The Little Purple Notebook On How To Escape From This Universe
Copyleft � 1998 by Maximilian J. Sandor, Ph.D.
Subscription Information: Maria Loren
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Website:
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What to say with 15 minutes left (Part 1 - Prelude)
(From the '2nd Epilogs of JD Flora', Log #289)
It took me a while to realize where I was. For a short moment I wished to
be able to remain in the realms of pure thought and to not have to put up
with taking care of a body.
Loud noises entered my ears, a cold wind was blowing straight in my face,
and my back was aching.
Nearly all of my limbs were numb. I must have left the body alone for quite
a while, I thought.
Then, slowly, circulation set in and the body parts came alive again, one
after the after.
Finally, I was able to rub my eyes and to stretch my limbs.
Carefully, I started to open my eye lids and tried to remember what name I
had and what had happened so far in this life.
"Thank God, you woke up again!" someone yelled through the noise. "I
thought you were dead!"
My throat felt dry and I began to realize that I was in the cockpit of a
small airplane.
I turned my head to the side and tried to look at the man who was yelling
it me.
Outside, it was dark. Through the windshield of the airplane, I could see
only a sliver of light on the horizon.
The instruments of the airplane were not lighted. The pilot had a small
torch hanging down from his neck. The light was dim, though, and it was
barely enough to recognize the rough outlines of the instrument panel.
It looked to me as if the man was sweating, maybe even shivering a bit at
times. In any case, he was breathing hard, and the way he was holding on
to the yoke was not instilling confidence in me.
I cleared my throat and massaged my fingers. The man next to me reached
behind him and pulled out a water bottle. I remembered vaguely how to twist
the cap of a bottle in order to open it. The soothing feel of the water
rinsing my tongue and my mouth helped bringing back the memories.
After clearing my throat again, I said "Wo sind wir hier eigentlich?" It
was not loud enough to be heard through the noise of the small airplane and
I had to try again.
"What?" the pilot shouted and I repeated my words even louder. The pilot
looked at me, puzzled.
More details entered my mind.
"Where are we?" I yelled to the guy who didn't look like an Englishman.
"Not positively sure," he shouted back with a funny gaze in his eyes.
The sliver at the horizon had widened in the short time that I had been
awake. It must be the morning sun, I concluded, and started to rub my face,
trying to wake up the rest of the body.
It's funny, I thought, that one thinks of waking up with the body, even
though life is the dream, and not the other way around.
Looking through the window at my right side, I only saw blackness. I bent
forward to see through the front shield but was restricted by the yoke on
the
co-pilot's seat. The pilot started cursing as we were taking a dive.
Eventually, the nose of the airplane was level again, but the pilot was
still cursing. The moment of diving down, however, was enough to recognize
that the horizon was a smooth but curved line, seperating blackness from a
beautiful rising sun and a blue sky that became brighter by the minute.
We were on high seas, over open waters, with no land ahead of us.
"Make a three-sixty!" I commanded the pilot. He looked at me, shrugged with
his shoulders, and said "Roger!"
While I watched him watching the instruments, I remembered his name and
that it was one those Thai names that I probably will never be able to
pronounce correctly.
The light from the outside was now bright enough that I could see the
readings of the instruments.
The gyro showed that the pilot was flying a procedure turn. I looked at him
again closely.
"Flying instruments?" I shouted.
"Of course," he answered with a frown, but proudly, "since we took off four
hours ago."
I took a deep breath and leaned back, watching the needle of the compass
passing slowly through threehundredandsixty degrees. Several times the
needle stopped even though we were flying a clean turn. I checked the ball
and it was centered, too.
There was oil dripping down from the compass on top of the panel. Never a
good sign, I said to myself.
Finally, the wings were level again and the heading steady at 020 degrees.
"I don't seem to get anything clear on the radios, even though we should
be close to Bangladesh by now." the Thai pilot shouted.
The DG showed a westerly heading, around 280 degrees. "Are you flying by
the DG or by the compass?" I asked.
"DG, of course, calibrated twice. I don't know if the compass has a problem
again, though." he answered.
"It has," I shouted at him, "it definitely has. Do you want me to take over
the airplane for you?"
"You got it," he said, and started to relax, probably for the first time in
four hours or more. "Never flew that long on instruments, you know. Good
practice for my IFR checkride next week," he grinned.
It was at this moment that I positively knew that we were in trouble.
"Look around," I said and started to exercise the rudders and the
elevators to get a feel for the small airplane. "What time did we take off
and how much fuel we got?", I added.
"At 1215 hours. I was flying with 75% power, meaning we should have fuel
for five hours and thirty minutes," he said while looking around.
"It's now 430 hours precisely," with a weak voice and a bewildered look in
his face.
I checked my watch and it showed 5:30 am.
"Did you adjust your watch for the timezone change?" I asked.
"Yes, I did. We should be close to Bangladesh now, I don't understand why
we're over open water, I mean..." his voice was barely hearable now. Drops
of sweat were forming on his forehead, ready to roll down his face at any
moment.
"Not a good idea to change your watch," I remarked, "I'd rather stay on
Zulu than to be confused by all these time zones. It's now 530 hours local
time at the point of our departure. We're in the air for five hours. Time
flies if you're having fun..."
It seemed that the pilot had stopped breathing. There were tears in his
eyes and they merged with the drops of sweat as they were rolling down his
cheeks.
"Please, make another three-sixty, please," he pleaded
