It would take a curious man to wonder what it feels like to break the sound barrier in a jet-powered plane.
The landscape underneath passing fast.
Land.
Water.
Land.
Water.
Land.
Building.
Building.
Land.
Water.
Land.
So fast. So exciting.
Sweat dripping down the pilots forehead. His goggles fogging up. Would they fog up? A curious man would want to know.
The noise.
Boom!
A stream of white smoke painting the sky. The metallic wings carving through the air as gulls and geese struggle to avoid.
The clouds splitting around the plane, caught behind in its slip-stream.
The pilot would cheer with machismo. It’s a very masculine thing; breaking the sound barrier. It is after all a barrier. Something meant to mean an end, an obstacle, a protrusion.
It would take a man’s man to break the sound barrier. To travel at the speed of sound. No wonder the fir man had a name like Chuck Yeager. A name that in fact, was, Chuck Yeager. A man’s man.
The pilot would clutch is joystick, a potent phallic image if there ever was one, and struggling to give in to the planes natural urge to fly off course and towards earth.
Would the man have a joystick?
A curious man would want to know.
Lights would flash up at him. Beeping noises telling him important information. Words flying around his headphones.
Bogey.
Dock.
Six.
Alpha.
Mayday.
Shoot.
Dive.
Would these words be used?
A curious man would want to know.
A droning noise would return as the plane slowed down. Flaps would appear from the once flush wings, catching the air or the air catching them.
The pilot would sigh with relief.
Or laugh.
Or smile.
Or cry.
Or scream.
Or juggle.
Would the pilot juggle?
A curious man would want to know.
The pilot would return to his aircraft carrier home base. He would return to cheers.
Or jeers.
Perhaps even beers.
It’s all routine now, maybe. They would just note his arrival down and proceed with procedure.
Or he would be greeted by friends. They would call him by his nickname.
Red.
Lightning.
Rudolph.
Fire.
Mac.
X.
Jockey.
Junior.
Or by his real name.
Shane.
Thomas.
Jack.
John.
Fred.
Frank.
Alex.
After offloading all his gear he’d be heading towards a place to sleep. With his dog tags in his locker, or on his neck, or without dog tags at all he would head to his separate room.
Or he’d share bunks with the other men.
Or he’d share bunks with a certain rank of crew, men and women.
And he would lie back in his tough or soft bed.
And he would sleep or think.
Sleep.
Think.
Sleep.
Think.
And he would dream about flying.
Or would he dream about walking?
Would any of this happen?
A curious man would wonder.
A curious man would want to know.
But alas, I am not a curious man.
© Richard Hunt 2009
