We didn’t learn how to fly in training college. It was several flights after that when we really learned how things worked. That’s when we started to master all the important lessons,  like how to complete a security search in the impossibly limited time available. When to speak up. And perhaps more importantly, when to keep quiet.  

It’s when we learned how to live with fatigue. Chronic fatigue. Sometimes I’d feel drunk with tiredness. I mean totally hammered, which you don’t want to feel during landing, when you might have to evacuate 600 people. Disaster can strike at the last possible moment. 

In training college, the security trainers talked us through how long it took to search each feature of our cabins. It added up to about eleven minutes. Then they told us we might get six.  I stuck up my hand,  curious to know how this was possible. The answer in training college? It just is. The answer in reality? It just isn't. 

After ten long weeks in the strict and gruelling college regime, I couldn’t wait to be out of a classroom and onto a real - non-simulated - plane. 

I skipped aboard with wide eyes, a permanent smile and an endless list of questions. About everything. Where would I find the? Why do we use the? How do I work the? Who is responsible for? What should I do with the? And my questions didn’t stop at the functional. Oh no, I was interested in everyone I met. How long have you been flying? What did you do before this? What should I see when I visit your country? In a metal tube with no escape and a long time to kill, my chances of them responding were pretty high, so I took full advantage. But the danger of excessive curiosity is, eventually you ask something that you really didn’t want to know the answer to. 

It was my first multi-sector so I was equal parts nervous and excited.  When I entered the briefing, I scanned the room, subconsciously assessing this collection of people who held my life in their hands for the coming week. 

I recognised Zoya from the pre-flight email. She and I were the most junior members of the crew and wore all the tell-tale signs of those fresh from training college. Ridiculously clean shoes. A new notepad. We were the only two who still bothered to iron our scarves. She sat with her pen poised, ready to note the flight details, which would not be forthcoming for at least 15 minutes.  I found her enthusiasm charming, so without a second’s hesitation, I sat beside her.  She seemed so straight-laced that I instinctively wanted to lead her astray, but only into gentle mischief - I didn't mean to land her in serious trouble. 

Our supervisor, Alvaro, was a middle-aged man with a gentle nature, who diligently checked crew papers and politely thanked each person in turn. He looked everyone in the eye. 

The Purser’s gaze on the other hand, remained focused on her tablet as crew members steadily filed in.  Though her eyes hadn’t yet lifted from the screen I could tell from her intense focus and calm demeanour that she knew exactly who and where everyone was. Whether she would use or abuse her power, was yet to be seen. 

When Aibueku finally raised her gaze, an air of authority hushed the room without her needing to say a word. Then a gentle smile accompanied her natural command, which let us know she was on our side. Like an aeronautical mother hen. 

We had all the elements of an excellent crew. So what could possibly go wrong?

A multi-sector was a longer trip, where you flew from one destination to the next, instead of returning to base. They lasted around five to ten days, normally used for far-flung destinations like Australia and New Zealand. It was unique for various reasons. For a start, you flew with the same crew throughout so grew to know each other pretty well. You flew every day, back to back flights, with minimal recovery time, through multiple time zones, so the duty was particularly exhausting. And thanks to the remote nature of the destinations, the final flight home -  when you had accumulated more exhaustion that you ever thought possible -  was invariably the longest flight of all. Ten to fifteen hours on average. But the same standards were still expected, indeed, required. 

Before every flight, we searched the plane from top to bottom, obligated to report even the smallest or most harmless looking discrepancy. We’d all spent days in a security classroom with strict security trainers, studying explosive devices disguised as everyday items. We had nine minutes to scour our cabins at speed, on our hands and knees in tailoring, on our tip toes in heels that pinched, sweating through our shirts as we hauled heavy equipment, so nothing unaccounted for was present. At least that’s what we were taught to do, but the reality was always a race against time, temperature and tiredness. And for the company - time was money. 

Aibueku was tall for a woman which added to her gravitas. Years of experience had cultivated a perfectly professional expression of neutrality which she wore throughout each flight. This exterior softened the more I chatted to her as we walked through the airport, or sat on the bus. Not even she would escape my aggressive friendliness. 

“You have a beautiful name,” I noted, “What does it mean?”

She melted a little more into a gentle smile and replied:

“Justice.” 

Seemed an appropriate for someone who had the final word on everything that happened throughout our trip.  For every mistake, performance review or difference of opinion, she would be judge and jury. 

With each flight that passed, Aibueku grew a little more excited. Not so much that anyone would notice, but those of us who watched closely could see that she smiled a little more and laughed a little harder as we approached our final sector.  

“Something nice planned when you get home?” I asked, when the temporary repression of my curiosity was no longer bearable. 

“I’ll be handing in my final assignment,” she replied. 

Aibueku had spent the last six months studying to be a security trainer. One more flight and a suitably reflective essay to go and she’d qualify for the position. It was an extremely important role in the training college programme. She’d be teaching every new crew member the no-nonsense approach she’d cultivated over years of trips just like this one. Aviation security was black and white. There were no grey areas when it came to this crucial aspect of every flight, so the role of security trainer must be placed in a safe pair of hands. 

But Aibueku’s motivations for professional progression were deeply personal. It meant she could spend more time on the ground every month and pick up her babies from school more often than not. It meant she could tuck them in at night and make them breakfast every morning. She wanted it to be her - and not another nanny - who taught them right from wrong. 

I guess I didn’t notice because I was so tired. It should have been obvious when I stared at my haunted reflection in the mirror of the hotel lift in Auckland, that the crew ID we were supposed to wear almost always, was not around my neck. But my brain was like a battery running on empty, desperately needing to be charged by sleep. What was left of my cognitive function was reserved for finding my room. Interpreting hotel signs, with numbers and arrows pointing in every direction (none of them obvious), was not an easy task when you’d served 342 meal trays to a planeful of people while doing your best to keep them alive, with days since you last slept. 

I stumbled out of the lift and stared, almost cross-eyed, at the sign in front me. After a couple of wrong turns I finally found my way to the correct room and collapsed on the bed as my doorbell rang. 

It was Zoya. She looked every bit as drained as I felt, but had found my crew lanyard on the floor of the lobby. The most vital piece of documentation I (almost didn’t) have. She could have overlooked this and carried on straight on to a hot shower and comfortable bed, but instead she turned back to reception to track me down before navigating the totally opaque signage to return the crucial possession she had spotted. I was so grateful I could have kissed her but she wasn’t one for a fuss and I knew she wanted to get to her room. I called after her as she plodded back down the hall, still dragging her own heavy baggage:

“Zoya, I owe you one!”

She might not remember this. But I do. I think about it at night-time, when the shadows of poor decisions and deep regret advance and taunt me with their existence. I can’t change the past though. Like a one-way ticket, there’s no going back. 

After an indeterminable number of days, we made it to the final flight of the trip. A long one of course, at twelve hours thirty minutes, but the last hurdle in this extended test of our stamina. 

Alvaro the cabin supervisor was quietly ahead of the game. Piles of vegetarian, vegan and Hindu dishes were perfectly labelled and placed, awaiting distribution. 

He was a little older than most supervisors and it was obvious he’d been doing the job for a long time. He seemed to live in a cloud of modesty and kindness. On each sector, I witnessed him quietly completing an honest shift's work. No corners were cut. Nothing unfair was asked. He did not indulge in the power trip that his position would have so easily accommodated and which many of his peers enjoyed. Without fanfare, he prepared everything for the crew, making it easy for us to do our jobs well. He listened patiently to the complaints of customers, whether reasonable or not. If he noticed a problem, he fixed it, with intention and without drama. 

Over a beer in Brisbane, I’d asked Alvaro how long he’d been gone from Mexico. 

“Too long.” He replied, with a wry smile.

I knew he didn’t mean it. Even if his name meant truth. He was far too good at his job for me to believe he wasn’t happy in it. He took a long, slow gulp of his lager as though he’d made a pact with himself to appreciate every drop. 

He noticed my look of scepticism and offered an explanation in response:

“Life isn’t a dress rehearsal you know, we only get one shot to make the right choices. And then - we make the most!" He said, before applauding a live band in the corner. No-one else had even noticed there was music playing. 

“Is your family back home?” I asked. He seemed like a family man, but hadn’t mentioned anyone yet, always mindful that this was a professional trip, even if we were on our second drink by the river.

“My mom is there. But she’s sick and her medical bills are expensive, so my brother looks after her and I take care of the costs.”

“Don’t you want to move back to be near her?” I persisted in my endless naivety. 

“It would be very hard to make the same salary back home,” he replied, before adding, “Legitimately.”

Now I understood. We ordered another beer. And this time, I too appreciated every drop. 

When there were only three more hours of the multi-sector left and one more dinner service to complete, my eyes so desperately wanted to close, but I spritzed my face with a little water mist, downed the last of a tepid coffee and bounced back to the aft galley with more enthusiasm than was normal for this stage of the journey.

With four minutes still on the clock until the children’s casseroles were ready, one of the other crew members started to sing and without hesitation I harmonised. When we broke into a dance,  weary smiles spread round the assembled crew and Alvaro chuckled while shaking his head and piling up trays. In normal circumstances, you’re right, we’d definitely be punched, but everyone knew we needed something to get us through the final countdown.

Then one by one we distributed trays of special dietary requirements around the cabin and returned to the galley for more. I high-fived Zoya on the way past. She’d been carrying more meals than most, but I knew she’d never drop them. She was one of those people who was just capable. Good at things. I looked to her when I wasn’t sure. She was just at the start of what was clearly, a promising career in the skies. 

I returned to the galley expecting another special meal to deliver but Alvaro gave me a surprise instead. He said he’d be writing to my manager with a commendation of my conduct. 

“You have brought so much positivity to the flight, conducted your duties extremely thoroughly and been very supportive to your colleagues. I am going to write to management about both you and Zoya, who has also been extremely hard-working and pleasant.”

I felt my face redden and a real smile illuminate my tired eyes. Delighted on many levels, but mainly to be classed in the same category as Zoya. 

***

When we finally landed, the sun was only starting to rise. This ultra long flight was over. My first multi-sector was successfully completed.

…Wasn’t it?

With what little energy we had left and seriously impaired brain function, we all tried to remember where we had stowed our bags thirteen and a half hours beforehand. Half a world away. 

The adrenaline was fast leaving my body, as I trailed my case up the aisle towards the door. When I passed the last hatrack of the cabin, something caught my eye that I hadn’t noticed before. It was a large piece of equipment I didn’t recognise or remember from training college and to my surprise, there was one more question left within me.  

“Ooh what’s that for?” I asked Alvaro, who was wearily plodding behind me. 

He glanced up at the hatrack and immediately, his tired eyes widened. 

“Oh no.”

It looked like a hoover and I naively wondered if this was where the cleaners stored their kit between flights. Of course it wouldn’t be, that would be unnecessary weight, but my fatigued, incapacitated mind was struggling to process what I was seeing. On closer inspection, it was too industrial looking to be a hoover. I scanned my brain for reasonable explanations. 

“Did we bring that with us from Sydney??” I asked, the exhausted and inexperienced cogs of my brain slowly catching up with Alvaro’s more seasoned train of thought. 

“Oh no, no, no…” He repeated. 

Which meant the answer to my question was ‘yes’. 

We had brought a large unidentified device with us. From Australia. Carried for almost 13 hours.  Over water. Through the night. It could have been a bomb. In fact, it looked very much like a bomb. A large one. 

This was a problem Alvaro couldn’t fix quietly, without any drama.  

We were all required to search the plane thoroughly before departure and report even the smallest or most harmless looking discrepancy. We’d all spent days in a security classroom being shown explosive devices disguised as everyday items. We searched the cabin from top to bottom before every flight, so nothing unaccounted for was present. These harsh truths raced through my mind as Alvaro and I stared at the large and ominous device so proudly and conspicuously on display in the hatrack. 

“Whose security search area was this?” He asked.

“Zoya’s,” I replied, as we locked eyes in devastated realisation. 

Alvaro didn’t want to report this. He wasn’t the type. But if he didn’t, then responsibility shifted to him. His years of quiet, faithful service and exceptional people management would be discarded like rubbish. Shoved on the first flight back to Mexico. What a massive loss to the crew community that would be. And what would happen to his sick mother then? 

If he wasn’t sacked, then Zoya definitely would be. There was no longer room for them both. And while only we knew, the decision was momentarily ours. 

But what if he didn’t report this at all -  would anyone ever find out? Did he trust me, as the only eye witness, to stay quiet? Was he sure that this person he had known for only a week would not reveal such an explosive truth?  He’d recognised my positivity… but could he be just as sure of my discretion?

I too was implicated, with the burden of knowledge. Thanks to a dangerous cocktail of naivety, enthusiasm and exhaustion, I had accidentally reported up the chain of command. Unintentionally. We all make mistakes. If we’re lucky, they won’t cost lives. 

Alvaro and I froze, eerily silent, in a cabin so quiet that we both heard the faint sound of something gently drop to the floor. I glanced down to see my crew ID on a broken crew lanyard, then shoved it quickly into my pocket. I couldn’t look at it now. 

The rest of the crew had disembarked and were already waiting in the bus. Except for Aibueku. She wouldn’t leave without us. We had seconds before she would approach to see what was taking us so long and during those seconds we could think of nothing more productive to do, than to stare at the hatrack in devastated silence. Minds racing. 

When Aibueku arrived, she looked at us in confusion, then followed our gaze to the hatrack. The neutral expression she’d taken years to perfect, quickly turned to utter horror. She knew immediately what this meant and placed her face in her hands, as Alvaro took a seat and stared at the floor. I glanced at the exit, knowing there was no easy way out for any of us now. 

We could have said nothing. I knew that's what we all desperately wanted. But the item would have to be removed. Security would be called. The risk would be assessed and no matter what they deemed this inconvenient truth to be, the previous crew would be identified and questioned. Regardless of fault, one of our heads was going to roll. Unless, of course, we denied all knowledge? Deflect to incoming ground staff? But quite problematically, none of us were liars and we’d never sleep again if an innocent was blamed.

Aibueku and Alvaro asked me to leave and send Zoya back to the aircraft. My stomach plummeted a little further with each step, realising what a disastrous thread I had pulled in my wide-eyed naivety. The results were catastrophic. 

“Zoya,” I whispered without looking her in the eyes, “You’re wanted back onboard.”

I sat alone on the bus and stared out the window, no longer trusting myself to speak. 

Zoya had made a mistake. A mistake that might have been fatal. But when you were as mentally and physically exhausted as every singe one of us was, this could very easily happen. In fact, we were debilitated by fatigue. Stupefied by the rigour of rosters, scheduled by someone who’d had a great sleep, on a nightly basis. Someone who knew how to dance dangerously close to the limits of legality. Taking a risk on someone else's behalf. So who was really at fault? But when has an honest reflection on fault, ever obstructed the finger of blame?

Zoya was due to receive a written commendation. Now, it was more likely to be her written notice. I wondered if I’d every fly with her again. And then a new question hit me - would I still want to? 

Aibueku could over-look this. But what would she write in her essay then? As she typed paragraphs of reflection and analysis, could she describe how seriously she had taken security while turning a blind eye to this gross misconduct? Her professional ambition was living on borrowed time. Ticking loudly. And she didn’t have long to make a judgement. She had to relieve the nanny. 

What if I had paused, just a second longer? Would I still have asked that question? Would lowering my eyes and walking on have simply delayed the inevitable and shifted the dilemma to someone else? Or would the item have been written off as a mystery while we all carried on with our lives in blissful ignorance?

Aibueku, Alvaro and Zoya lingered behind the rest of the crew as we proceeded through arrivals. They walked in silence, with wide, horrified eyes. Each one at a different crossroads. None with an easy way forward. 

I kept glancing towards them, trying to figure out what would happen next, but every time Zoya looked up from the floor I turned away in shame, unable to meet her gaze.  

They gathered in a huddle next to the conveyor belt and as I waited for my case in close proximity, I strained my neck to listen. Aibueku was shaking her head and rubbing her forehead.

“You’ve put me in a very difficult position. Very difficult….” 

I daren’t look up, as I knew - she could have been talking to any one of us. It could have happened to any of us.  

I lifted my case and moved away, knowing my continued presence would only be an imposition. It felt too much like voyeurism - and I had seen enough already.   

Weighed down by my baggage, full of guilt, I plodded through customs with eyes to the floor, scared to witness anything further. Then a hand thrust in front of me, forcing me to stop and demanding my attention. 

A large Border Force Officer, looked into my eyes and loudly challenged:

“Anything to declare?”