I have ten years of experience as a flight attendant. I have dealt with medical crises, fights in midair, inebriated executives, panic attacks, and turbulence that made frequent travelers grit their teeth. However, nothing in any instruction manual or my entire career prepared me for Flight 2127 from Boston to Seattle. Both pilots went down at 35,000 feet. The number of travelers was 147. There is no working staff in the cockpit. And an eleven-year-old girl with a ponytail and a backpack full of stickers was the only one who came forward to save us.
Flora was her name. 14C seat. The unaccompanied youngster is calm, courteous, and more observant than most adults. She had flown alone a lot and didn’t seem anxious, so I checked on her during boarding. She seems bored, if anything. She flew a Boeing 737 with more poise than grown men twice her size, something I never would have imagined.
The sky was clear when we departed Boston. Nothing out of the ordinary—regular flight, normal service. I brought lunches to the cockpit after around ninety minutes. First Officer Newman and Captain Wright, both pilots, chose pasta. There would be no more chicken. I smiled, they complained in jest, and I walked out of the cockpit without realizing those trays were the seeds of a nightmare.
The intercom buzzed thirty minutes later. Captain Wright’s voice sounded strained and nearly slurred. “Carol, cockpit. Right now.
Both males were barely standing and covered in perspiration when I entered. Nausea, lightheadedness, and severe cramping in the abdomen were rapidly getting worse. One of the three doctors on board, Dr. Fitz, confirmed it: a severe foodborne sickness that was spreading at an alarming rate. Within minutes, neither pilot could sit up straight. They would be completely unconscious in fifteen minutes.
No flight attendant ever wants to ask the question, so I did.
“Are you both able to fly?”
Captain Wright muttered, “No.” “Someone else is what you need.”
Another person. Someone else on a plane full of scared civilians.
The announcement came from us. Participants were asked to identify themselves if they had pilot training—ANY pilot training. One man got to his feet. A private pilot with knowledge of Cessna. He made an effort. He did, in fact. However, he froze as soon as he saw the cockpit. A Cessna is not a 737. Just its instrument panel has the appearance of a power plant’s control room. He acknowledged that he was unable to land it.
The world tilted. The people who had been trained to land it were comatose on the ground while we were in a metal tube traveling at 420 knots. A full-blown terror was just a few seconds away.
Then I heard a tiny voice behind me.
“I am able to assist.”
Flora. 14C. Little Flora.
“Now? No. I nearly said it. “Go take a seat, my love.” However, she entered the cockpit, pointed to the instruments, and precisely labeled each one. She skillfully rattled off the EPR, attitude indicator, vertical speed indicator, and autopilot features. Her father, an Alaska Airlines captain, had trained her on this particular 737 model in simulators.
She felt afraid. However, she was familiar with the aircraft.
She was placed in the captain’s seat.
Her radio call was answered by Seattle Center. The controller could hardly believe what she was hearing. Captain Rob Daniels, Flora’s father, was then patched in, and the moment he received the call, he hurried to the tower.
“I’m here, baby,” he said on the radio. “I’m here with you right now.”
She felt more stable when she heard his voice. He almost broke when he heard hers.
She did exactly as he said, step by step. Turn off the autopilot. Modify the throttle. Start descending at a moderate pace of 1,000 feet per minute. Maintain the glide path. Continue heading. Cut down on your speed. Reduce the landing gear. Spread the flaps. Stabilize the strategy. The girl flew like if her veins were filled with cold water.
Passengers in the cabin, meanwhile, were terrified until we identified the pilot. Fear, skepticism, rage, and prayers were all part of the storm that followed, but in the end, the reality settled into something akin to optimism. Perhaps the rest of us could maintain our composure if this child could.
Every runway in Seattle was cleared. The strip was lined with emergency vehicles that flashed red and white like a corridor.
“Daddy,” Flora muttered as the runway became visible. “I’m afraid.”
“I understand,” he uttered quietly. Do it with fear. Here I am.
She started the flare at fifty feet. Once, then again, the wheels struck hard and remained down. She used all of her strength to apply the brakes. The aircraft trembled wildly. It was insufficient. We continued to speed too quickly down the runway.
The private pilot, Tom Richardson, then added his weight to the pedals by leaning in and pressing his feet on top of hers. the braking portion. The runway’s end raced in our direction. Fifty feet. Twenty. Ten.
We came to a halt.
Quiet.
Then there was mayhem—crying, cheering, people crashing into one another. I lunged forward after unbuckling. Flora was trembling so violently that her teeth were chattering. My hand touched her shoulder.
I remarked, “You saved us.”
A few minutes later, her father ran up the stairs and entered the cockpit. He knelt down and drew her into his embrace. They were both crying—loud, raw, scared cries.
He kept reiterating, “You did it.” “I’m really pleased with you. You succeeded.
Captain Wright and First Officer Newman were evacuated by emergency personnel. They recovered completely. A supplier error was identified as the cause of the tainted food. However, the majority of people only recall one aspect of that flight: an eleven-year-old girl who remained resilient.
She became the youngest person in history to assist in landing a commercial aircraft when the FAA recognized her six months later. Her dad received a promotion. She became legendary in the area. Despite her dislike of the spotlight, she managed it with the same composure she had displayed at 35,000 feet.
Sometimes I still take flights with her. She still wears her tiny ponytail, sits in 14C, and only uses the call button when she really needs anything.
She was asked to announce the landing by the captain last month.
In her steady pilot voice, she took the microphone and said:
“Thank you for coming home. We are extremely happy that you arrived safely.
She meant what she said. She deserved the privilege.
Because a young girl who thought she could fly a plane and proved it was the only reason any of us were still alive that day.