Driving, Or Taking the Bus, Safely, Conveniently

IN THE 1960S AND EARLY 1970S, there were over one hundred hijackings of American commercial passenger planes in the friendly skies. It became something of a spectator sport, novel amusement for the mainstream media. The act itself was so smooth and easy. Walk into the inviting cockpit, pull your piece, and invite the pilot to redirect to Cuba, and you're on your way. You might even sip a coke while en route to the Caribbean socialist paradise, while chatting it up with a slightly nervous but compliant co-pilot. Cuba was the destination of choice, because of its proximity, and its availability as a non extraditionist refuge from American justice. Hijacking became a copy cat crime for those wanting a seriously fresh start, or to escape stressful lives and haridan wives. Either way, it was no big deal. Drop off the hijacker, get back on the "road", and go home. Nobody gets hurt. In any event, each time it happened, surely it would be the last. Anybody could walk in off the street, up the ramp, and into the fuselage, without showing so much as a boarding pass, let alone submitting to strip searches and the thorough rummaging examination of one's luggage. Why would anyone get on a plane unless they were sincere in their intent to go to Miami Beach? Who would dare to board without a ticket? You'd have to pay later anyway, or face prosecution. The laid back atmosphere included full course meals, free cocktails, and something called "stewardesses"; lovely young lasses in skin tight mini skirts. But alas, the game eventually turned serious and mean spirited, as enhanced vigilance inspired more ruthlessness from those now termed "skyjackers". One creative lad even parachuted to safety in the Oregon wilderness with a sackful of cash, and vanished, which was arguably a breach of protocol and fair play. We then began taking it seriously, and serious consideration was given to prevention. The search turned desperate, and desperation begets lunatic creativity. Thought was actually given to attiring each and every passenger in boxing gloves, to preclude gun toting - but how would one sip one's martini? The idea was bandied about of constructing a fake airport in the southern swamps of florida, and calling it Cuba, to fool the bastards. Too expensive. (No, you can't make this stuff up.) Finally, in early 1973, we entered the era of close quartered passenger scrutiny, and soon thereafter the laid back atmosphere vanished, along with political incorrectness, gender based flight attendants, leg room, and good, free food and drink high above America. Now, as we all know all too well, we submit to X rays, luggage destruction and loss, cramped quarters, eight hour waits on ye olde tarmac, filthy recycled air, outlandish ticket prices reduced only when one agrees to live in an airplane, and bags of peanuts. Now skyjackings almost never happen, and we ask: was the trade off worth it? I think I'll drive, or take the bus.