Mile High Blog

It’s 12:23pm San Diego time, and I am sitting in left-most, aisle-seat C of row 45 on a 747 (or some other really big plane), Hawaiian Airlines Flight 33 on my way to Honolulu, Hawaii, and then to Kona. I have the honor of participating as a guest teacher for one week at the Illustration School of the University of the Nations in Kona.

But more on that later; some other blog.

I am on a plane right now, and I can think of nothing better to do than write about than what’s going on around me. It’s a 5.5-hour flight, the in-flight-meal of vegetarian lasagna and salad with a “petite roll” has long since been consumed; trash collected;and people are snuggling up with their hand-towel-sized blankets and carnival bean-bag-sized pillows lightly filled with something reminiscent of, but with less cushioning effect than, cotton candy. The 3 boys across the aisle to my left, in row 45, seats A and B—ages 3 to 5 I am guessing—are finally settling down, and it appears they will be napping soon.

Thank God.

It has only taken four hours for this to finally occur. And I have been praying alternately for the entire four hours for them to settle down or for God to grant me a superhuman measure of grace in order to not violently and suddenly “offer them my cotton candy pillow.”

The man who sits next to child number 3 in row 44 immediately in front of the other two is presumably the father of these three boys. If I had known their names earlier, it would make no difference since there has been an ongoing game of musical chairs since the flight started. This particular family has a peculiar variation of the game: The child in the seat behind Dad gets to sit by said Dad when said Dad is finally sick and tired of having his seat kicked from behind with the force of a log-splitter, rhythmically, every half-second. He is either extremely patient, or in a functional coma. He doesn’t even blink for the first, say, 40 kicks. The things this man can ignore are astonishing. If it were me sitting in 44B, everyone would have found out who today’s secret Air Marshall is three hours and forty-six minutes ago, my status changing to: soon-to-be-jailed in Honolulu.

Nevermind that it took Dad 20 rings to discover that is was his own son pushing the flight attendant call button that everyone on the plane can hear. That’s nothing. Even the Pepto-Bismal-colored PEZ candies strewn about the floor-area of 45 A and B are a pleasantry compared to the sheer volume with which these kids communicate. I hesitate to use the word “speak” as that suggests intelligible phrases spoken by civilized human beings. Most of the noises emitted are of a whiny nature, such as the plaintive “I’m hungry. Hungry, hungry, hungry, hungry… hung…..greee…” that began emotionlessly, yet with a variety of intonations, on the tarmac in San Diego’s Lindberg Field, where I first looked out the porthole window past the little demons onto a drizzle-soaked runway under a gray sky and thought, “Five and a half hours?”

I presume they are family for two reasons, no three. First, what’s most obvious is that they are all wearing the same khaki shorts (dad in trousers) and matching blue, cross-striped, button-down shirts. It’s like the Von Trapps having just replaced all their blue curtains. But there is a noticeably missing Problem like Maria—there is no mom in the immediate vicinity. My guess is she at home lying in a steaming bathtub, her fingers delicately tracing smiley faces in the condensation on a cold Mimosa, half-eyed, with a proud, weak, grin acknowledging to herself the brilliance of sending all the boys off to Hawaii. “Let him have a week with them!”

Secondly, they ignore each other as only family can do. And thirdly, they all look alike.

Mom must have booked the flight, laid their clothes out for them and disappeared leaving the rest to Dad. No mother would have—without malice, anyway—packed the goodie bags these kids have to keep them entertained. Only a Dad could have come up with this assortment of distractions. They each have little hand-held LCD game units, which do indeed make annoying, squeaky shooting noises. And they have “nutritious” snacks with the plastic/foil wrappers even the Incredible Hulk couldn’t open.

Ahh, but the most amazing inclusion of all, carefully planned and well-thought-out for a five hour plane ride was—and I am not making this up—the rubber-band paddle-ball games for each of the boys. The rubber bands in their slack position are longer than the distance from the boys’ noses to the seats in front of them (even when a seat is being kicked to its forward-most position). This leaves only one option.

Or so I thought.

The kid in 45B managed to shoot his ball in every direction but across my bow. Good thing for that; I was already fantasizing about the moment the little blue ball came within reach, seeing myself snatch it out of the air like Mr. Miagi on a fly with chopsticks.

Now you have to realize Dad—let’s call him “Job” [biblical pronunciation] for the moment—sat there through a good, ten-minute stretch of unskilled, multi-directional paddle-balling without raising an eyebrow. Awesome concentration… or denial, or whatever.

Well, that little rally ended when the ball entered the no-fly zone next to Dad’s head, prompting him to spin round in his seat, reach behind him with clinched jaw, grab the paddle-game by the ball and yank it out of his son’s hand, punctuating his annoyance by tearing the rubber-band to bits in front of his son’s face.

Which lead to a long, wailing session from little Mr. McEnroe.

I pity this man and his “vacation.”

The term vicious Cycle comes to mind.