Those investigating why a Northwest Airlines flight overshot its destination by 150 miles and did not respond to radio calls from controllers were told by crew members that "they were in a heated discussion over airline policy and lost situational awareness"--The Times
It all started with my captain's name tag. "Good morning, Greg," I greeted him, "I'm First Officer today." "My name's not Greg," he responded. "This is someone else's name tag. Greg's." We then began earnestly to debate how mistakenly donning another pilot's name tag could affect airline operations, particularly since real-life Greg turned out to be an unusually inept union representative who had made a number of ill-advised concessions during recent negotiations.
Issues of identity preoccupied us as we took off from San Diego and I mentioned that I'd been reading some Nietzsche lately and had become interested in his philosophy of masks. I put the following question to my co-pilot, "Is it proper to 'put on a mask' for the purpose of your own entertainment?" "You misunderstood me," he replied, "I didn't want to assume Greg's persona. In fact, I loathe him for spinelessly capitulating to management." I clarified: "In 'Beyond Good and Evil,' Nietzsche writes, 'Every profound spirit needs a mask: even more, around every profound spirit a mask is continually growing, owing to the constantly false, namely shallow interpretation of every word, every step, every sign of life he gives.'" At this point, the captain began fooling around with a spare oxygen mask and I abandoned what I could see would be a fruitless discussion.
We flew in silence over the Arizona desert and I could tell he felt chastened. Finally, he burst out, "What do you want me to do? Stand in the corner?" I observed that there was no corner as the cockpit was spherical in shape, but told him that matters of perception and role-playing were of paramount importance. "All the world's a stage," I reminded him, which led to his confessing that he had always wanted to be an actor: "Like Leonardo DiCaprio. Wasn't he fantastic in 'Catch Me If You Can,' impersonating a pilot?" "Look," I noted casually, "the Rockies. You are, by the way, a certified pilot, right?" "Absolutely," he laughed, "14,000 hours in the air. But my true passion is cereal."
It emerged that my co-pilot had a vast collection of vintage cereal boxes with an emphasis on Kellogg's Snack Packs. I admitted I never bought these miniature offerings as I found them hideously expensive and did not like Apple Jacks, which seemed to be present in whatever medley I saw. "And another thing," I asked, "Can you truly perforate the box, add milk, and have the cardboard function as an actual bowl?" He told me he had no idea as he'd been reluctant to tamper with his collection and thereby damage its resale value.
"What sort of price would you place on your collection?" I asked. He appeared nonplussed: "Do you want to buy it?" "No," I told him, "I'm just interested in its value." His next comment led me to believe I'd underestimated him: "What is the true value of anything?" he sighed.
"Ah," I said, "the old conundrum: worth versus value. What is it Oscar Wilde said, 'A cynic knows the price of everything and the value of nothing'?" He responded: "Then Greg must be a cynic: he certainly didn't seem to know the value of our pensions." We had a good laugh over that as we passed over golden fields of corn.
Eventually, the captain began toying again with the spare oxygen mask. "Do you know what I'm doing?" he asked. "Annoying me?" "I'm doing connected breathing." "Is that so?" I remarked with disinterest. "Yes. I've completed my practitioner training." "Great," I replied, "and you are a certified pilot?""Hilary Swank was phenomenal as 'Amelia,'" he answered. "Right," I told him, "great at playing a pilot."
"I'm certified in rebirthing," he told me: "reliving the birth experience through connected breathing." "What's the point?" I asked. "To heal the trauma of one's own birth. Notice how I'm not pausing between inhale and exhale. This causes a build up of oxygen in the blood and a subsequent accumulation of prana or life energy."
"Prana," I ventured, "what is that? Hindi?" We began to talk about India and he corrected my pronunciation of the word "Himalayas." "I know it's singular," I said, "but it's like pronouncing the Cyclades kih-klah-dez: you feel like an asshole. Particularly if you haven't been to either place."
After a while, he inquired if I'd like to experience rebirthing. "What does that entail?" "Well," he explained, "breathing sessions are done lying down and usually last 1-2 hours." "We're due in Minneapolis in 80 minutes," I observed, "do you think we have time?" He thought for a moment: "Let me ring the stewardess for a pillow."
Thus it began: the most intense period I've spent on this earth. Or, actually, above it. It all flooded through me: my insecurity as a boy, my overbearing father, two years at a substandard military academy, a skein of intimacy issues with my first three wives....
I was sobbing, gasping for breath, shaken to my core. Tears streamed down my face like marbles and I was suddenly awash in metaphorical amniotic fluid, the crown of my head pressing out through my mother's pulsing pelvis, the bright lights of the OR and the kindly face of the attending doctor now visible as I heard the steady beat of my newborn heart amplified by his stethoscope. It was a rude jolt to realize this was, in fact, a flight attendant pounding on the cockpit door. "What is going on in there?" she demanded. "Glory of glories," I shouted in response as my eyes rolled back in my head, "I've arrived."
