WHAT IT’S LIKE TO BE IN A PLANE CRASH: AND LIVE! – August 19^th 2005

 

Millions are hooked on ‘Lost’, the new TV drama about the survivors of a terrifying air disaster. Now fasten your seatbelts as a real survivor gives her unimaginably harrowing account…

 

Journalist Tess Stimson, 38, was one of 30 journalists flying on a basic transport plane from Kenya to Somalia in December 1992, when the plane was forced to make a crash landing. The co-pilot told the passengers there was just a one-in-five chance of survival. Tess says:

 

he co-pilot’s expression was grim as he emerged from the cockpit. We fell silent, waiting for him to reassure us, to tell us that our botched take-off was nothing more than a technical glitch.

 

‘The runway was too short,’ he said. ‘Our landing gear hit a sandbank as we took off. It’s completely disabled one wheel, which means we can’t land.

 

We’ll have to fly to the nearest airport able to cope with an emergency landing, which is Nairobi in Kenya. They’ll put down a foam blanket to cushion our landing, but –‘

 

‘What are the chances we’ll survive?’ one passenger asked.

 

The pilot looked ashen-faced, his hands trembled and his forehead was beaded with sweat as he admitted, ‘Not good. Perhaps 20 percent. If we’re lucky.’

 

My blood ran cold and my legs went to jelly. For a moment, I felt so dizzy I thought I’d pass out. This couldn’t actually be happening. Plane crashes happened to other people, on the news, far away – not to me.

 

As the reality of our peril sank in, everyone reacted in very different ways. One burly 6ft war reporter burst into tears. Another woman wet her trousers, urine puddling at her feet. For a few moments, no one spoke, and then there was a babble of frenzied noise as everyone started talking at once.

 

 

ulling out my notebook, I started writing down detailed notes on what was happening as if it had nothing to do with me, distancing myself from it all through my pen in a futile attempt at distraction.

 

I was one of 30 or so journalists who had jointly leased the Hercules transport plane to fly us from Kenya to Somalia to cover the famine in 1992.

 

It was certainly no luxury flight: we were effectively flying in a giant cargo hold. Oil drums of drinking water were lashed down in the centre of the plane, together with food, tents, sleeping bags and camera equipment. We sat on each side in hammock-like seats made of army webbing.

 

In addition to the damaged wheel, the impact ripped a crack in the fuselage wide enough to put a wrist through. Only the sturdiness of the Hercules stopped us crashing there and then; the pilot later told us that no other aircraft would have survived.

 

Flying to Nairobi was our only hope. The journey was going to take four hours – and  end in a landing that we had a one-in-five chance of surviving.

 

Until then, I never realised how long four hours could be. Waiting to die for just one minute is pitiless enough. Nor did I realise how cruelly short four hours is, when it may be all you have left to say or write everything you ever needed to.

 

On board with me was my then-boyfriend, Brent Sadler, a correspondent with CNN. As he squeezed my hand, my overwhelming feeling was not fear, but relief that at least we were together. With the supreme selfishness of youth, I cared only that at least I’d die with the man I loved.

 

From the attitude of the experienced aircrew, I knew the odds were probably even less than they’d been telling us. I was just 24: it seemed so unfair that I might die before my life had really started.

 

But as Brent, then 42, held me and told me how much he loved me, I felt a sudden sweet surge of gratitude that at least I’d had a chance to find real love. Somehow, that swept away the sadness.

 

Then I thought of my parents, and I ached for their grief. But not yet a mother myself, I had no concept of the agony of losing a child. I told myself that my mother would know that at least I’d died happy.

 

I could have rung her on my mobile – I saw others huddled over phones in tears – but didn’t. Irrationally, I didn’t want to worry her unnecessarily.

 

Brent and several other experienced journalists took charge, marshalling the rest of us to tie down everything that could possibly come free during landing. And then all that was left to do was wait.

 

In the shadow of imminent death, Brent and I talked of marriage if we survived. Later I was to wonder if the experience hothoused our relationship and led us into a sort of  ‘we could be dead tomorrow’ wartime rashness.

 

 

ertainly, it played a major part in my decision to stop travelling with him once we had children, for fear of leaving them orphans. It was a decision that, ironically, eventually destroyed our marriage, as Brent ultimately found companionship away from home.

 

About 40 minutes from Nairobi airport, one of the European reporters finally admitted that it wasn’t water in the oil drums, but petrol, which they’d been illegally smuggling into Somalia because it was very hard to come by there.

 

Until that moment, even the pilots hadn’t known. One spark as we landed and the whole aircraft would go up. A couple of the journalists started yelling at the culprits, but were calmed by their colleagues. It seemed pointless to scream now that we were doomed.

 

The aircrew decided to try to land on the damaged wheel. It was incredibly risky, but with the petrol on board, they really had no choice.

 

As the final minutes ticked away, we wrapped sleeping bags, pillows, blankets – anything to cushion the impact – around us. Then we adopted the brace position. Brent and I said we loved each other, and then crouched in silence, lost in our own thoughts. Mine were of those I loved.

 

Although I’m Roman Catholic, prayer now seemed redundant; I trusted that God knew what He was doing, and hoped only that if I had to die, it would be quick.

 

The landing, when it came, was absurdly smooth. The plane didn’t cartwheel or explode. Only later, when I saw the crippled aircraft from the outside, did I realise how close it had been.

 

I have never felt so grateful to feel the earth under my feet. But strangely, there was a sense of anti-climax as we all got taxis back to a local hotel. No one cried – or bounced around with exuberance. We were all in a state of shock.

 

But later that night, there was one hell of a party in the hotel bar. Everyone got drunk, exchanging stories of close calls with death which, among journalists, are something of a badge of honour.

 

In a bizarre way, I now felt part of the club – almost as if I’d finally graduated to being a real reporter.

 

The next morning, we chartered another plane and flew back to Somalia. I knew I had to fly straight away to avoid developing a phobia. I’m lucky in that getting on a plane has never troubled me since.

 

But I’m not totally trauma-free. Whenever any member of my family travels on an aircraft without me, I cannot rest until they are safely back on the ground.