Dateline: Baltimore airport, a balmy September day, flight to Bermuda delayed.

Very delayed.

The 11-something scheduled departure became the 2-something airline apology and snack. For several business types, this was a 3-martini lunch, and it was 5-something before Eastern Airlines finally called the flight on `equipment' commandeered from a less sold-out service to Philly.

Frazzled in the way that only air travellers can be after a lost day, we filed in silence on to the plane. The desk staff must have felt that seat assignments would only have invited yet more irate imprecations.

It was a case of first come, First Class, and woe betide anyone who tried to turf them out. The rest of us, silently cursing, slowly worked our way toward the back of the craft. Last to board was a gentleman keen to advise each of us how dramatically the delay had impaired his plans, his view of airline deregulation and so forth. His was the last available seat at the rear of the plane.

"Welcome aboard this interrupted flight,'' said a resigned captain with asperity. "We, uh, may be a little late arriving in Bermuda.'' "Damn right we'll be late,'' railed a voice from the back row of Tourist Class. As if eager to make amends, the plane lurched forward.

We taxied down the runway, and without further ado, turned for the final dash for the skies.

We never made it.

That sickening moment when you lean back in anticipation of becoming airborne came and went with a sudden drop in engine speed as the captain aborted the flight, and went about stopping hundreds of tons of runaway airplane. This accomplished, he calmly advised us that "we'll be, uh, running back to check on one little thing''.

Not a voice was raised in protest. Staring out of the window, it was impossible not to sense an increase in the rate of ground activity. Suddenly, trucks were roaring alongside us, and we weren't heading for the terminal. It was possible to believe that something sinister might have befallen us. The smell of fear was noticeable.

"Uh, there's nothing to worry about, folks,'' the captain rest assured us.

"We have a fire indicator blinking at us, and federal regulations require us to sort it out before we head on down to sunny Bermuda.'' Mention of fire on an aircraft full of jet fuel led at least one of our number to wonder if he'd be visiting a paradise other than Bermuda.

Where there's a fire indicator, there's smoke. It was pouring out of the port wing as deplaning commenced. A bright yellow firetruck was busy spraying foam on the wing, as if to prepare it for a shave, I recall thinking.

Having been seated near the back, I was among the last to leave, and thus present when the earlier trouble-maker snapped.

"I've paid for this flight to Bermuda,'' he roared at a hapless stewardess, "and I'm taking this flight to Bermuda.'' "Yes, sir,'' she tried, the way you talk to a truculent two-year-old, "and the sooner we all get off this plane, the sooner we'll be in Bermuda.'' "If this is the Bermuda flight,'' said the maniac, "why do I want to get off?'' "Because the Captain asked us to leave,'' reasoned the stewardess, "and he knows best, doesn't he?'' "He's a bonehead,'' screamed the lunatic. "If he knew anything, we'd have been in Bermuda hours ago.'' Exasperated, the stewardess turned and asked me, in my capacity of Nearest Passenger, if I would escort the wacko off the plane.

Normally the meekest of men, I instantly grabbed the fruitcake by the lapels, and manhandled him up the aisle, off the plane via a rubber chute, and into the field to which the aircraft had taxied.

En route to the terminal, the realisation dawned that I might have behaved in an heroic fashion. At the least, I had helped several people cheat death. When the Captain made his way over to me, I prepared for a little humility, as a dry run for the TV cameras which would surely follow. The Captain promptly extinguished any such thoughts by snarling "What the hell do you think you were playing at? You could have got us all killed!'' Before I could explain that I was the hero, some other suit containing today's goat, the Captain stormed off.

After a night at a poor-quality motel nicely situated right on Departure Runway Three, we flew into Kindley exactly 24 hours late.

Like I said, I hate flying.

SEPTEMBER 1993 RG MAGAZINE