I suppose under the freedom of information act, I should release the following.
London, 11th January 2004. Weather: Clear. Winds, from the North West. Approx 90mph (Storm force 10.)
By some miracle, I was booked on the only flight out of Aberdeen that night which didn't get cancelled. We board, and the pilot jocularly warns us that it's going to be a bumpy ride. The attendants speak extra slowly when doing the safety announcements, and the tannoy gets louder as the demonstration progresses, to the point that at the end of her speech the squealing feedback is getting a little annoying.
The first spot of turbulence hit the plane before we even backed away from the terminal. Seriously. Stationary Airbus A320 (or whatever), shaking around like anything. Ah well. We take off. It is bumpy. Very bumpy. The stewardess begins an attempt at inflight service, at which point there's a huge bump, she falls flat on her face, and all the oxygen masks drop down from the ceiling.
How funny, we all thought. The turbulence is so bad it's knocked the oxygen masks out of their housings. Heh.
A minute later, in a 'trying to be calm but somewhat higher pitched than during the safety announcement' purser switches on the intercom and advises us that actually we should be putting the safety masks on, to cover our noses and mouths, and to breathe normally. Eeek. At this point, I notice a rather strange smell. Like something burning. It really does smell like something is burning. I look out of the window at the engine on my side, and to my relief note that it isn't on fire.
After a couple of minutes, I notice that the guy on the opposite row to me is asleep, and consequently hasn't put his mask on. I throw a magazine at him, smile, and wave the spare mask from the seat next to me at him. He gets the message. The plane is bumping around, and I notice, now circling. (Despite the high winds the skies were eerily clear.)
The tension in the air is palpable. As is the smell. As is the irregular change in the noise from the engine. A burst of thrust, followed by a noticeable lift, followed by silence associated with a noticable drop in altitude. This happens a few times. Then we seem to level out, and we're not circling any more. The purser comes back on the intercom to tell us, in a slightly more relaxed tone, that everything is now fine.
The thought process that goes through ones head is quite telling. First, it's the settlement with yourself that if you do die, everything has been fine and you're happy and it couldn't happen at a better moment. Then you begin to look for reasons. Did the pilot sound drunk when he welcomed us on board? Now I come to think of it, maybe he did. Oh my god, we're all going to die because of a pilot who enjoys Jack Daniels. And he was American. This is all retribution. There's an American Republican Cell who are sending in suicide pilots to get their own back on us lily-livered liberals! Argh! Panic!
Of course, we landed safely, although the dangling oxygen masks do precisely emphasise the movement of the plane, which you don't normally notice. It makes the landing more real, you know?
The smell, as the obviously Democrat pilot pointed out after landing, was because the safety masks had never been activated on this plane before, and you always get a bit of a carbon smell from the vents that are exposed when the panels drop down. And he kindly explained, once we were safe on the ground, that there'd been a small problem with cabin pressurisation. i.e. There wasn't any for a bit. But then there was again.
And so endeth one of the scarier 75 minutes of my life.
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