COOL STUFF: Helmets, Face Slaps & First-Class Dog Shit: The Gift of a Good Travel Epic

(Note: this post contains contains some mild profanity and acknowledges the existence of non-marital intercourse. Continue reading at your own discretion.)

On my way home from a recent shoot in South America, I had the pleasure of sitting next to a longtime commercial pilot for Frontier, who was commuting home to Sacramento as a passenger.

This captain regaled me with one great story after another of all his time spent at the helm.

He also told me about his father, who was also a pilot back in the 1960s and what that was like.

“Back then, maaaan, they really had it great! They drank wine with dinner, smoked cigarettes and routinely paid their dues as members of the mile-high club!” the captain said, wistfully.

But my favorite story that he told me actually happened to him just last week.

A passenger boarded his flight wearing a glossy black motorcycle helmet with a dark, tinted flip visor. The flight attendant, visibly uneasy, asked to see Helmet’s boarding pass so she could direct him to his seat. Helmet handed her the boarding pass, then flipped the visor up to reveal his face.

“Don’t ask questions” he said bluntly, then promptly flipped the visor back down.

Helmet took his seat.

The flight attendant, feeling confused and slightly scared, approached the captain to inform him that a strange man wearing a motorcycle helmet had just boarded the flight.

“Well, I don’t think there are any rules against wearing a motorcycle helmet,” the captain said, scratching his head. “I guess it’s OK?”

About an hour later, the flight attendant began drink service. When she reached Helmet’s row, she asked the person sitting next to him if he’d like a beverage. She poured a soda and handed it over.

Then she turned to Helmet and said, “Sir, can I offer you a beverage, too?”

Helmet flipped up the visor. “I said don’t ask questions!”

There’s something about the setting of a commercial airliner that lends itself to being a potentially great backdrop for comedy. Probably because most of the time, nothing happens. You get on your flight. Your legs are cramped. The food sucks. You sit next to someone who doesn’t say a word.

And then … the flight’s over and you go on with your life.

But every now and again, something crazy happens while in transit. Something funny. Something epic. And it makes for a great story. And a great story is a gift worth receiving.

It’s funny how when we fly, most of us hope that nothing happens. We hope there are no delays.

No set-backs. No snafus. It’s a totally rational desire. The last thing anyone wants to deal with is a travel epic.

Well, after the thousands of flights that I’ve probably taken in my life, I say, Screw that! This week many of you will be traveling to go see your loved ones for the holidays, probably hoping nothing goes wrong and nothing weird happens.

Well, I hope something weird DOES happen! Trust me. And you know what? You should too. You WANT a sketchy dude in a motorcycle helmet to get on board your plane and refuse, for no reason whatsoever, to answer any question at all.

Because when that metaphorical “guy in a motorcycle helmet” gets on board and makes your mundane situation a little more memorable, what is actually happening is that you’re being given a gift: You are getting a story worth telling.

I’ve received many of these “gifts” in the course of my career as a professional filmmaker and photographer who is always in transit. And in light of the holiday season, I wanted to share two of these gifts with you.  Happy holidays, everyone. Hope you enjoy these tales of my own travel epics. And remember: Don’t ask questions.

Face Slaps in Fiji
Many years ago, I went to Fiji to shoot stills for the Eco Challenge Adventure Race (read my Story Behind the Image, “Swimming with the Fisheyes”). After the race ended, Mark Anders, a writer friend, and I decided to tag on a little surfing trip to Nagigia, a small island located off of the main island of Kadavu.

Reaching Nagigia required taking a short flight in a 12-person prop plane. Mark and I had surfboards in tow, and we actually had to purchase extra seats to take our surfboards with us.

We loaded in this tiny sardine tin with wings. There were two pilots, both Fijians, both of whom probably weighed over 300 pounds each. One pilot was in his 60s and was clearly in charge, while the other pilot was maybe a hair over 20 years old. Clearly he was the pilot-in-training (aka PIT Boy).

The take-off and flight all went well. Soon, we were preparing for landing on Nagigia. We  touched down on a dirt runway, and the plane decelerated hard as PIT Boy slammed the brakes.

We were going about 40 miles per hour when, for no reason whatsoever, PIT Boy jerked the plane into a hard, 90-degree banking turn. Surfboards flew across the cabin. Passengers crashed into each other. And the plane’s wing actually touched down on the runway, peeling aluminum back off the wing and kicking up a cloud of dust.

We came to a sudden stop.

When the dust settled, the Senior Pilot turned to his young co-pilot and, with the full force of his 350-pound body, gave him an open-handed slap across the face the sent saliva flying out of his mouth and drained air from his lungs.

Were this to have happened in the United States, I can only guess that the response would’ve been for the FAA to open up an investigation into the incident and have a tribunal to determine an appropriate punishment for the offending pilot. But apparently, the Fijian airlines have a different set of protocol. A good face slap will work just fine.

First Class Dog Shit
Marina and I were en route for a major shoot in Detroit for a big technology company, only we were both really sick. It was an important shoot, and there was no way I could get out of it, despite the fact that we both had the flu and it was coming out of both ends.

This is how it goes sometimes in the photography/video world. If you can’t suck it up and do the job, there are a hundred other hungry photographers out there who will gladly take your place.

We were so sick that, during our drive to the airport at 3 a.m., we actually had to trade off driving duties. We’d pull off on the side of the highway every 15 minutes so someone could puke or shit on the side of the road. It was bad.

We finally got to the airport, our faces green. We enjoyed a small victory that morning when we discovered that we had been upgraded to first class, but we were honestly both so sick that this upgrade had no meaning.

The funny thing about first class is that you can easily tell who pays for their first-class seat, and who gets upgraded because they fly too much. I’m never mistaken for the first-class guy. I’m the other one.

We took our seats in the first-class cabin and I noted that the man in the fine Italian suit sitting across the isle from me was the First-Class Guy. He was some lawyer or C-level executive on his way to Detroit for some business meeting. And he had definitely bought his seat outright.

Marina and I settled in and before the plane took off, we both passed out cold.

About halfway through the flight, I awoke from that deep, deep slumber that you only experience when you’re really, really sick or coming back from the dead. I was completely disoriented and had no idea where I was. I’d forgotten I was even on a plane.

But what had woken me up was this horrendous, awful odor.

“Oh no,” I thought as I began to gain consciousness. “I must’ve shit my pants!”

It was the only explanation that made sense. I came to, and sat up and felt around. No, no … It wasn’t me. So what was it?

Just then, a giant German Shepherd came tearing down the isle, with doggy diarrhea exploding out its rear end. And as the dog ran by, I watched as the First-Class Guy next to me took the full brunt of the diarrhea explosion.

“What. The. FUCK!” First-Class Guy stood up and instantly threw a Grade-A, First-Class temper tantrum. Sure, there was dog diarrhea covering his expensive Italian suit. But, c’mon bro! He was yelling at the flight attendant, as if it were her fault, and screaming like a petulant little misbehaving child whose toy just broke.

Of course, it was shocking to see a situation like this unfold. My first thought was, “Gee, I’m glad that the smell wasn’t coming from me.”

My second thought was that I felt terrible for this poor, sick dog.

And my third thought was, “Yep, that guy definitely bought his first-class ticket!”

Right then, the dog’s owner—a tall, strapping DEA agent—came walking down the isle and stood right behind First-Class Guy, who was still yelling at the poor flight attendant. The DEA agent tapped him on the shoulder, and in a stern, clear voice just said, “Sir, you’re going to sit down, and you’re going to quiet up. Yes, I’m very sorry. Obviously the dog is sick. We’re going to do everything we can to clean up this mess. Thank you for your cooperation.”

And with that, First-Class Guy had no choice but to settle in for the remainder of the descent into Detroit.

And as we all grew accustomed to the odor of dog poop wafting through the first-class cabin, I fell back asleep with a poor sick dog sitting next to me, a fuming executive across the isle, and a faint smile on my face as I knew that, one day, this was going to be a great story to tell.