Good News From The Airport

"Good news," the tour agent, Jordan, said as he put down his cell phone, "good news from the airport."

My husband and I stretched our stiff bodies and eyed Jordan with suspicion. We had heard this supposed good news before.

We arrived at Nazca at 6 that morning after a ten-hour, all-night bus ride from Arequipa. We met Jordan soon afterward. He assured us that although it was foggy, we would be able to get a scenic flight later in the morning to see the famous Peruvian Nazca lines, ancient geoglyphs best viewed from the sky, located in the nearby desert.

"Good news," he told us in those early hours. "Be here at 10:00 for the transfer to the airport." He recommended a local restaurant several blocks away. We checked our bags at his office and went to explore the city. We came back at 10:00.

"Good news," Jordan said. "I just heard from the airport. You are on the list for the 11:30 transfer." We had only to look at the still foggy skies to know that a flight was not possible. We went to the hotel next door, had coffee and tea, and used the internet. We returned at 11:30.

Jordan's huge smile welcomed us.

"Good news from the airport," he said. "be back at 1:00."

We resisted Jordan's attempts to keep us busy and settled into the rigid chairs in the waiting room.

I pulled out my book on Peru and read about the Nazca lines. Theories abound on the purpose of the lines which are made by removing the red-colored pebbles in the desert to expose the white-gray ground underneath. Some think the lines have religious significance. Other theories center around fertility, water rituals or a gigantic astronomical calendar.

As I improved my knowledge of ancient Peruvian history, I watched Jordan out of the corner of my eye. He fielded phone calls, dealt with inquiries from a Japanese couple and kept his smiling, good news attitude. I knew his job could not be easy, dealing with tourists on a fast paced timetable in a developing world reality. I wondered what hard-fought battles he had raged before adopting a grateful, the cup is half-full attitude.

I knew from personal experience that thankfulness is a deliberate choice.

I stretched my sore back. Jordan put down his phone.

He smiled. "Good news from the airport. You are on the list for the second to last flight at the airport. Be ready to leave soon."

Thirty minutes later, we were at a small airport, waiting for our flight. We cleared security and walked out on the tarmac.

I smiled when I saw the small Cessna.

I found myself transported back in time, when we were first married and lived as missionaries among the Cree and Ojibwe people of northern Canada. I had ridden in many Cesnas... but usually in the tail of the plane as the smallest passenger with the extra gas can that was along "just in case." Thankfully in all our flights across the frozen tundra "just in case" never happened.

My memories of those years also involved horrible motion sickness, but I had since discovered a medication that worked for the nausea without turning me into a zombie. I had been using it during our two weeks in Peru with success, even on tires-hanging-over-the-edge-hairpin-back roads.

I climbed into the four-passenger without any qualms.

Until I saw our pilot.

As I watched him walk toward the plane, I swear I heard the theme song for Top Gun. The dark hair. The swagger. The sunglasses. The cockiness.

Except that Top Gun had Maverick, Tom Cruise. Our pilot looked like he was 16. And still in training.

An older man settled into the co-pilot seat and I remembered Jordan assuring us that each flight had two pilots, that it was "not like it used to be."

I swallowed hard. I put on the headphones as instructed.

The young pilot warned us that this was a small plane. Turbulence was normal

.I felt my second qualm of uneasiness. Or was it my third? Or fourth?The Cessna gathered speed and soon we were airborne. I breathed a sigh of relief. The flight was noisy, but manageable. I could do this.

"Get your cameras ready," the voice in the headphones said. "Position your shot directly under the right wing. The whale is first."

I pressed my forehead onto the window. The plane banked sharply to the right. I snapped a photo. Two seconds later, the plane banked sharply left so people on the other side of the plane could get their photos.

The plane leveled and we headed for the next photo. Bank right. Then left. Take a photo. I breathed. My stomach complained at the jostling. Why wasn't my medication working?

Right. Then left. Take a photo.

I lasted ten minutes before I dropped the camera in my lap.

Was this someone's idea of a cruel joke. This wasn't a passenger plane. It was an acrobatic biplane. Or an amusement park ride at Magic Mountain.

Kevin would later say the pilot was flying the Cessna 206 like a 172. My husband said this with manly authority and I nodded knowingly like I knew what he was talking about, but I just knew we were pulling some G's. My belly button was pressed into my spinal cord and I felt like I had gained fifty pounds. I practiced my Lamaze breathing which I hadn't used since I pushed out my last 10 pound 11 ounce baby into the waiting hands of my wide-eyed doctor.

I thought if I concentrated on my breathing that maybe, just maybe, I wouldn't throw up on my shoes.

I uncurled my white knuckled fingers to reach for the air sickness bag in the pouch in front of me. I forced my breath through tightly pursed lips and counted to four.

One.

To your right you can see the parrot.

Two.

And now to your left.

Three.

Next are the two hands.

Four.

I breathed in. Breathed out. How could thirteen figures possibly take this long? I was vaguely aware of my husband taking photos on his side and leaning over my motionless body to take shots out my window. The two passengers behind me were laughing and shrieking with each roller coaster drop in altitude.

I hated them all.

Breath in. Breath out.

We'll be landing soon.

Breath in. Breath out.

I felt the wheels hit the runway and soon our Cessna rolled to a stop. Kevin gathered all our gear.

First I moved my head. Cautiously. I unplastered my hair from the back of the seat cushion.

I shifted my body toward the open door. Freedom -- inches away. One foot landed on the small step. The other foot followed. I staggered toward the small waiting room.

Kevin pressed a Sprite into my shaking fingers. I sipped it. One swallow. Then another.

My stomach settled. I exhaled slowly. It felt wonderful to have me feet firmly planted on non-shifting ground. I smiled. Or maybe I grimaced. I'm sure it was hard to tell the difference.

One thought focused:

Good news from the airport. I didn't throw up on my shoes.