We depart the Canadian prairie for Barbados
tonight. A lovely Caribbean holiday awaits us.
The trouble is we have to get from A to B, or in our case, from YEG to BGI with
a layover in YYZ. Beyond the usual hassles and hell of added fees, security and
other people, there is a low voltage undercurrent of fear: Here be dragons.
Deep down every traveller knows they’re one mechanical glitch, one clever
hijacker, one suicidal pilot, one surface-to-air missile away from oblivion.
And that oxymoronic panel in the safety brochure about LANDING ON WATER? It’s
just a Neil Young album; anyone who’s ever belly-flopped off a diving board
knows that water hits back like concrete. Needless to say, the photographs in
this morning’s Globe and Mail of Air
Canada Flight 624’s wreckage Sunday a hair or two short of a runway at Halifax’s Stanfield
were a little disconcerting. My first thought was: Wow! No fatalities! A
miracle! My second thought was a little more in character: That better not have
been the Airbus 320 scheduled to take
us to Bridgetown