Unseen Messages(9)

That was where my true passion lay. Not in performing or seeing my name on billboards or screamed by strangers. My passion was fresh paper, sharpened pencil, and the joy of taking innocent words and stringing them into a necklace of rhythm.

My foot tapped a non-existent beat, gathering depth the more I composed.

My stress levels faded. I stopped flicking through the movie selection to focus inward, letting the melody cast me away from the plane, sink me deep into my art, and allow me to conjure music all while sitting in a tiny seat thousands of feet above the earth.

Love doesn’t live in first glances.

Life doesn’t dwell in second chances.

Our path exists in unseen messages.

Power to transform from unknown wreckages.

No, that last line wouldn’t work.

I pursed my lips, mulling over words that could replace it.

For a few wondrous seconds, I lived in my calling and allowed a new song to form.

But then...a reminder.

A hint that I hadn't been stupid to listen. I’d been stupid to ignore.

Another message.

The plane rocked with a buffet of air, sloshing the half-finished water on my tray table.

The lyrics in my head screeched to a halt.

I froze...waiting.

A minute t..i..c..k..e..d past.

All was well.

Another minute as I stared at the bright screen enticing me to click on a romantic comedy.

Then...my screen went blank.

The plane suddenly hopscotched across clouds.

The sparse cabin cracked as the hopscotch turned into a rodeo.

Passengers woke up. Headphones were wrenched off. Slumber turned to screams.

My fingers clutched the arm-rests; my lap drenched in water as the plastic cup toppled over.

However, as quickly as the turbulence hit, it was over.

My heart raced and strangers made eye contact, searching for answers.

The seat belt sign pinged; the captain came over the intercom. “Ladies and gentlemen, we apologise for the slight discomfort. We’d hoped to avoid the storm but it’s inevitable if we wish to land in Fiji. We’re descending and confident we can avoid the majority of turbulence. Please keep your seat belts fastened and refrain from using the facilities at this time. We’ll have you on the ground at 6:45 p.m. local time.”

His words were soothing.

His voice was not.

He’s afraid.

I’d been in the industry. I knew the inner lingo.

I hoped I was wrong, but nerves fledged into fully spread wings, careening around my ribcage like a startled crow.

My eyes remained glued to the seat belt sign. If it flickered again, the pilot wanted the head stewardess to call him.

Don’t flicker.

Don’t flicker.

Bing Bong.

It flickered.

The purser hightailed it up the aisle, her hands gripping the headrests for balance, disappearing past the dividing curtain.

Whatever existed outside the metal walls of the aircraft was enough for fear to pollute the cabin.

I couldn’t ignore it anymore.

The messages.

The signs.

I should’ve listened.

I didn’t care if it was stupid. I didn’t care if paranoia rotted my brain. I couldn’t switch off the instinct howling inside.

Something’s wrong.

My previous training on how to survive a ditching came back. I’d done the drills on how to escape wrecked fuselage. I’d completed exams on how best to protect passengers. What I hadn’t done was experience a true crash.

We’re over the ocean. I’m in the tail of the plane.

Contrary to what people said, the safest possible place in a ditching was over the wing. Yes, the fuel tanks were below, but if the pilot was good, the plane would skim like a skipping stone before diving and flipping. The nose would snap, the tail would break, and water would gush— Stop it!

Needing to do something, anything, I shoved up my tray table and reached between my legs for my handbag. Yanking it onto my lap, my hands trembled.

If something happened, I wouldn’t be allowed to take anything. The only thing we could take would be what was on our person.

Don’t be ridiculous. Nothing’s going to happen.

My life sped up as another bout of turbulence shook the plane—disagreeing with my positivity.

Pessimism launched into full alert.

Something is going to happen.

My heart lodged in my throat as I tore open my bag and took stock of what I had. The puffer jacket I wore had deep pockets. Without hesitation, I stuffed my passport, money, and credit cards into the inner chest pocket, zipping tight. Rushing, I made sure my phone was turned off and the solar powered charger was in my left pocket.

Another jolt and the plane twisted with an unnatural groan.

Working faster, I tucked my compact mirror, carry-on sized toothpaste and toothbrush, jewellery that I wouldn’t check in my suitcase, three hair-ties, a pen, and an unopened poncho I’d bought from a convenience store when a thunderstorm hit unexpectedly last week in Texas.

Everything I could fit disappeared into deep pockets and secured with a zip.

Once my jacket bulged with possessions, I caressed my song notebook where every tune and melody I’d ever created, every lyric and musical tale I ever thought of rested. This notebook was as precious as gold to me. Worth more than my newly signed record deal. Better than any accolade or list appearance. Without my jotted ideas, my magic would go. I would lose the symphonic world I’d become so fond of.