Connecting Flight

When we reflect on our lives, we see a tapestry of major events and deep interpersonal connections which come together to form the totality of our experience. But what about the small spaces within those threads? What about the seemingly innocuous moments we spend with strangers, which typically don't amount to anything but the in-between? Sometimes, they are remarkable, whether or not they fit into our grander stories. Sometimes, they exist to remind us why the threads are so precious.

It seemed that from 2017 to 2020, I was on a plane every weekend, either coming home or going somewhere for work. It was all fun at first, collecting hotel rewards, airline miles, and visits with friends scattered across the country, but over time it began to exhaust me. The more Colorado birthday dinners and weekend brunches I missed, the more jaded I became about my career lugging me around.

In the fall of 2019, I begrudgingly boarded a connecting flight in Charlotte, North Carolina on my way from Denver to South Carolina for a conference. I took my aisle seat on the small, metallic plane and gazed angrily out the window as blackness settled over the world. I already hated a layover, and this second flight had been delayed. Now, I would arrive too late to join my colleagues for dinner. I’d have to order delivery from a nearby restaurant, or worse, venture out and retrieve it myself.

My internal fit was interrupted by a low voice to my left. A young man. He couldn’t have been even twenty years old, and, probably because I’d recently noticed mine was beginning to thin, I remember immediately thinking that his blond hair seemed so full, even buzzed down to half an inch. The window seat was his, he told me politely. I got up so he could squeeze in after shoving a green duffel bag into the overhead compartment. We both buckled our belts, and within minutes, made our ascent.

By the time we reached cruising altitude, I had noticed more than once that the boy was audibly taking deep breaths. I figured the shakiness we experienced jetting up into the windy night had left him just as shaky. “It’s really normal,” I said to him. “Trust me, I’ve been through worse turbulence. Once you make it this high, you’re fine.”

“It’s not that,” he mumbled toward the window. “Just nervous.” His eyes seemed glued to the shrinking sparkles of the city outside, so I decided to mind my own business. But as I turned my attention back to the Paul Monette I was reading, the boy turned his to me. “I’m going to boot camp,” he lamented. “I’m spinning a little.”

I’m quick to respond to nearly anything, but I found myself lacking a canned reaction to this particular statement. My brain zipped back a decade, almost to the week, when my closest cousin shipped off to basic training amidst a hurricane of nerves. We were this boy’s age, around eighteen. Though, unlike this boy, my cousin feigned excitement. He tried burying the fear of the unknown this boy was plainly honest about. It had been easy to nod and agree with my cousin when he listed all the things he was excited about, despite how miserable he knew he would soon become. Now, I was confronted with no such silver linings, only dread.

When the boy told me of his destination, I could have congratulated him and returned to my book. That was my instinct. But it was clear, even in the dimmed cabin lights, he needed something back. “Sounds scary to me,” I offered.

The boy took it as a cue to let out one final hurl of anxiety before landing in Columbia, and I listened intently as he told me the origin story of this trip. During his junior year, a recruiter came to his Alabama high school one day and showed him a career path that looked beneficial. At the ripe age of 17, he hadn’t yet figured out what he wanted to be when he grew up and decided this was a viable option.

He considered the decision aloud to his grandmother that evening, and upon seeing the pride in her eyes when he brought it up, he decided to enlist as soon as high school was over. Once he graduated, he did exactly that and here he was, a few months later, on his way to Fort Jackson. He was unsure he’d made the right decision, but it was too late either way. That was the worst part, he said.

Once he was done, he just looked at me intently, and I was bought only a few moments before I’d need to console him because the captain announced we were beginning our descent. “I don’t know if this’ll make you feel any better, but a year from now, this will be a year ago,” I told him. “And you said bootcamp is only three months, right? That means a year from now, bootcamp will be nine months behind you. And let me tell you, it’ll be a year from now a lot faster than you think. It’ll be ten years from now a lot faster than you think.”

The boy’s blue eyes started into the dark aisle behind me but I could tell he was listening.

“Whatever you’ve been through in your life, you survived it,” I added. “I’m sure bootcamp is going to suck. It’ll be miserable. But I’m also sure that even if it sucks, you’ll survive it. And then you won’t ever have to do it again.”

The stare lingered. He was still listening, but still unconvinced.

“And I bet your grandma’s going to be thinking about you the whole time.” It was the last shot in my bottle, and fortunately, the right one. The boy cracked a smile.

Our tiny craft landed, and before I took my bag down, the boy put out his hand. I shook it with only a reassuring grin, and deplaned. I caught one last glimpse of him about twenty minutes later, through the baggage claim window. He lined up with the other recruits making their way to Fort Jackson as I left.

Later as I checked into my hotel, I realized I didn’t know the boy’s name. But I hoped he was alright.  He had reminded me that we are often called upon to be the comforting nameless stranger in the lives of others as others are called to do for us. I was grateful for the opportunity and perspective our brief encounter had afforded undoubtedly both of us. 

I thought to myself, maybe some connecting flights weren’t all that bad.