You might have seen the recent headlines about a Hawaiian Airline flight from Honolulu to New York, diverted to San Francisco when a crewmember died. He was one of two head stewards in First Class on Thursday, January 24th. His name was Emile, Emile Griffith, the gracious, lively man who greeted me and my husband and the other 15 members of First Class onto our flight. His wide smile and bright dark eyes and the authentic pride he obviously took in his job immediately set the prospects for a perfect flight home for my husband and me, and, as I can attest to, the others in our cabin. Flying these days can be “iffy,” even to and from what most people think of as a piece of heaven on earth. There are dramatic events that no longer appear to surprise any traveller anytime, anywhere. From vocal altercations to knock down dragged out fights inside what seem like closed sardine tins. The stresses are self-evident: heightened security, long lines, ill tempers, and the current bust-out of coarseness of everyday discourse and life. Best to prepare for a long flight, this one 11 hours, when one can literally be trapped in a nightmarish indigestible scene, and, not for a second think that obnoxious things, similar to those in business and coach, don’t happen in First Class. Au contraire.
However, we felt we got lucky. It became evident from the get-go that, with Emile running the show, this was not going to be one of those flights. And it never became one, though it was an unexpectedly difficult journey, because of his untimely, and too young, sudden death.
It began halfway between Honolulu and the mainland. Emile had just chatted us all up again, serving his favorite orange cake, a special Hawaii recipe. He had so totally enjoyed raising the can of fresh whipped cream, a suggestion as much as a tease. Emile had enticed the young man, possibly Filipino, American, seated on the aisle next to us, traveling alone, to enjoy not one but two “Tropical Landing” cocktails that sounded close to Mai Thais. His arm didn’t need to be twisted for the dessert. I managed to turn it down, having to see my doctor the following Monday for my usual blood tests. High glucose on the line, so I let go of sugar and stuff a while ago. So far, it had been a quiet, but thanks to Emile, fun flight.
The sunset was gloriously following us west, the view 9 miles up rich with golds and reds, and a burgeoning royal blue. Just as the sky grew darker, we heard a thump from the right side of the galley kitchen. The two passengers in the front seats on that side faced down and pushed back in their seats. The other head crewmember made a dash round, and I caught the back of his royal blue and turquoise flowered Hawaiian Airline shirt across the aisle. He had dropped to his knees and his back was bent. With obvious CPR training, he began to pump some very ill person’s chest, the goal being to restart the heart or just get the blood oxygen to the brain, I imagined. Since the bathroom is in the galley, in my mind, it was a passenger down. There was scurrying by other crewmembers from behind us. A minute passed before the Captain announced that anyone with medical skills or who was a medical doctor was needed in First Class for a “medical emergency.” A middle-aged white woman was the first to rush up the aisle from coach. They make planes quiet nowadays by coating the walls with sound insulation, the cause of more miscommunication or less, who knows, but it means we can hear what’s going on around us even with two giant jet engines and a lot of friction at 600+mph outside. She said she was a paramedic and immediately got involved. In fact, she was a take-charge kind of nurse who demanded whatever emergency medical equipment was hidden away be found and got to the head of the ship. An elderly doctor in a yarmulke and prayer shawl appeared from coach? And an Asian doctor got out of his seat by the window on the right side. Crewmembers began the quiet hunt. We heard numbers being reeled off. One, two, three, all the way up to 30. A defibrillator was put to work. The “Clear” call came several times between long pauses. Finally, pinging. Fast pinging, high pitched. The signal of a beating heart? More counting. Pinging pauses. Clear calls. Pinging. Counting. After another twenty minutes, the young man seated on the aisle, our neighbor walked to the galley and found he was indeed ready to pitch in. Turned out he was a doctor, a young thirtyish man, about five foot nine inches, fit in a crisp white short sleeved shirt and khaki slacks. He had boyish good looks, dark hair and eyes, a golden tan over naturally tan flesh. The head crew member had been trading off with another colleague and the doctor from across the plane. They were perspired and breathless from the effort, and so were especially relieved, I imagine, seeing the younger doctor. I heard his voice, now familiar, counting on and off, while the pinging continued. One...all the way up to 45. A few times the pinging stopped and the “Clear” callout would sound. Three doctors, a paramedic, crewmembers trained in medical emergencies, the paramedic so used to having what she needed at her fingertips that she appeared frustrated when she reached out and not the right equipment was there. A bag of mixed colored tools that looked like they’d be used for compressing the tongue or opening an airway in the throat appeared. She broke it open. Two tall oxygen tanks with masks attached were located, one by one, lapsed time between them. (If they were needed, the question would be how long would they last and what else would be available if something else occurred and we all required oxygen, but I was guessing.) Actually not imagining much, since so much was barely hidden and sights and sounds made clear the goings-on in the section. Years of experience and training were going into a joint effort to keep alive a fellow passenger. People working feverishly for as long as it takes. It was hard not to think, what if that was me, or someone I loved? besides my husband. The captain made several announcements informing us that the “medical emergency” was ongoing, that doctors on board were in touch with doctors on the ground, and that experts were guiding them and decisions were being made. His announcements began, thanking us all for our patience, and continued patience, cooperation, and continued cooperation, keeping to what I believe protocol allowed him to reveal. Not much.
Two and half hours passed. We sat in close proximity to the work, quiet as mice, staying put in our seats. No one I saw pulled out a cell phone or device to text or take a photo. It would have been disrespectful, and besides, we were wrapped up too closely in the commotion. A middle-aged man in the seat in front of me wept in silence. No relation, I felt, just raw emotions. A female steward poured water into small cups and passed them to those who were working. My husband and I were upset, humbled, thankful, praying with that sinking feeling. At one point it occurred to me. When was the last time we saw Emile?
Soon, the Captain announced we were being diverted to San Francisco and why? Because they had the readiness to handle the landing and deal with the emergency, and in fact, it was a crewmember who was ill. The pinging was continuous now and had been for a while. I suspect it was the elder Jewish doctor who called the Time of Death, because I could see it, partially, and the pinging stopped. We were still half an hour from San Francisco. The flight course map indicated the plane’s position and the coastline. Five minutes passed. The head steward who had worked doggedly on his colleague and friend slipped on an old audio tape, low, of Hawaiian Ukulele music. Twelve? Hawaiian crewmembers came forward and into the galley where the Captain had frequently come out to talk and comfort his crew. With no one to check his safety, he was not part of the circle the rest made around Emile Griffith, the deceased. We watched them pray and cry and wipe away their tears and put on stiff faces to finish their job and his. “Prepare to land,” announcements were made.
Shortly, Fire Chiefs, police, investigators, and lastly, 3 hours later, the coroner’s officers came and went. First Class was a hub of solid professionals, working quietly in the middle of the night, conferring with crew and Captain and the on board doctors and personnel. The elder doctor walked back to the young doctor and patted his shoulder. “You did good work, doctor,” he said to our neighbor who was then asked to represent the record to the authorities. I heard him say to a police officer that he hadn’t done ‘that’ since he was a medic, meaning probably in Afghanistan or where-ever, I thought, age and tiptop shape considered. He communicated with confidence, I think. As exhausted as he was, he looked less so than the rest, calm, and collected. There was a remarkable humility that was apparent when we spoke to him several times. He accepted a piece of gum from my pack like found treasure. Amazing grace, I couldn’t help think? I would never know if Emile grasped the gentle soul who tried so hard but failed to revive him. The Tropical Landing cocktail needed a new name.
We all deplaned at 2am PST and wandered the thoroughly closed airport, trying to locate baggage and find out the bookings the airlines was making on our behalf toward our destinations. Wandering for hours, waiting for security and check-in lines to open, we passed each other, ghosts with luggage, stretched out with coats for pillows, the recognitions becoming almost funny. The same plane was soon on its way back to Honolulu, we heard, probably with Emile’s body on board, but that is just my last hope for him and his family.
What we had gone through was surreal, an overlong sunset trailing a dying man at our feet. A rough night, confusing, hectic, but never was there chaos. No offensive backtalk, or wisecracks.
There was the fact of the government Shut Down. And the point that people diverse in culture and religion, age, generations, and nationalities, all strangers who witnessed the medical emergency and death of a breath-of-fresh-air-kind-of-man whose time had come. The decent side of things.
The lanky Fire Chief, whose thin face with blue eyes peered out from his brim, spoke quietly to a few crewmembers before he left. “You all will be given furloughs or time to recoup. Counseling will be made available to you on crew. You should really take advantage of it,” he said, patting shoulders, calming, wizened. I was privileged to be within earshot. Just a passenger, but I’d been there. Right there. I’d been awake for 28 hours and though I’d been mostly seated, some part of me had taken a bit of a beating. I felt the change setting in. Something unclear had happened that would bend the road in a necessary way before my journey ended. This would stay with me, as it should.