An Ill Wind

The wind gets up. I go to the airport and psych myself up. The nor wester is buffeting Christchurch but Wellington has a justly earned reputation for gales. And today it's all on. As we fly out the air dips and swirls around the jet, it's a small plane. On the approach to the capital it's so rough I clutch the seat in front and close my eyes. The man in the seat next to me talks about the "white-knuckle brigade." I'm hanging on for dear life and I really couldn't care less. I don't see how close we get to the ground but the pilot pulls up at the last minute. We're going back home. Behind the Covid mask I'm feeling ill. This is too much. I'm worried we may be stuck up here, flying around till we run out of fuel or crash land. But we make it back to the Koru Lounge and I make a beeline for a gin and tonic. Followed by a brand and dry. Settles my nerves but not my stomach. Jacinta and I decide we're not trying the next flight. Timing wise we would miss all the meetings today and there's only half a day tomorrow. We cancel our tickets and I sit with a glass of water and a coffee. After half an hour an Air NZ staff member comes over to tell me that I've stayed half an hour since I've cancelled my flight and I need to leave. I'm not impressed and tell him I've PTSD, which I have. He backs off but I'm pissed off. I tell him they shouldn't put peoples' lives in danger and leave. It's nicer in my garden anyway. I dig and calm myself. Grateful I'm not sitting listening to committee speak and staying in a hotel. Shelley and Dan, my neighbours across the road who moved into their rebuilt house just before Christmas last year, come over for a look.