Voices came from everywhere - busy voices, relaxed voices, angry voices, commanding ones and timid ones - yet, in a sense, all came from nowhere. It's part of the strangeness of removal from the Earth. Seldom during flight does one see another airplane, yet the seemingly empty sky is filled with people's voices, like the sounds of a city without buildings or a twilight zone inhabited by spirits. Sometimes the voices are occasional and random. Other times they back up in traffic jams - first rushing from point to point, then stalling, circling over imaginary locations that have names but no physical reality.
When driving, one can see the people in other cars, guess their moods, ponder the music they might be listening to, and imagine their possible destinations. But rarely can they be heard. In the air the phenomenon is reversed. One hears the voices but cannot see the people. One wonders what the owners of those voices might look like and tries to visualize their faces based on timbre and tone.
One radio call comes from someone calm and strong, a gentleman from the rural South. A city voice interjects: aggressive, hurried, and impatient. That draws a chuckle from some third spirit; clearly she's at peace with the world and unhurried by the rush. Subtleties of expression separate the spirits who love flying from those in the cockpit strictly for business.
Perhaps that's one of the great mysteries of flying; one can distinguish the marks of people, but not the people themselves. When flying instruments on a day like this, clouds obscure all cues from the ground. Only voices in a headset and the occasional moving instrument needle suggest that other people exist.
Approaching Detroit, I was returned to the physical world by the one other airplane that I would actually see on this flight. It was an ancient DC-3 airliner, gleaming silver 2,000 feet below me against a rippling sea of white. This was time travel. Who could say for sure what the date might be under those clouds? DC-3s are hardly faster than the Cessna Skylane I was flying. Not wanting to lose my transport through time, I followed the path of that shining craft as long as possible, straining to keep it in sight. It was like turning up the volume of a favorite song as it fades away. Is something special hidden there, where it disappears? At what instant does it truly end?
I arrived at my hotel after dark that Friday evening. The registration desk was located in a towering atrium, packed with people. Those in line were cordial and polite, but something seemed strange, which at first I couldn't identify. Then it struck me - even with so many people around, the place was nearly silent. A faint rustling could be heard of people moving about, and scents of perfume and cologne wafted gently by. But there were no voices.
"Is there a convention going on?" I asked the desk clerk upon reaching front of the line.
"Yes," she said. "It's some sort of meeting of the hearing-impaired." Upon closer examination I recognized people in the room signing to each other. Given the quietness of the lobby, I cheered myself with the thought that if I must study in a convention hotel, this was the place to be and still get some work done.
There were surprises that evening, however, when I climbed into bed. My neighbors on both sides had guests, sharing boisterous conversation over televisions turned up loud. Then the clinking of glasses was enlivened by crashing bottles. More and more this convention sounded like a party crowd, as ultimately my neighbors entertained callers throughout the night. Several times I thought my door was being knocked down when visitors mistakenly attacked my room in lieu of my neighbors'.
The following night I transferred to another room, but the experience was even worse; I hardly slept at all. When time came to check out on Sunday, I stumbled bleary-eyed to the registration desk, prepared to share woes for the second time with the proprietor.
"I see that you, too, are a victim of the Deaf Bowlers' Convention," said the clerk sympathetically when I reached him. "We're still cleaning up the ballroom this morning. At least things calmed down a little once we got the strippers out of there last night."
I dragged myself to the hotel restaurant to load up on coffee for the flight home. The place was jammed, and after finally finding a seat I noticed a woman sitting quietly near me in the corner. She was engaged in sign language, apparently with no one in particular. I scanned the busy restaurant, trying to determine who, if anyone, might be engaged in silent conversation with her. No one.
I sipped my coffee, ate breakfast, and rose to pay the bill. Only then, at the far corner of the restaurant, did I observe a solitary man, signing. I looked back at the woman. The two were having a private conversation, spanning 60 feet or more. No one else appeared to have even noticed. The potential for intrigue was so delicious that I yearned for a moment to be able to sign across the room, myself.
Armed with a fresh perspective on voices to ponder while flying home, I left my tip and headed for the airport.
Greg Brown was the 2000 National Flight Instructor of the Year. His books include The Savvy Flight Instructor, The Turbine Pilot's Flight Manual, and Job Hunting for Pilots. His next work, Flying Carpet, is due out in the spring. Visit his Web site (gregbrownflyingcarpet.com).
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