Swimming classes . . .

I was on a flight to Europe a couple of years ago.  Most of the flights to Europe from the U. S. do not fly directly East, but rather head northeast, over Maine, Newfoundland, across the Northern Atlantic, close to Greenland and Iceland and then southeastward to the destination city.  I pass my time on such flights checking the vital flight statistics in multiple languages on the little TV screens. Altitude, airspeed, distance and time from departure point, distance to destination point, temperature, in both Metric and English, Celsius and Fahrenheit.

I also pass the time looking out the window, if there is sufficient light to see anything.  Some flights let you see what is below on the little TV screen, which I think is very cool.

But even cooler, in fact, downright frigid, is the water below for most of the northern flight, which is deep, deep blue dotted with white chunks of ice.

Before take-off the flight attendants give their speeches about seat belts, not smoking  or disengaging the smoke alarm in the toilet, and the necessity of being brutally selfish with oxygen masks. And then they talk about flotation devices, in the event the plane goes down while over the Atlantic.

On domestic flights no one listens to the flotation device speech, because the chances of crashing in a large body of water are slim.  But on a trans-Atlantic flight, it's time to listen.

So I did.

"For our guests in coach, in the event of a water landing, your seat cushion can be used as a flotation device. Just pull hard enough to rip them off the frame, and it might work . . ."

And to our guests in first class, you will find a coast guard approved life jacket under your seat . . an attendant will be available to assist you in putting it on if you are not used to doing things like that for yourself."

At first I was  angry.  The folks in first class would be  getting strapped into their fine U. S. government approved life jackets while the rest of us were still pounding on our seat frames trying to loosen them up.

So, as usual, first class would exit the plane first. Into the  icy cold, deadly frigid waters.

I smiled.  Not because I took any pleasure in the thought of first class passengers hitting the deadly cold waters.  Okay, maybe just a little because of that.  Don't judge me.

No, I smiled mostly because the whole charade was ridiculous.  If we survived the fall, none of us would survive in the arctic waters for more than a few minutes, no matter the status of our flotation device.

No matter the class.

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