From darkness into light: the trials and tribulations of long-haul flight

I suppose every adventure must start with a journey like this, cloistered in discomfort in near darkness for hours seeming days in a twilight no man’s land in the sky, a soulless pending place, squeezed shoulder to shoulder with strangers…

Nothing to see but the blinking of seatbelt lights and the silhouettes of fellow passengers in slack recline or staring absently into tiny video screens. All the movies started their cycle half an hour before I woke from my most recent episodic nap so I have too much time to kill before the loop begins again. I mightn’t bother, the scratch of a bad audio connection renders the little TV almost unwatchable anyway... or rather, unlistenable.

Only the occasional shaft of daylight streaming briefly through a shutter opened by some insomniac window-seated passenger in weary curiosity betrays the fact that our blank, black, air-conditioned reality is at odds with the bright stratospheric daylight in the world outside.

Nothing to hear but the rushing air and constant drone of engine sound, the high velocity hiss of super-sucking toilet flushes, the soft footsteps of cabin crew creeping among us and the sighs of sleepless souls wiling away these dark, forlorn witching hours as this jet propelled metal tube powers towards it's far flung destination; each one of us with our own secret thoughts about the unknowable adventure, poignant reunion or relieved/reluctant homecoming waiting for us at the eventual end of the journey.

(Now the uncertain, plaintive crying of a baby relieves the artificiality of the torpid soundscape, the wail quickly increasing frequency is joined by the rustle of a waking mother with soothing shushing sounds and soon the semi-silence settles once again.)

Nothing to feel but the scrape of dry multi-recycled air on skin, nose and throat, harsh and abrasive, air with all its warmth and life filtered out. Though it briefly soothes, the fruit juice handed to me by a stewardess looming suddenly from the darkness in the deepest part of this false night does not keep at bay for long this sense of strained sinus and oesophageal unease in this over-regulated atmosphere. My bones shake with the turbulence, my muscles twitch with over-tiredness, my lips feel not my own. A sprinkle of spots have erupted on my chin and no amount of surreptitious toilet-ensconced squeezing will discourage them from spreading, this environment is ripe for their progression across my bleached raw face.

Then there is light. Alas, not the warm glow of a sunrise seen through nebulous cloud from thirty thousand feet but a low and flickering dirty electric glare which sees us blinking slowly from semi-conscious stupor as the cabin lights are turned back on and we are breakfasted with sad grey sausages and happy Fruit Corners in preparation for our descent into Asia and my brief airport terminal recreation break.

Thankfully Singapore Airport offers more than just an opportunity to stretch my legs and procure my allowance of cheap Marlboros, it freely and generously offers up a taste of the orient and as I step outside onto the roof bar terrace, the heady, humid heart of Asia beats in time with my own and for the ten minutes it takes me to smoke a cigarette I am in thrall of this great continent once more.

Cigarette stubbed and heart full with the knowledge that I will soon return to this spiced land I stand and walk back into the bland air-conditioned interior. I heft my bags and sigh: it’s time for me to return once again to cabin pressure.

Back in the sky, second time around is a repeat performance, only this time I have beef instead of chicken and red wine instead of white. After dinner the suffocating darkness descends again. I close my eyes, breathe the dry air, count the hours. Somehow they pass quickly. Perhaps my mind, addled by too much time in transit, has played a kind trick on me. Or maybe my traveller karma has kicked in quicker than I thought it would.

Either way, suddenly there is light, again. This time it’s bright and pure and it dances in through the windows as dawn breaks over New South Wales and I see the fractal shoreline of Sydney for the first time. Through descent, landing, disembarkation, customs and immigration, I drift in a daydream; exhaustion, happiness and relief merging to create a romantic though somewhat unreal sense of homecoming as I step out into the warm sunshine and fresh breeze of the Australian morning.

An hour later I am whooping as I break the surface of the ocean, my nose running, salt water stinging my eyes and thick on my tongue. The discomfort I feel is good, it connects me more closely with the visceral naturality of this simple experience of swimming in the sea. The water purifies me, washes away the dead skin cells accumulated in hours of darkness in the sky.

I float in the undulating surf, the inconstant surface full of irregular angles looming and lashing and clashing in strange symmetry. A wave crashes on top of me, rolling me, spinning me, head over heels. My eyes closed against the water whooshing and whipping me around, I don’t know which way is up and which way is down until my face crunches sand and I’m shoved like debris toward the beach. I jump to my feet, fearing the next wave already almost on top of will crush me like the last.

The ocean is relentless, unforgiving. It charges me, challenges me. Its awesome power frightens me. It makes me feel alive. From darkness into light, through all of that long haul night, it was the knowledge that I would feel like this again that kept me sane.