ever. I had experienced the course that he described in full detail, the trees, buildings, spectators, feel of the road under the wheels. The Ferrari was a thrilling, trusted vehicle to victory.

Wishing me luck with the job interview, we parted ways. I cherished the solid ground as I strode to the taxi stand, stunned that it had been such a great flight.

Many years later, I was flying between Portland, Oregon, and Seattle. I settled into my window seat, happily diving into the excellent writing guide named Naked, Drunk, and Writing.

A pale, damp-looking man clicked his seatbelt firmly around his lap, glanced over at me, and commented on the title of my book. I made a polite, but let’s-not-talk answer. I found my place in the book and attempted to get back into it.

The doors closed, instructions droned. White-knuckled hands grabbed the armrests.

“You’re starting your Ferrari,” I said, closing the book and holding his eyes with my own. He wasn’t into cars, so I dropped the racing story and talked about writing, about my home, family, and entrancing dog.

Forty-five minutes later, we landed. No one had died. No one had read their incredible book, but there were other flights for that. This was the flight where a terrified person was talked through fear into their normal, business owner self, proud father of two little boys, headed to a meeting to expand his enterprise.

Thank you, Mr. Ferrari StoryTeller flying out of Newark, NJ, compassionate and kind enough to help a stranger. I like to think that I can do for others what you did for me.

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