A Gift of Wings

by Richard Bach

  “You can be around this every day, but every time you see a plane take off or land, it’s still fascinating. It’s just beautiful. And every time you see one go up, you say, ‘I wish I was on it …’ Hello, United? This is Traveler’s Aid, and we need a late flight from Kennedy to Dayton, Ohio …”

  There was no late flight to Dayton.

  By eight p.m. the flight with Lenora Edwards on board still had not landed, the airport was a choking swarming mass of passengers and passengers’ friends come to meet them, the sound of engines in the air.

  Marlene Feldman, telephone in hand, was supposed to have finished her working at five p.m., it was now eight-thirty, she had had no dinner.

  “Just a minute. One more call and we’ll go eat.” She dialed TWA for the twelfth time, and at last they had an expected arrival … Lenora’s flight would be unloading in twenty minutes.

  “Well, there goes dinner,” Marlene said. Which wasn’t quite the truth. The restaurants at Kennedy were crowded, even the lines waiting at them were crowded, but the candy machines were almost unpatronized. She had a Sunshine Peanut Cheese Sandwich Lunchie for her dinner, I had a Hershey bar.

  We found Lenora in the crowd by the Customs area, waiting for her one piece of baggage, a white suitcase.

  “Welcome to America,” I said. She didn’t reply.

  She did talk to Marlene, in a very clear little British voice, “I suppose I’ve missed my plane, haven’t I?”

  “I’m afraid so, honey, and there’s not another flight going out till tomorrow morning. But don’t worry. We’ll get it all fixed up for you. Did you have a nice flight coming over?”

  We breezed through Customs without even stopping at the desk, and I hoped faintly that the white suitcase I carried wasn’t packed with diamonds or heroin. It didn’t feel like it, but those things are hard to tell.

  The crowd by now was a New Year’s Times Square crowd, and we wedged slowly through it to the office. Excuse us. Excuse us, please. Could we get through? What was the poor little girl thinking? All this chaos, met by two strangers, missed her flight, no plane out till tomorrow? She was calm as a teacup. If I were nine years old in that place, five hours late in a foreign country, I would have gone up in kind of green smoke.

  Marlene was on the telephone again, calling the girl’s father, collect to Dayton. “Mister Edwards. Traveler’s Aid, Kennedy Airport. We have Lenora here, she missed the flight to Dayton, so do not go to the airport. She’ll stay here tonight, we’ll arrange for that. I’ll call you back just as soon as I know what’s happening.”

  “How are you doing, honey?” she said, dialing again on the phone.

  “Just fine.”

  It was arranged. Lenora would stay that evening at the International Hotel with a TWA stewardess from the flight on which she arrived, who would bring her to the United Air Lines Terminal in the morning.

  The telephone again to the father, to give him the name and number of the stewardess and the hotel. “Lenora will be arriving Flight 521, into Dayton at ten twenty-six in the morning. That’s right. Yes. Yes. Of course I will,” Marlene said. “You’re quite welcome.”

  “OK, Lenora,” she said when the telephone was still at last, “I’ll meet you at the main information desk at United at eight-fifteen tomorrow morning, and we’ll get you on that flight, OK?”

  The TWA stewardess stopped by for the girl, and as they disappeared into the crowd Lenora put the small book she had been reading back into her purse. Woodland Animals was the title.

  “I didn’t think you were supposed to come to work till eight-thirty, Marlene,” I said. “And don’t you get to sleep late if you’ve stayed five hours over, the night before?”

  She shrugged. “Eight-thirty, eight-fifteen. For fifteen minutes it’s not going to kill me one way or the other.”

  “Eighty percent of the people in Kennedy Airport this minute,” the information girl told me, “are lost. Some people get so nervous that they don’t really think. And they don’t know where they are going. And there are plenty of signs, but they don’t read the signs …”

  BOARDING AREAS 1 THROUGH 7 INTERNATIONAL CONNECTIONS OBSERVATION DECK FLY THE FRIENDLY SKIES OF UNITED EXIT LOS ANGELES AIRPORT BUS STOP NEW YORK AIRWAYS HELICOPTER SERVICE FOR INFORMATION RESERVATION AND COURTESY BUS USE PHONES BEHIND DOOR DO NOT ENTER ARRIVING FLIGHTS DEPARTING FLIGHTS SPECIAL SERVICE FUTURE TICKETS NOTICE SNEAKERS ON ESCALATORS ARE DANGEROUS PERSONAS SIN BOLETAS NO MAS ALLA DE ESTE PUNTO METERED TAXI CABS LICENSED BY POLICE DEPARTMENT INTERAIRLINE COACH SERVICE TO ALL AIRLINES AT KENNEDY 25¢ LIMOUSINE AND CAR RENTALS INQUIRE AT COUNTER BETWEEN DOORWAYS A AND B FREE CONNECTION SERVICE FROM EAST SIDE AIRLINES TERMINAL STAIRWAY TO UPPER LOBBY LOCATED BY TICKET COUNTER UNCLAIMED BAGGAGE WILL BE REMOVED TO THE BAGGAGE SERVICE OFFICE TO BOARDING AREA 1234567 STOP TAKE TICKET TICKETED PASSENGERS CHECK IN HERE FOR FLIGHTS 53, 311, 409 SE PROHIBE FUMAR DESPUES DE ESTE PUNTO HANGAR BUS ONLY RENTAL CAR PARKING USE EXTREME LEFT LANE NEW YORK BROOKLYN LONG ISLAND AND PARKING KEEP LEFT CLEARANCE 10′ 5″ SHELTER AREA PUSH GROUND TRANSPORTATION PULL DINING ROOM OPEN TILL 3 AEROFLOT MOCKBA TERMINAL CONNECTION BUS STOP EXPRESS TO LAGUARDIA SALA DE VISITANTES UNITED SKYPORT CINEMA TELEPHONE AHEAD FOR RESERVATIONS DISCOVER FLYING COCKTAIL LOUNGE OPEN FROM 1030 TILL MIDNIGHT US POSTAGE STAMPS COMPARE YOUR CLAIM CHECK SINCE MANY BAGS HAVE IDENTICAL APPEARANCE PLEASE COMPARE YOUR CLAIM CHECK WITH THE TAG ON YOUR BAG THANK YOU OFFICES TICKETS INFORMATION AND TICKETS TO MAKE FREE DIRECT CALLS 1. DEPRESS DESIRED NUMBERED BUTTON 2. LIFT RECEIVER, CONNECTION WILL BE COMPLETED IN CASE OF FIRE BREAK GLASS OPEN DOOR PULL HOOK TAXI CABS TIMES SQUARE $9 GRAND CENTRAL STATION $9 LAGUARDIA AIRPORT $4 POINTS OUTSIDE NEW YORK CITY FLAT RATE ONE TO 4-5 PERSONS BUS SERVICE TO GREENWICH RIVERSIDE STAMFORD DARIEN NORWALK WESTPORT BRIDGEPORT MILFORD NEW HAVEN MERIDEN AND HARTFORD FOR INFORMATION USE THIS DIRECT LINE NEW JERSEY LIMOUSINE SERVICE TRENTON WOODBRIDGE PRINCETON BERGEN COUNTY BRUNSWICK NEWARK AIRPORT WESTCHESTER LIMOUSINES TO NEW ROCHELLE WHITE PLAINS TARRYTOWN AND RYE ROCKLAND COUNTY TO NYACK AND SPRING VALLEY TRAVELERS AID PLEASE ENTER LOST AND FOUND FLIGHT INSURANCE JFK GROUND COMMUNICATIONS COCKTAIL LOUNGE OFFICES PLEASE STAND IN CENTER OF TREAD AND STEP OFF LAST STEP PLEASE HOLD HANDRAIL VISIT OUR HORIZON ROOM FOR COCKTAILS LUNCH AND DINNER WEATHER INFORMATION FLIGHT INFORMATION EXIT EXIT EXIT PARKING LOT NUMBER 3 ARRIVING PASSENGERS ON UPPER LEVEL CROSSWALK PRIVATE PROPERTY NO UNAUTHORIZED PARKING TOWAWAY ZONE WALKWAY DID YOU LOCK YOUR CAR? PUBLIC STENOGRAPHER NO SMOKING BEYOND THIS POINT COIN CHANGER SHELTER AREA PUSH AUTOMATIC GATE PEDESTRIANS KEEP CLEAR LANES OPEN DO NOT ENTER CONCOURSE AIRPORT EXIT BANK CURRENCY EXCHANGE INFORMATION CASHIER ENTER STANDBY ABC PASSENGERS FROM FLIGHTS MARKED ARRIVE IN CLAIM AREA LOWER LEVEL NO STOPPING THIS IS NOT A PICKUP AREA MOTOR STAIR SNACK BAR EMERGENCY STOP TIMES SHOWN ARE SUBJECT TO CHANGE: INDICATED PM FLIGHT INFORMATION IS FURNISHED BY THE AIRLINES FOR FLIGHTS NOT LISTED SEE AIRLINE ON FIRST FLOOR HEAR PILOTS TOWER RADIO 10¢ ONE DIME OR TWO NICKELS SWITCH TO YOUR CHOICE AFTER CLEARANCE PASSENGERS EXIT TO LOBBY FIRST FLOOR INFORMATION DEUTSCH ESPANOL FRANCAIS ITALIANO WALKWAY TO AIR CANADA NATIONAL TRANSCARIBBEAN AUTHORIZED BUSSES ONLY 2 INTERNATIONAL ARRIVALS BUILDING 3 LOADING LAS VEGAS LISBON LONDON ROME PARIS CLEVELAND LOS ANGELES SAN FRANCISCO MADRID CHICAGO OAKLAND BOSTON ST LOUIS TEL AVIV ATHENS CINCINNATI OUT OF ORDER AUTOMATIC GATE TAKE TICKET TAX FREE GIFTS ALL AIRLINES MAIL POSTE TAX FREE LIQUOR 322 323 PARKING AT ANY TIME STOP YIELD TO DEPARTURES ARRIVALS NEXT LEFT 150TH ST. CARGO AREA NORTH PASSENGER TERMINAL TAXI HOLD AREA TAXIS ONLY FOR YOUR CONVENIENCE WE ARE EXPANDING THE INTERNATIONAL ARRIVAL AND WING BUILDINGS THE PORT OF NEW YORK AUTHORITY UNAUTHORIZED VEHICLES WILL BE TOWED AWAY AT OWNERS EXPENSE RESTRICTED TO TWA PASSENGER UNLOADING NO PARKING CURBSIDE CHECKIN BAGGAGE CHECKED HERE TELEPHONES TO PLANES PASSENGERS WITH TICKETS AN EXHIBIT OF ARTS AND CRAFTS BY NEW YORK BASES TWA CABIN ATTENDANTS ON THE BRIDGE LEVEL GATES 8-15 PLEASE PASSENGERS ONLY BEYOND THIS POINT LOCKERS BOOTBLACK NEWSPAPERS OF THE WORLD EMPLOYEES SHUTTLE SERVICE LOT NUMBER 7 PARKING FIELD REFLECTING POOL CONTROL TOWER DON’T WALK USE CROSSWALK TO PARKING LOTS AND Q
UICK PICKUP AREAS OUT ENTER BUS STOP NO STANDING EAST WING BUILDING DEPARTURES MERGING TRAFFIC Q-10 PUBLIC BUS WALKWAY PUSH BUTTON FOR WALK SIGNAL CAR LOADING SABENA LOFTLEIDIR CAUTION TRUCKS MEN AT WORK BUS TO NEW YORK CITY PASSENGERS WITH TICKETS ONLY BEYOND THIS POINT.

  There are plenty of signs, but they don’t read the signs.

  Kennedy Airport is an aquarium. It has been built at the bottom of an enormous ocean and we come to it in little air-filled vehicles and quickly enter air-filled chambers, completely self-sufficient undersea; each with its own coffee shops, restaurants, bookstores, resting places, viewing places out upon the sunken plains of a watery universe.

  In from that universe come the fish of this ocean, sifting down from upper levels—turning, settling, iridescent hues shimmering in the liquids about them. Gold and silver, red and orange and green and black, salt-water tropicals grown a thousand times, hundred-ton angelfish, half-million-pound demoiselles angling in front of our view-ports, different sizes and shapes and colors, each family of fish clustering at its own feeding place.

  Longer than locomotives, most of them, monstrous swept fins fifty feet, seventy feet high, they move ponderous and slow, infinitely patient, each to its own special grotto. They are gentle maneaters all, that can swallow a hundred or three hundred Jonahs more or less fearful of destiny, trusting the great fish to remain friend for just one more journey.

  The fish themselves are unafraid. Giant leviathan noses loom right to our glass and we can look into the eyes and see purpose and motion there, we can watch the fish thinking, making ready another ocean-spanning continent-leaping voyage.

  When the last Jonah is sealed inside, gills breathe, flukes move. The creatures scull ever so gingerly, turn, showing their colors and markings, and drift out to a place where they know there’s room for the long arrowing thrust of their lift from the ocean floor.

  We see them small in the liquid distance begin their push, bring their aquatic minds to focus on this drive, forget all else, force, blast their way into torrents of sea wind, surge free of the bottom in a cloud of rolling silt, curve bright-flashing toward the top of the sea, choose their turns, find their ways, settle up toward their far horizon and out of sight in the blue.

  Coming, going, carefully releasing the world’s Jonahs and carefully taking them aboard, the deep-sounding planet-traveling fish come to be known in time, by the people who watch. Some of the watchers are expert, having memorized Latin names, habit and habitat.

  Others know only that these are mighty big fish, hope to tell you.

  It used to be, years ago, before airplanes had radios and when the first control towers were built, that each tower had its “biscuit gun” with which a controller could shoot a colored beam of light to a pilot in his airplane, to advise him of what the tower man thought he should do. Flashing green: cleared to taxi. Steady red: stop. Steady green: cleared to land.

  Today all that communicating is done by some cracker-jack radio equipment, which all works very well. After an airline has spent three thousand dollars on a radio, naturally, they expect that it will work very well.

  Nevertheless, the first sight that caught my eye as I climbed the last flight of stairs to the glass aerie of the control tower at Kennedy Airport was the biscuit gun, suspended by a pulley wire from the ceiling. It hung there perfectly still, and there was dust on it.

  Waist-high around this room, which is about twenty feet square, are radio and radar consoles, banks of switches to control the runway lights, communications to air traffic control rooms, telautographs for weather sequences, dials for wind speed and direction. (It has always seemed odd to me that a hundred-ton airliner still arranges itself in the sky so that it will land into the wind. One might expect that we’d become indifferent to a spirit so insubstantial as the wind, but not so.)

  In this room stand five men, four of them young men and one old-timer, the watch supervisor, sitting back at his desk while the others stand, looking down on their kingdom Kennedy.

  It is just before noon of a murky day and the mist has settled in a gray bowl over us. Just visible to the east is Jamaica Bay, same to the south, beyond runway 13 Right. To the north and west we can see to the edge of the airport and no farther.

  The tower is the peak of a maypole, with airliners taxiing in a circle around it on the curved perimeter taxiways—clockwise on the south, counterclockwise on the north side of the tower, all converging on a path that leads to the end of 13 Right, the takeoff runway. Its sister, runway 13 Left, is for landings only, and for now there is practically nobody landing; 13 Left is a deserted wallflower of a runway, and looks lonely out there in the fog.

  The airplanes blazing by on takeoff bellow up into exaggerated steep climbs, and I can’t help but wince, watching them claw for altitude. That is maximum performance, the pilot is earning his keep on that kind of takeoff, and the planes disappear into the murk with their noses forced unnaturally high.

  There is a twenty-minute delay for departure now, a twenty-minute wait in line for takeoff, but there is no tension in the tower. There is time for the younger ones to talk of who will be taking vacations when, time for yawning, time for the lighting of cigarettes in this air-conditioned cube.

  Way down on the ground the fountains of the reflecting pool have been turned off. There are spaces in the parking lots. Along the ring of terminal buildings surrounding us I count a sparse forest of construction derricks at work: three in the new area north of BOAC, four at National, three at TWA, two at Pan American as they add extensions for their big new airplanes. In all there are fifteen cranes at work, lifting concrete in buckets and steel in beams.

  The supervisor, the old-timer, opens a crinkly white bag and lays out three large ham-on-rye sandwiches on his desk. The ground controller, who talks to all the airplanes taxiing, calls across to him.

  “Eastern wants to know the delay outbound. Got a new figure?”

  “Well, there’s six …” says the supervisor to himself, then, “Tell ’em half an hour.”

  The ground controller presses the button of his microphone. “Eastern 330, it’ll be a half an hour approximate delay.”

  Each of the controllers wears earphones tuned to his own radio frequency, so I couldn’t hear what Eastern 330 said to that. “Ah, roj,” he probably said.

  “That’s a good sandwich,” the supervisor says reflectively, for the quiet consideration of all. His words open a discussion on the construction of sandwiches, on lunches in general, on Chicken Delight, on franks and beans.

  There are four radar screens in the tower.

  And a copy of the New York Post.

  And the door opens below and a man saunters up the stairs, unhurried, chewing a toothpick.

  “There you are, Johnny,” says the ground controller. “Thought I was going to go without lunch today.”

  The lunchward-bound takes a moment to tell his relief which airplanes are where, and hands him the microphone. The relief nods, opens a soft-drink can, chewing all the while on that toothpick.

  Way off at the edge of the mist, there’s a 707 touching down on 13 Left.

  From here, the TWA terminal looks like the head and eyes of an enormous wasp, mandibles open, wings and body buried in the sand. It is watching the tower.

  There are twenty airplanes waiting in line for takeoff.

  “Here you go, Johnny-baby,” says the departure controller, handing a strip of paper marked with numbers.

  “Hm. Another Hugenot,” Johnny-baby replies, looking at the numbers. “They’re gatherin’ at the gates.”

  “Say, Bob, we’re going to run out of room here, with all these Hugenots … American 183, sir, you’ll have to turn around here, that portion of the taxiway is all closed.”

  Down on the outer perimeter a 727 Trijet slows to a halt, then turns in cramped slow motion. A hundred yards ahead of him the taxiway is a rilled mass of bare earth, with graders combing it back and forth, back and forth.

  “I wish they’d give us the airport b
ack,” Johnny says.

  “Let’s call it forty minutes. Forty minutes delay …”

  By the time I left the tower there was an hour’s delay, and the line for takeoff stood forty planes long.

  Two quite separate kingdoms, this land of Kennedy. One is the Kingdom of the Passenger, wherein the customer rules and all bend to his wish. The passenger reigns over the ground outside, the concourses, the shops and services, Customs, ticket counter, airline offices, and the aftermost nine-tenths of every airplane, where stewardesses ply him with refreshment and confidence.

  The other tenth of that airplane is the Kingdom of the Pilot. And pilots are fascinating stereotyped people. They are almost exclusively men who like flying more than anything else in all the world, who work on the flight decks of jet transports not out of a wish to help passengers reach their many ports but because they like to fly and they’re good at their job, most of them, and they wouldn’t be much use in any other job anywhere. The exceptions to the generality, the ones who could do well at other work, don’t make the best pilots. They can follow the numbers, all right, but when real flying skill is required (as it is at rare intervals nowadays and getting rarer), they are foreigners in the sky.

  The best pilots are the ones who began flying when they were boys, who come to their gold-braid caps from turbulent histories of failure and distress in the ground-bound affairs of men. Not having the temperament or ability to bear the discipline and boredom of college, they failed or quit and took to flying full-time, enlisting in the Air Corps or making it the hard way—sweeping hangar floors, pumping gas as apprentice aviators, dusting crops, flying passenger rides, instructing, knocking about the country from one airport to the next, at last deciding to try the airlines since there’s nothing to lose, trying, and glory be, getting hired!