Dateline: Kona, Hawai'i  
               September 22, 2001                   

Young and small, I remember the precipitous climb up the aisle of the prop plane on my first airplane trip over 40 years ago. Gripping the armrest with both hands and face glued to the window, I’m entranced as I soar into the sky. Then, as if by magic, I was in Michigan, 150 miles from my Chicago home.

Since then I’ve flown for work and I’ve flown for love. I’ve flown to adventures with people I had yet to meet and I’ve flown to places as far away from Chicago as it’s possible to get and still stay on the planet.

This morning, however, was the first time I’ve flown as a political act. Adversity brings out the stubborn streak in me—I had planned to go to Hawai’i and no bunch of big-time cretins was going to stop me.

This morning’s first flight, on Sky West a.k.a. United Express, was out of Santa Rosa, a small airport near my California home. I was told to be there two hours ahead of flight time which translated to 3:30 AM—not my finest hour. Taking a chance they didn’t actually mean my airport, I arrive at 4:30 AM, still twice my usual advance time. The airport is just opening.

Security is tight. No longer can I drive up and drop off my bag. Short-term parking is where long-term parking used to be, and long-term parking disappeared. Checking in, picture ID in hand, I ask if my knitting can board with me. A discussion ensues; the head of security arrives and gives my wooden, blunt knitting needles the security OK.

About 40 minutes before departure, 12 sleepy passengers head out to the one-room security building. Outside in the dark, we line up and wait. Each piece of hand luggage is scrutinized. Every calculator, laptop and cell phone is turned on to prove it is what it seems to be. We sip from our water bottles to show we’re willing to drink whatever clear liquid they hold.

We are quiet and accommodating. The sole person authorized to handle these security procedures has to hustle. He opens bags, checks charged-up laptops and unlocks and relocks the doors of this little rural building as the three member flight crew arrives and heads out for the plane. Both security guards stand watch. I knit.

Cleared for take-off, our propjet rises through the fog and into the stars. Jupiter is setting and Orion is listing to his left. Two shooting stars flash by—a sign I think—but of what? Individual pools of light seep through the rural Sonoma County fog, quickly replaced by clusters of bright city lights. Faint ribbons of rose and gray appear on the western horizon. Dawn lights up San Francisco’s airport as we arrive. Every passenger says "thank you" to the crew.

Slurping Starbucks, I watch a Granddad and Dad corral their offspring into the Kids’ Spot. Everything seems normal. Then United announces a departure delay while they wait for a flight crew replacement. It dawns on me these folks had co-workers on the planes that slammed into the World Trade Center. I get chicken skin, as they say in Hawai’i, as my mind conjures up a series of morbid scenarios.

People with cell phones stuck to their ears bring to mind the role these instruments played in the tragedy—giving us, the survivors, information on what happened and even, perhaps, saving many lives. A group of new navy recruits decked-out in white bell-bottoms, sailor blouses, and navy ties stop for coffee: all three are young women.

I board the flight to Kona with people who have spent the last two hours going through SFO security, but no one is complaining. I settle into knit, hoping the seat next to me will remain empty. Looking up when the departure announcement begins, I realize my whole nine-seat row is empty. As far forward as I can see there are no other passengers. Chicken skin again. A man several rows behind me is shouting into his cell phone, "It’s so empty, so empty." A young woman moves into the center row and happily pulls up armrests exclaiming, "awesome, this is awesome" as she lies down to sleep. This B777 designed for nearly 300 passengers has fewer than 80 people going to Hawai’i on a Saturday.

Stuffing three pillows behind me, I stretch out. It’s almost, but not quite, like the good old days when flights often flew with empty seats, even to Hawai’i. The flight attendants go graciously to work. Several wear a single black ribbon of mourning and most have the small red, white and blue ribbons on their uniforms that remind us of what has happened. The United flight magazines are missing from the seat pockets. A flight attendant tells me the cover had been of the New York skyline. The white plastic knife wrapped up in a napkin with the stainless steel fork and spoon also says, "things have changed."

About 2,350 miles later, we arrive in Kona. I’m whisked off to Kona Village with its wonderful staff and a heartfelt "Aloha" reserved for the travelers who travel the road less taken.