Stranded on the Tarmac
by Bill Shein

The recent horror stories about JetBlue passengers delayed by winter storms remind me of the time I was stranded on the tarmac at JFK International Airport for a remarkable 487 hours.

It happened some years ago, on a well-known airline that later vanished into the deregulated airline-industry ether. It was early December, and a freak ice storm skittering along the east coast had made a mess of everyone's travel plans.

I was flying to Zurich to deliver a lecture predicting that Sony's new Betamax video format was, and here I quote myself, "certain to be the only winner in the battle for the global video consumer." (That prediction led to my rapid — and ironic — tumble from "billionaire global media baron" to "penniless video-store clerk.")

It was to be a long overnight flight with connections in Frankfurt, then Stockholm, then Vladivostok, back to Des Moines, and finally into Zurich at sunrise. In those days, the new "hub-and-spoke" system of routing flights still had a few kinks.

As bad weather closed in on New York, more than 400 of us — including one screaming baby — piled onto a newfangled 747 "jumbo jet," smiling at the well-coiffed, white-glove-wearing flight attendants at the door. Little did we know that we would be aboard that plane for nearly three weeks.

While I nursed a gin-and-tonic in the plane's upstairs piano lounge, we pushed away from the gate. And as I chatted with a little-known Tennessee congressman about something he called "global warming," we taxied toward the runway.

But then we stopped. The plane sat motionless for a few hours, and then a few more. The pilot announced that we were waiting to be de-iced, or that the de-icing equipment was waiting to be de-iced, or that the de-icing-equipment's de-icer needed to be de-iced.

After 12 hours, passengers grew frustrated, then angry, then volcanic. They threw things at the crew. One tried to kick out a window. Another threatened to set herself on fire. And one little-known Tennessee congressman just curled into the fetal position and wept like a small child.

But then a funny thing happened. As the hours became days, our collective rage melted away. The cabin became quiet and still, the atmosphere serene. Occasional laughter floated through the stale, sour air. We had accepted what we were powerless to change: That we would spend the rest of our lives aboard a 747 jumbo jet, and we ought to make the best of it.

Fortunately, we found plenty of food and water in the cargo hold and distributed it equitably. We composted our trash, turning it into soil for onboard farming. We created a legislature and held elections, using the plane's blue toilet water to mark our index fingers and prevent double-voting. And we took turns trying to get that crying baby to sleep.

For fun, we blasted the newest "disco" music and danced in the aisles. We built blanket forts and had mini-pillow fights. We held poetry readings and bingo nights and beverage-cart races. We also staged puppet shows for the kids using decorated motion-sickness bags. My creation, "Barfy the Dog," was everyone's favorite.

Sure, there were panic attacks, freak-outs, and occasional fistfights. For the most part, though, life in our improvised little world was a sheer delight. People met, fell in love, and even got married (there were several clergy on board). We learned about patience and the simple luxury of stretching out in an exit-row seat.

We eventually took off for Zurich after 487 hours, just minutes after that baby finally stopped crying. Today, I remember those weeks stranded on the tarmac as among the best of my life — and not just because "Barfy the Dog" spin-off merchandise restored my billionaire status, enabling me to buy a private jet and never fly commercial again.

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In Bill Shein's world, very strange things can — and often do — happen.

(This column originally appeared in the Berkshire Eagle newspaper on March 26, 2007. Read Bill's previous column, "Even More Unlikely Love").