Learning to Fly
My first flight to Midland was via Dallas on a small embraer jet. It was one of those planes with a single row of seats on one side, double on the other, no delineation of class. Prior to takeoff, the flight attendant announced she needed volunteers to move around in order to even out the weight distribution. As a nervous flyer, I loosely interpreted her words:
This tiny plane’s equilibrium is determined by a single person or a fairly large backpack.
That was over six years ago. I’ve since become so familiar with the sight of Midland from 30,000 feet in the air, I think I could draw it with my eyes closed. The planes have grown slightly with the continued boom of the oil business (there’s a first class now), but the rest is the same. You learn the pilots’ speeches,
About 40 minutes wheels up, wheels down.
Little bit of weather forming over Dallas. Might be some chop.
Note: there is always ‘some chop.’
You learn when the rig hands are switching shifts by the number of weary faces at the two small bars beyond security,
Going home?
Yes.
Me too. Cheers.
And you always know when Southwest’s direct flight to Vegas is nearing boarding - the bar is packed with Friday morning bouts of tequila and the female:male ratio has almost evened out.
Living in Midland means learning to leave it frequently. By plane, you can head directly to Houston, Dallas, Pheonix, Denver or Las Vegas (this makes sense, when you really think about it). Over 600,000 passengers do so on a monthly basis. Those flights are just commercial. You get as used to seeing private Cessna’s and Gulfstreams overhead as you do the commuter jetliners. Commerce is a business of coming’s and going’s and Midland does it as well as anywhere.
There are remnants of the places West Texas dreamed to go, too. In 2014, Midland-Odessa’s airport became the first U.S. facility approved by the FAA for commercial airline and spaceflight. There were grand plans for development of a ship designed for one pilot and one passenger. Early bookings made their way online, but due to lack of funding, the program was eventually scrapped. You can still see the hangar by the main terminal, and the airport retains the name Midland International Air and Space Port, although there are neither international flights nor any to outer space.
What we lack in astronauts, we make up for in endless, rambling nomads. By air, by car, to ranches or resorts, all paths out of Midland fill up with the weekly exodus. Sometimes I wonder if we have spent more hours leaving here than living here. And while I think none of us would give up this gypsy existence, it helps us appreciate Sundays on our couch, Mondays in our bed, the rhythm of the week we’ve grown to know too well.
Strange, how being away so long can make a place feel much less foreign, and more like home.
