Lives have been shattered by the events I record.

I know you could drive a mid-seventies Cadillac Fleetwood through the gaps in these records, but that is partly because I generally write about an event only once, partly because my content is based on a couple of randomly gathered secondhand observations, partly because I do not follow up, and partly because I am not an expert. (I never claim to be an expert in anything but my own life experience.) How could I be? The actual investigations take years, and are based on combined expert opinions of a whole boatload of bona fide experts. I am only a bystander, a bystander of second-hand bystanders, in fact. The reporters who inform me frequently misstate, interpret or misinterpret the facts, or add little imaginary flourishes. I still do my best to get the facts out as accurately as I can.

Official final reports are the result of the combined knowledge and experience of experts (some of whom have agendas and bias) in “air traffic control, operations, meteorology, human performance, structures, systems, powerplants, maintenance records, survival factors, aircraft performance, cockpit voice recorder, flight data recorder, and material factors,” interviewers, rescue observers and specialists as needed. Sometimes the reports are obfuscated by agenda, bias or politics.

I am just another pair of eyes, and untrained eyes, at that.

I never, or hardly ever, write about what happens in the seats. Ironically, this is what I write now as I sit in one of those seats myself. Picture me in the cabin of a flight to Argentina. A young family is also on this flight, with hyperactive children running up and down the aisle whenever possible. Picture an infant or two, their safety seats empty as their mothers rock them to still their tears, to the relief of the couple across the aisle, and the irritation of one of the flight attendants. Picture a couple of newlyweds off on their honeymoon, and another couple of newlyweds returning from their honeymoon. Students flying home for the holidays, others returning after. Vacationers in Hawaiianwear. Nearer to me, an assortment of business people in summer suits appropriate for Argentina in July. This accidental ensemble of humankind is engaged in various activities: thumbing through magazines, cloud gazing through the windows, watching movies, listening to music, reading, studying paperwork, connecting intimately in intense whispers (or avoiding) a seatmate, sleeping.

Just as all around me are engaged in making it through the flight, in a moment precisely like this one, other lives were interrupted. Maybe it was an instant, maybe a four minute fall. Maybe there was no time to process what was happening, or enough time to feel horrible bone-deep terror, and to endure for long moments the fight-flight reflex while belted into a seat. The detail of each event through individual eyes is simultaneously unique and identical.

I don’t write about these moments. It is too horrible to contemplate except in cases like when Chesley Burnett Sullenberger is making a miracle happen.

Out of the generous experiences of the decades of a whole, full life, families want to remember their loved ones in their entirety. They don’t want or need to be haunted by the torment of that single moment of horror, a final dark exclamation point.

So when I write about these terrible crashes, I talk about system failures, or spatial disorientation, ATC schedules, fumes, pressurization, sleepy pilots, malfunctioning radar, stick shakers or a couple hundred other possible causes I have seen frequently enough for them to become familiar even to a layman like me.
But it is not about the machine. It is about those who boarded that flight in perfect trust, expecting to disembark and fill more decades with passion and life. It is always and only about the passenger.

I don’t mention them.

But not an article is written, not a character is typed that I forget that the only matter is the passenger and the family.