My first ride in a plane was a TWA flight from Washington, D.C. to New York’s LaGuardia Airport in 1952. It was a Lockheed Constellation, I was four. We’d gone down on the train; I was thrilled by both experiences.
I have always loved flying. I find the view endlessly fascinating. Sometimes, though, it gets as good as it gets, and that is always very special.
Last year I flew back from way-out-east, Thailand, and it was one of those flights. We took off a little before six, with almost an hour of sunlight to go and a flight time of about one hour, flying West.
There was some kind of very ocean-like floor at about 10,000 feet, alto-cumulus clouds if I don’t miss my guess. We were flying at about 20,000 feet. Looking down, it looked like a big body of water, complete with optical-illusion wave action. The tops of some big cumulus clouds protruded like icebergs, or mountains. The last bits of the sun lit up the Western edges of the cumulus clouds in a brilliant orange-pink, and the sky above was still a lovely blue, streaked with darking, high altitude cirrus and cirro-stratus clouds.
Some plane tickets are worth more than others.