You know as well as I do that life on a plane isn’t all shove and squeeze. There’s the corporate country-club realm known as “Business.” And if you’ve thousands of extra dollars to spare, that veritable Downton Abbey of the air: First Class.
Flying in “First.” Sounds like a dream, especially to those of us who regularly twist and turn in Economy. But is the passenger cabin’s priciest real estate in fact the ultimate when it comes to airborne living?
I am here to report that, surprisingly, it is not. Some years back, I got lucky. Very lucky. I snuck into an exclusive space that no passengers at all are allowed to see. Here’s how it went.
After getting shot down by nearly everyone, Denver-based Frontier Airlines agrees to let me tag along with employees who are picking up a fresh-off-the-assembly-line Airbus 318 in Europe and ride with the pilot while they are flying it home.
I pack my bags for Germany, home of one of the two huge plants where Airbuses are built. The morning of our delivery flight home is drizzly and cold. Along with the Frontier crew, I get up in the dark and ride a bus to Finkenwerder Airfield where we will meet our plane.
Frontier jets have pictures of forest animals on their tails: I am looking and looking and suddenly out of the mist pops a giant spotted owl. It is our brand-new 114-passenger A318. The airline will use it on its Denver to Dallas routes. But first we’ve got to fly it over the Atlantic, and after a stop for fuel in Maine, deliver it to headquarters in Colorado.
The new plane has a new car smell. There’s a clear plastic runner over the carpeting and a package containing a yellow rubber raft takes up most of Row 12. No seat assignments. We can sit wherever we want.
Our cockpit crew is led by Captain Andy Vita, but a less-senior officer, Larry Lutz, will do much of the flying. First Officer Pat Nolta combs the cabin to make sure our bags are stowed. “Anyone want to ride in the cockpit?” he asks. My hand shoots sky high.
In seconds, I am on the jump-seat, strapped in right behind Lutz who will pilot the 318 on takeoff. Like a Gemini space capsule there are rows of blinking switches and buttons spread out on the ceiling and in the gap between Lutz and Vita.
All the cockpit seats have sensitive controls to buzz them up and down. A total of five belts pin back my shoulders, pull at my waist, and chafe in-between my legs. A toddler in a car seat has more space to squirm.
Time for the safety briefing. Part of the talk gives tips in case Lutz and Vita “become stiff and motionless.” I am shown a rope. What for? “In case of window escape,” says Nolta. “You’ll need it to rappel down the side of the plane.”
Over here is the handy cockpit axe: I can use it to smash out in an emergency. And way down here is an escape hatch I can kick out at the bottom of the fortified cockpit door.
Just how fortified is it? I press on it and punch it and though it feels resilient I can’t be sure. Nolta reads my mind. “It’s Kevlar,” he says, “the stuff that bullet proof vests are made of.” He points to the door’s three deadbolt locks, and lets me shoot them into place. It’s not someone breaking in that troubles me. It’s me breaking out. I inspect the axe.
In a matter of minutes we are out on the runway and Lutz and Vita are at work. “Engines.” “Check.” “Flight instruments.” “Check.” “Flaps.” “Check.” Lutz snaps on engine anti-icing just in case: there’s still a wintry drizzle and floating blobs of fog. I do not say anything, but here we are, seconds from takeoff, and both of the pilots have left their tray tables down.
The cockpit window shows us only fog and the tarmac’s center line scrolling faster and faster. Jet thrust up here feels different than for passengers: the ride is bouncier and there is a sense of swaying, a slip to the side as we build up speed.
The whine of the 318 becomes a scream, and just like that, our nose is up. There’s no delay like in the back, no sense of tardiness to fly. We are the cone of the missile, the tip of the rocket.
We are riding on the backs of bloated clouds that buck us and drop us until it feels like we are going to lose the fight. Larry is pushing us up and parts of the sky don’t want this but we are working to grab hold.
Something ahead looks dark and I am about to ask what it is when we are hit with the blast.
It is a detonation of blue.
I’ve never seen the sky before, I think. I’ve only imagined.
“Welcome,” says Vita. “We are here.”
Peter Mandel is the author of the read-aloud bestseller Jackhammer Sam (Macmillan/Roaring Brook) and other books for kids, including Zoo Ah-Choooo (Holiday House) and Bun, Onion, Burger (Simon & Schuster).