I was on this commuter flight out of Mexico when it happened. It was one of those little two engine propeller-jobs, the kind where they make the fat guys sit in back lest the plane be too nose heavy and you crash shortly after takeoff. Sometimes we flew so low I could count the arms on the cactus whizzing by below us.
We were going from Hermosillo to Tucson. It usually took a little over one hour – it was hot, and the cabin so loud you had to shout to order a beer. By this time, I’d done at least a hundred of these flights without a problem. But I guess the Aero México maintenance crew was on siesta that day, or had headed north for better wages.
Whatever the case, the plane sat idling on the edge of the runway, half-full of gringoes waiting to go home, while the pilot performed the preflight check. And that’s when I noticed the guy sitting two seats in front of me staring out the window.
He was sitting alongside the propeller. I couldn’t see what he was looking at, but he would lean forward, stare for a moment, look up at the flight deck, look out the window, sit back, look around at the other passengers, then look out the window some more. This went on for several minutes before he motioned for the stewardess. Something was wrong.
The stewardess came back and the guy started pointing out the window and shouting at her. I couldn’t hear what he was saying, but apparently her English wasn’t so great because she tried to blow him off by taking a quick courtesy glance and then motioned for him to sit back and prepare for takeoff.
But he wasn’t so easily dismissed. As she turned away, he grabbed her hand and pulled her down to look out the window again, pointing. After a moment, she jumped up, a concerned look on her face, and rushed for the front of the plane.
A minute later the stewardess came back, this time with the pilot in tow. The guy was so young, I don’t think he was shaving yet: he looked to be around sixteen years old, barely old enough to be driving his Dad’s Volkswagen Beetle, let alone a passenger-carrying aircraft.
He listened politely to the passenger for a moment before he and the stewardess leaned over to look out the window while the guy pointed and gestured. After a moment, the pilot stood up, spread his hands and shrugged his shoulders in his best “damned if I know” look, and went back to the flight deck and closed the door.
The stewardess watched him go, then looked back down at the guy and gave a similar shoulder shrug before returning to work. Moments later, the engines revved up, we pulled onto the runway, and started for home.
The guy looked around the cabin, an incredulous smile on his face. As the wheels lifted from the tarmac, he looked back at me and shook his head. “What’s going on?” I shouted.
“No big deal, I guess. The starboard engine is throwing oil. But the pilot said there’s two of them, so nothing to worry about.