CLEANUP ON AISLE ZERO

Ever make yourself airsick? Come on now, be honest. It’s hardly an exclusive club, applicants don’t even need to produce ‘evidence’ to qualify. All that’s required is the ghastly feeling of your head and your gut trading places while nothing in the world looks, feels, or smells right. Call it Code Green. And having no one else to blame, that itself is the initiation. From there on you’re a member, whether you wanna be or not. So now’s your turn to laugh/cry along with everybody else, past, present and…The queezies is one form of misery I’d rather endure alone, thanx, for plenty of reasons. Most important, solitude bestows no obligation to inform those who were not there… True, it also leaves none to sympathize, but this illness never wins real sympathy anyway, especially from a body who might happen to be flying with you.And what about that, when it’s not all on you, so to speak? Should you try to tough it out, or warn them you’re about to deposit chunks down the back of their neck? We could treat this as a moral and ethical issue, or respond the way some athletes address, uh, certain temporary indignities to teammates… with thinly disguised mirth. It’s up to us.Sadly, a noble few make themselves airsick because they have no choice. Some foible in these poor individuals’ constitution torments them every time they fly, but a bigger and stronger incentive compels them to go anyway. Whatever you think about that, we gotta respect their dauntless commitment. Not sure how I’d do in that situation.Obverse to this solicitude are ride passengers who, offered a try at the controls, insist on shaking the stick like a prayer rattle instead of following expert advice they’ve paid for, thus spoiling the experience for all. If only we saw these folks coming in time, we could quickly install a floppy rubber stick for their entertainment — but daren’t forget to switch it back when they leave!Then there are legitimate student pilots, when it’s hot, humid and turbulent, who can’t keep their stomach down unless they ‘have control’… but while churning butter somehow improves how they feel, it has the side effect of making me sick. That’s when I remind myself I did ask for it.Who, me? Yup, my initiation to this sourpussed club entailed a video camera unfamiliar to me (no excuse, but it sure did help). Peering through the viewfinder with my right eye, left eye stupidly shut… flying wingovers left handed, I stumbled in a semi-inverted stall from wave to rotor. It was horrible alright, replete with cold sweats despite frigid temperatures, yet no soggy cigar, proud to say. That’s all it took though, been a member ever since.Same for an old compatriot known as Weirdwell. No, I never called him that, but his homies did. My fond euphemism was, a genuine piece of work. Like most three hundred hour pilots, he showed more promise than skill. What distinguished him in our milieu were the unambiguous bullet holes attesting to multiple tours as a crew chief in Hueys, airtime vastly more serious than anything we mere glider guiders ever face. Weirdwell came to us as an unstirred mix of warranted self-confidence and worrisome overconfidence, and though he was several years older, I kept a motherly eye on him.One summer day, well marked thermals beckoned, so he took an afternoon off and hurried to the airport, stopping by a burger stand for lunch. The first chili dog and coke went down so well, he ordered seconds and wolfed that in his truck on the way. Thirty minutes after leaving work he was airborne — and thirty minutes later he called an emergency approach. Expecting some kind of mechanical problem, I watched the landing extra close to see what might be amiss. Everything looked normal until he opened the canopy while still rolling, stretched his chin over the gunnel, and let fly both chili dogs and lotsa coke in one great, slimy fusillade. Well marked indeed.Other examples of self-induced travail involve oxygen masks, if you can imagine. My favorite in that category was told by a passenger who requested “extra mustard” on a standard scenic flight. When I asked about the strength of his stomach, he spun this yarn: a childhood buddy of his had grown up to become a Marine pilot, and when they finally wrangled him an F-14 ride, his buddy, like any boy would, tried to make him hurl. Punchline, the Marine was the one who filled his mask.In fairness, this raconteur did turn out to possess seemingly unlimited intestinal fortitude, but that by itself doesn’t mean we have to believe him. It’s fun to envision though, isn’t it? So long as it’s always some other member of our club who’s wearing more than egg on their face…