Flying High

As published in the October 2011 edition of SPORTElizabeth.


I always used to love flying. Airport culture. The rush and panic of wondering if everything is packed. Did I remember my passport? Do I need to make a wee before boarding the plane? Should I rather save it for the plane? Nothing better than the challenge of having to aim during a touch of turbulence. All these serious issues that need to be dealt with in the space of about 10 minutes between checking in and rushing through the boarding gates while you hear (a shocking attempt at the pronunciation of) your name echoing through the airport terminal: “This is a final boarding call for Rowry Pieterse. Rolly Peterset please make your way to gate number five. Roy Peters. Please. Thank you.” I have absolutely no idea who you have just called, but I am running to gate number five nevertheless. I promise. And while we’re here, it’s Rory. Rory Petzer. Thank you.

My first flight ever was to Johannesburg. I was 17 years old and I had won a trip to watch the Springboks take on the All Blacks in 1996 in Johannesburg, Pretoria and Durban. Yes, all
three matches. My prize – which was won on a national radio station – included car rental, VIP tickets to all three games, hotels, and spending money. The booze was free too. Funnily enough, the only thing I remember about the Loftus match was a lineout at some stage of the game (funny that?) and then throwing a shot glass at a barman at a pub somewhere in town. I missed the barman, but I think I was actually imitating James Dalton (Bullet) and attempting a lineout
manoeuvre. I got a yellow card and was asked to leave the pub. I took my friend, Wes with me to the matches as he was eighteen at the time and had a driver’s licence so we could make use of the car rental. Not that we used it much as free booze usually means a cab trip. Where are we? I always do this. I start out in an airport and now I’m throwing shot glasses at barmen. Focus, Rory.

Oh yes, the aeroplane. I used to love flying until recently while flying with one of the ‘low-cost’ airlines to visit my brothers in Johannesburg, thick white smoke started puffing into the plane from the air vents. Thick, strong, toxic white smoke. The first thing I always do when nervous on a plane is look at the air host/esses and gauge their response. Well, this time I probably should not have. The one looked like she was going to burst into tears, while the other one scurried into the cockpit. The captain then makes a terrible attempt at calming everyone down by saying, “Good evening ladies and gentlemen. I am aware of the fact that there is smoke coming into the cabin. The bad news is we have no idea why it is happening.” At this stage, there is that strong, silent, spine-chilling smell of panic while some of the passengers start trying to send text messages to family and friends. Either that, or they just wanted to finish their airtime before dying. Well, it would be waste not to. The captain then proudly continues, “If you are experiencing trouble breathing [um, breathing? That is something you do when there is air available. What we’re doing right now cannot be classed as breathing] please try and breathe through your sleeve or whatever you can find, while we do our best to get the plane back on the ground.” Right, I know I only paid like R9 for this flight, but for suck’s fake, if I feel like my face is stuck 12cm up a tractor’s exhaust pipe, I really do expect those fancy little oxygen masks you were all bragging about 10 minutes ago, to fall out. And the whole thing about you trying to get the plane back on the ground? How about you just do it. Just do it. I dare you.

The old man sitting next to me also came up with a gem. While I was contemplating life and all the things I still wanted to do before blowing up in mid-air, the very kind gentleman next to me said, “I hate to scare you [Really? Then why don’t you just shut up?], but you know what they say? Where there is smoke, there is fire. Something in the engine compartment is burning.” Wow. I did for a second contemplate dying in style and first stabbing this old man with my zip – because that is the ONLY potential weapon allowed on aeroplanes these days – but thought against it.

We eventually did get safely back onto the ground, but not before an agonisingly long trip out to sea where we were ostensibly dumping fuel. When we landed we were greeted by a smart array
of rescue vehicles, which for some reason made us all feel quite important. The old man never did get to meet my zip in person, but if you’re reading this now and you can remember that flight and you can remember saying what you did to that frightened young man next to you, just know that I will get you.

Why all this rubbish about shot glasses, line-outs and absent oxygen masks? Well, the answer is quite simple: I did not go to New Zealand for the Rugby World Cup, but yes, Daron Mann did. And I am willing to bet pretty much anything that his column this month is going to constitute a long and boring *yawns* boasting session about every little minute of it. We don’t care, Daron. We’re over it. As per the above evidence, I’ve also seen my fair share of live rugby. And not just 1time. Now go away.