We had just taken off from the Dayton, Ohio, airport when I heard the noise.
It was a clunking, metal-against-metal grinding sound, coming from somewhere under the airplane's floor aft of where I was sitting with my friend Larry. If the clatter had been coming from the engine compartment of my car, I would have pulled over immediately.
"That's not something you want to hear on a plane," I said—half jokingly, because I was a timid flyer. But nothing ever really goes wrong on a modern aircraft, and we were still in the air, so I pushed aside my fears and went back to reading my book.
Larry, however, was sitting by the window. "We're not climbing," he observed. And peering over his lap I could see that our jet seemed to be cruising over the Ohio countryside at a paltry 1,500 foot altitude.
Just then the pilot chimed in over the intercom: "Ladies and Gentleman, we are returning to the airport. We have a little problem with the landing gear. Prepare for an emergency landing."
Emergency landing? That definitely was something you never wanted to hear on a plane. And I had seen enough episodes of Mayday: Air Disaster to know that "a little problem with the landing gear" could lead to a belly landing with the plane cartwheeling down the runway and bursting into a ball of flames.
"This could be serious," I said, as an excited chatter rose from the passengers. We all sat staring at the plane's sole stewardess, awaiting some reassuring words about seat positions and oxygen masks.
No such words were forthcoming. Instead the stewardess' face was contorted with fear as she strapped herself tight into her jump seat, ignoring her charges and looking like her next few minutes could be her last.
As well it might. Larry had already pulled out his cell phone and was frantically texting something that began "Problem with plane" and ended "Tell everyone I love them."
I did the same as the plane circled the airport and gradually began to sink closer to the ground. The instructionless passengers weren't sure whether "emergency landing" meant they were supposed to be scared or not.
I was frightened enough for all of them. The clanging sound came back, louder than ever—then ominously stopped.
Soon we were low enough to see individual cows in the fields.
"Better brace," I said.
We put our heads awkwardly against the seats in front, trying to remember the cartoon illustrations on the seat-card. A few other passengers joined us. The failed stewardess, at last glance, sat rigid in her jump seat, looking like an Egyptian statue of Tutankhamun.
The engines throttled down. The wings flared. The wheels bounced once on the landing strip and then settled down solidly.
The landing gear did not collapse. The plane did not cartwheel. There was no explosion or flames, only a seemingly normal landing.
When I finally sat upright, Larry was already texting our landing success.
I felt embarrassed. Maybe my writer's imagination had gotten the best of me?
But then we pulled up to the gate. The stewardess opened the door, grabbed her travelling case, and ran off, leaving the passengers to exit on their own without a single "thank you for flying."
I found her panic strangely reassuring. She had been tested and failed. There was hope for me yet.
