I Stand In Menland

By ML Jorissen

"MarieLouise... Marie," his voice changes promptly into a more serious tone, "here is my problem..." He taps his pen on the table, seemingly doubtful how to end that sentence. "I only have men in the cockpit… This means you could be the only female flight deck crew member..."

 

When the 24-year-old, slightly addicted to Diet Coke, independent, noisily headstrong, and oddly tainted with the peculiar need to constantly feel alive, walks into the headquarters of Denim Air; life is about to change–drastically.

 

She lands her dream job; however, navigating the heavily male-dominated world of aviation while also overcoming the burdens of childhood trauma, the brutalities of the Afghan war, and the consequences of prejudices brings unexpected challenges and trials she never thought she would ever have to face.

Everything seems fine until her world suddenly turns pitch-black, and the way back to the light seems almost beyond the bounds of possible.

 

For decades, she's been silent… and now she's done biting her tongue.

 

 

ML Jorissen's remarkable debut memoir, 'I Stand In Menland,' is a true story about a 24-year-old sole female pilot of The Fokker 50 fleet in a world where the sky is both her sanctuary and her battlefield.

From the chaos of Lagos to the horrors of the Afghan war, she confronts challenges that test her courage, convictions, limits, and very sense of self. Through her eyes, we witness the complexities of the aviation industry, the brutality of war, and the resilience of the female soul.

While navigating treacherous weather and her own childhood traumas, her journey is raw, honest, and deeply moving. And when she finds herself in the heart of war-torn Afghanistan, facing death and despair, she's slammed with feelings and realities she never thought she would ever face. But her tale is not just a story of persistence; it's a story of redemption, of reclaiming what was taken from her, love and betrayal, and finding light in the darkest of times.

'I Stand In Menland' is a fascinating, emotional rollercoaster that will keep you turning pages, reminding you that no matter how dark the skies may seem, there's always a way back to the light.

• Language: English
• Publisher: ML Jorissen
• Release date: Jun 21, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224390229

Book preview

I Stand In Menland

ML Jorissen

Copyright © 2024 by MarieLouise Jorissen

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author and publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

For privacy reasons, some names, locations, and dates may have been changed.

For rights and permission, please contact:

House of LuMi

[e-mail]

Cover design: House of LuMi

Cover photo: Werner Pieters – @wernerpieters_official

Hair: Karl Warner – @its_karloss

ISBN – Paperback 979-8-218-45403-6

Also available in Ebook

3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

First Edition.

Luca & Miliya

Note

I Stand In Menland is a memoir, a true story, about ML’s career as a sole female First Officer from 2007 to 2010.

In the interest of protecting the privacy and identities of those involved, it is important to note that the names of the individuals mentioned in this book are pseudonyms. Additionally, the author has crafted their physical descriptions to ensure their anonymity.

Certain elements of the story and minor aspects of the timeline have also been adjusted to safeguard the identities of colleagues further and to enhance the narrative flow.

Despite these minor modifications, this book remains a true account, a memoir detailing the unique experiences of a female pilot in a heavily male-dominated company. The events in the book are the authors memories from her perspective.

The book includes elements that might not be suitable for some readers. It contains references to alcohol, anxiety, strong language, war, bullying, trauma, gun violence, misogyny, pregnancy, sex, sexism, war, mental health, and physical and emotional assault.

Readers who may be sensitive to these elements, please take note.

Content

Prologue

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

Epilog

Acknowledgement

Prologue

A

viatrix

[ ey-vee-ey-triks ] noun

-----------------------------

a female pilot; aviator.

I’ve always believed in the significance of coincidences, how the stars whisper their messages through the remarkable concurrence of events or circumstances without obvious fundamental connection. I’ve also always believed that sometimes, these coincidences are too perfect not to be called fate…

I was born on July 19, 1983, and named Marie Louise Christiana Bettyne. Back then, nobody knew I was going to become an aviatrix, a female pilot, an aviator. Nobody knew that 199 years before I’d come into this world, another Marie, Marie Élisabeth Thible, had become the first woman to fly in a hot-air balloon. Nobody knew that many other Maries, like Marie Surcouf, Marie Marvingt, and Marie Louise Driancourt, had pioneered many, many years before me and had paved the way for women in aviation.

Nobody knew when they named me Marie Louise. So, it might have been a coincidence, or it might have been written in the stars all along…

I was ten years old when I knew, without a doubt, that I wanted to join the Royal Dutch Air Force and become an Apache helicopter pilot. My fascination with helicopters had always been there, simmering in the background, in between my love for horses. Still, words like combat air patrol, tactical airlift, aerial combat, search and rescue, air defense, and strategic airlift shouldn’t get a pre-teen all excited and enthralled. Yet they did. They exalted me in ways nothing on this planet could vitalize me.

The Air Force, and especially the AH-64 Apache helicopter, with its advanced avionics, powerful weapon systems, survivability, versatility, adaptability, agility, speed and range, armored airframe, damage tolerance, and combat effectiveness, have always made my heart beat faster, just like the flight suit and the accessories.

Peculiar dreams for a ten-year-old girl with clear ambitions to succeed in the heavily male-dominated world of the Air Force and aviation in general. Nevertheless, the desire to become a pilot could withstand my puberty-stretched years because my planning was perfect, tight, and detailed, with this one goal in mind.

What was not part of my detailed plan was failing the last intensive exercise rounds at the Air Force Assessment Center but giving up neither. So, in 2004, I opted for a career in civil aviation. While flying standard routes back and forth every single day seemed boring to me at first, I did give it a worthy try. And with that, my love for this type of flying grew explosively with each passing day.

But navigating Menland, where women comprise a mere 4% - 6% of global airline pilots, did not always turn out to be an easy feat. Discrimination, career advancement differences, deep-rooted stereotyping, and prejudices still persist. It has made my position as the sole female flight deck crew member a whirlwind of extremes and excitement, with dreams coming true and nightmares turning into reality.

Every single second of my career and the path towards it has been worth it. But at the ultimate top, my workplace at 23,000 feet up in the air… the world I worked so hard to create, the world I adored, the world that was mine, turned pitch-black from one moment to another, and the way back to the light seemed almost beyond the bounds of possible.

For decades, I’ve been silent… and now I’m done biting my tongue.

1

C an I call you Marie?

Sure…

Alright, Marie, are you comfortable?

Yeah… I guess…

Good. How can I help you today?

Ehm…

Why don’t we start at the beginning? Hm?

Beginning?

Yes.

From the day I was born?

You think that’s relevant?

No…

Hm.

I want to start with my interview.

Alright. Which one?

‘Which one?’ the question bounces multiple times through my mind while I quickly analyze the layers of her tone for hidden meaning. Her, this lady with gorgeous red hair and striking eyes of emerald green, piercing in their intensity, as though capable of digging right into the very core of my being. This lady whom I just met in this not-so-casual setting and nonchalantly and amicably allowed to call me by the shortened version of my first name for no particular reason.

For a fleeting moment, our eyes meet. But my attention quickly shifts beyond her to the rather dreadful poster on the wall before I, undeterred, proclaim my decision.

The last one.

Sounds good.

November, 2007

T hrough this door, then right. You can take a seat in the corridor. Mr. Decker will pick you up.

Thank you. I nod as I trail her finger down the corridor. 

Our eyes lock when I return my gaze to her, but before I can say anything else, she’s twirled away, not giving me a second more of her precious time and attention. Oh…

My fingers clasp the handle of my bag tightly before I step back and stride through the door, as per her instructions. The clicking noise of my heels rebounds bleakly from the walls around me, amplifying the sound unnecessarily in the quiet surroundings when I walk to the appointed seating and the only green in this gray flood, a plastic fern.

Sitting down, I place the neatly organized folder with my life’s achievements on my lap and blow out the remaining air trapped in my lungs while my eyes fly left and right into the long hallway. The doors leading to different offices are all closed. There are no heavy telephone conversations, no loud meeting discussions, no buzz, no murmur. There is just the eerie hush of emptiness silently mocking me. Maybe because it’s Friday afternoon...? Perhaps everybody has left already? Maybe it’s a sign from the universe telling me this ‘door’ will stay closed as well…

Fuck…

The word slips easily off my tongue with an uneasy sigh as the restlessness shivers through me. It’s overly dramatic, yet there is nothing I can do to stop my body from performing the exaggerated move. Normally, I’m not this theatrical, but after two strikingly failed attempts to secure a First Officer’s position, even I can’t fully control the sudden nerves rolling through my stomach anymore.

‘Third time’s a charm, sweetheart…’ the sweet, encouraging words dance before my eyes, ready to swing me into full power mode. Yet, the only thing it does is attempt to confiscate my normally solid, optimistic attitude. 

The running global economic crisis has also cast a daunting shadow over the entire aviation industry––airliners are collapsing left and right, making experienced pilots jobless from one day to another. Especially for zero-hour pilots like me, it has become an arduous feat even to get invited for one interview, let alone two or three… Yet here I am, with two award-winning disasters, first with Ryanair, followed by Transavia, freshly done and dusted. Well, not really your doing though…

Nevertheless, the chant echoes softly in the back of my mind. I close my eyes, a mellow chuckle escaping my lips. Where’s the charm when the start of my career, once again, depends on an unknown number of men…? Since when are we this barren?

I’ve never been a ‘happy-go-lucky’ kinda gal, nor have I ever believed in fortune; I’ve always worked hard for my goals and future, never letting luck or serendipity decide my course. However, today, here at the CAE Hoofddorp, while waiting for Mister Julian Decker of Denim Air, I suddenly feel the extremely rare urge to trust the ancient idiom. Maybe because the man who spoke the words to me has my heart in his hands, making whatever rolls of his lips pure and obsequious liquid for my ears. 

My heart bounces with the thought of the man who can turn my insides into molten lava with just a lust-filled gaze and a feather-light touch of my skin. Sweet Jesus… right now? The only man I cannot have and the one man I should not be thinking about right now.

I squeeze my hands together, desperately trying to redirect my roaming mind off a dangerous path it shouldn’t wander right now. But instead of focusing on the Dutch-owned company specialized in wet-lease contracts, their short- and long-term contracts for airliners in need of extra capacity––worldwide, and the rest of my carefully prepared material, my mind is set on the full lips of my secret and the firm grip of his hands on my body… 

MarieLouise? Hi! Julian Decker. Welcome.

The timber of his voice arrives like a sledgehammer on the back of my head and brings me back to the here and now without warning. 

Holy shit. Where did I go? Dangerous places… those you love to roam… 

Mister Decker, nice to meet you! 

I jump up like a bullfrog and extend my arm to shake his hand, my head spinning from the sudden change in altitude. 

Nice to meet you, too. Please follow me.

I dip my chin with a soft smile, my cheeks burning with embarrassment.

First of all, my sincere apologies for moving this interview two times. I had to go to Africa last minute. It’s hectic at the moment.

No. No problem at all. I reply while I follow him in his wake. 

I have found my normal voice again as soon as we approach the meeting room. I’m happy to be here.

Julian Decker is typically Dutch tall, well-built, fit, structured face and dark brown hair draped backward in soft waves. No beard, but a little stubble, shading his face nicely. I estimate him to be over 45, maybe a tad older. It’s hard to say with the manly five o’clock shadow, full eyebrows, and thick hair, without a single streak of grey, perfectly combed back and held in place. I guess, for his age, he looks… good.

My colleague, head of training here at Denim, who should’ve been sitting next to me for our interview, is absent today, so I’ll be asking the questions alone. Is that ok?

Yes, of course, I reply, taking out one of the seats around the round table in the middle of the room. 

Don’t worry, it’s an informal, formal conversation. I would like to get to know you better. So... tell me something about yourself? 

He waves his hand toward the folder in front of me. I hand it to him before I start with my speech: my flight training at the NLS, my technical background, my work experience, and so on and so on—everything I have carefully prepared with the man who knows more about aircraft than anybody I know! 

My razor-sharp focus is back, just like my inviolable voice, thank goodness, as the words roll off my lips confidently.

Nice, nice… He replies as he opens up the folder with my papers and certificates. I’ll tell you something about the company, he continues. We are an ACMI with contracts all over the place. We have Fokker 50 and Dash 8, as you might know. At first, I wanted you on the Dash… Now I’ve seen you in person… I think you’re more suitable for the Fokker. It’s a better fit. 

He flips through the sheets of the file I gave him, letting his eyes wander over the pages. Better fit?

Ah. Ok… A minor confusion seeps through my voice. 

More suitable? What fits better? What does that mean? Do I fit better in a Fokker chair? Does my head fit better in the Fokker cockpit? Is that a compliment, or am I disappointing in real life...? Did I lose the prime space? Or did I win the hotspot?

The useless questions shoot through my brain like little spear arrows. What does it matter what type of aircraft Julian Decker thinks would fit me better, as long as it is one of them. 

But before I can elaborate with more than just the plain ‘Ah. Ok…’ Julian Decker closes the folder with a dull thump and looks directly into my eyes. The room wraps immediately in a strange silence, one I comprehend all too well.

MarieLouise... Marie, his voice changes promptly into a more serious tone, here is my problem... He taps his pen on the table, seemingly doubtful how to end that sentence. I only have men in the cockpit… 

A pang of disappointment lingers in the back of my throat, knowing I don’t want to hear what is about to come. Still, I muster a professional nod.

This means you could be the sole female flight deck crew member... People, what is up with these dramatic silences in between? But what you have to understand here is…, he cups the back of his neck, we are not a ‘standard’ company with ‘normal’ flight executions. We have operations far from the usual. Like the one in Afghanistan or those in Africa. Contracts in places far from any Western normality. Places without any standard facilities nor safety and comfort. The ‘dirty’ work is done by the Fokker. It’s the main difference between her and the Dash. he drops his hand from his neck back on the table. I have to be able to deploy you everywhere I want and need, for all the different contracts; otherwise, you won’t be an asset for the company, and I can’t give you any preferential treatment... That wouldn’t be fair. Fair? That’s his concern? There are filthy jokes, farting and burping, loading and offloading cargo yourself, zero opulence.

‘Filthy jokes, farting, burping’… the words repeat themselves inside my head multiple times in an annoying, unwanting hymn while he stares at me. Dark, almost black eyes serving me with a ‘you look like a sweet, innocent girl, with your blond curly hair, dark brown doe eyes, and cute but dupable coy smile plastered on your lips. Twenty-four years old, you haven’t seen anything yet, and I’m not sure if you would survive the brutality and harshness of the men working for me’, look.

The list goes on. There is little emancipation here, not even in the cabin... Besides, I’m looking for a real hands-on mentality: no whining, complaining, or crying. A lot of work, hard work. Do you think you can handle that? Or am I taking too much of a risk…? He pauses, but his penetrating gaze doesn’t leave mine, not even for a second. 

Do I think I can handle that? Gosh… ‘handle’ might be a tad understated. Yet I can’t tell him. I can’t tell him I’ve been ‘seasoned’ in means nobody will ever know about. Hardened, ragged, and stained in ways that’ll forever leave me hard-boiled, resilient, and hardwearing. Certainly, handling a man or two on a flight deck, where I feel more at home than anywhere else in the world, shouldn’t be a bug. 

You are very… Silence. beautiful. Silence. You’ve got all the right trimmings and… assets… that can’t cause me more problems than I already have. Noooo, he did not just go there? With us, your nails will break instead of being polished... He ends his chatter with a surprising gawk on my long nails.

For a moment, I’m dumbstruck, unable to get a word out.Do my professional capabilities depend on my seemingly innocent appearance, how my slightly underdeveloped chest is shaped, how my blond hair falls down my waist, or how my mouth smiles? Are my qualified flying skills measured against the contours of my frame? Does the size of my uterus determine how well I handle loading heavy cargo, commit to essential decision-making, or pull twenty tons into the air? Is my professional competence evaluated by my burping skills, or how well I take the absence of luxury while I land the aircraft on one engine because the other one had a flame out? Do my flying abilities hang on the shape of my naughty bits, or how well my tiny apples fill the basket? He did go there. Tell him.

I stare back at him—his face’s unreadable and flat, not a single emotion dripping from his countenance. 

Um, I cough.

Jee Cee… I should’ve prepped for this little side road. I mean, it’s not the first time blunt questions like these have been thrown at me. Still, every single time, they smack me with disbelief.

The wary, however, doesn’t stretch long when reality hits me with the same force. My future depends on this one response. The one answer that has nothing to do with my credentials and capabilities as a pilot yet will make me a First Officer… or not.

I am well aware of the physical differences between men and women, but none of those differences… have, will or shall affect my professional skills. Besides, I have varied interests, Mister Decker. Aircraft, cars, extreme sports, to name a few, and I think I also have a bit of women-knowledge... I smile at him, leaving him with a spare second in silence. I have always been around men and worked together with men during my training, but also now, as a crew planner. My gender has never caused my work to curtail, nor has my womb bounded my abilities on the flight deck. The qualities that make a man a good pilot make me a good pilot. I am equally, if not more, committed, passionate, curious, and focused. Smart and highly driven. And I am convinced the physical differences between us do not, and shall never, interfere with the way I execute all aspects of my work, my duty in and outside the cockpit or when it comes to doing the ‘dirty work.’ 

I keep my unwavering sight level with his. If he thought he could intimidate me, he got me all wrong.

Hmm, he taps his pen on the table. 

He seems surprised, but it’s hard to say with those dark pupils that don’t reveal any sentiment. 

Are you in love, engaged, or married? He asks without blinking an eye.

Huh? Come again…? Is that even legit, to ask something like that? I mean, he is really going down there.

Uhm… none of the three…

That is officially not entirely true, and I am fully aware that ‘lying’ during a job interview is not exactly the standard or the aim. Yet, this is the best answer for all parties involved, besides the fact it is none of his business. 

BEAUTIFUL, so you can’t get pregnant! His voice peaks high as if he has reached the breakthrough of his decision.

Wait… WHAT?? His bold reaction has me drawn back the slightest bit. Pregnant? 

Uh, no, t-that’s not on the planning for now. I quickly follow up, blinking away the fog suddenly staining my vision. God, I’m 24 years old…

Great! Yeah, you know…! He laughs out loud, filling the room with an awkwardness I feel more than he does, clearly. During all those after-work hours, things… Before you know it... his hand flicks from side to side, rounding up in front of his stomach, illustrating a pregnant belly, these fiddling activities cause a lot of inconvenience, especially for me! I can’t miss you for months on maternity leave! Yep, he went there, and he went there good… 

I blink quickly to keep my eyeballs moist. Is this real? Or am I being pranked? Didn’t modern times prove, in more ways than one, that you don’t need to be in love, engaged, or married to produce a baby? Clearly not.

Right, I say, not knowing whether this will be the answer to his question.

So… Thank you for your time! I will discuss this with the right people here and call you after the weekend.

His eyes sweep up and down my frame before coming back to my face.

Don’t worry too much; if Uncle Julian says it’s all right, it’s gonna be all right. The harsh clap of his hands makes me jump. 

Holy guacamoly, this man can give me a whiplash, no problem—left, right, center. And here I am, thinking I’m a high-speed, hasty wind, moving in all directions simultaneously. Girl, you are a cosmic storm.

He rises gracefully to his full, slightly impressive height while extending his arm toward me. Our hands meet in the middle with a firm handshake before I trail him out of the meeting room, as though I do not care about all the weird questions he’d fired off at me.

When we reach the double doors leading to the central staircase, Julian Decker holds the door open until we are face-to-face again. His eyes bounce between mine for a moment with a look I can’t quite comprehend. They hold a hint of sympathy, perhaps even genuine concern. Or maybe I am merely deluding myself, and this is nothing more than a simple yet compassionate farewell; ‘good luck with your further career, if you’ll ever have one…’ 

It was nice meeting you, Marie. He’s standing so close to me that I have to crack my neck to look up at him, his manly, woodsy scent enveloping me. 

When he finally lifts his hand, palm facing up for me to shake, I replicate the smile he has curved effortlessly on his mouth before I put my hand in his and tell him goodbye. It is solid and rapid, then he turns around and stalks out of sight. Oh…

2

Whoever said ‘patience is a virtue’ obviously never had to wait the weekend, plus one extra day for a phone call with the redeeming words ‘Congrats, you got the job!’. True though, when William Langland wrote the expression, back in the late 1300s, the man didn’t have a phone, making submitting to the proverbial phrase probably much easier.

Normally, I possess much more self-control and endurance when it comes to virtuousness, but to say I’ve been calm and collected during these days is quite the understatement of this running century.

It’s Tuesday, midday, when my phone finally rings, dropping my heart in my stomach. For a second, I am motionless until the adrenaline snaps me right back and into action. I step into the glass boardroom right behind my office and swallow hard.

MarieLouise, good afternoon! It’s Julian Decker from Denim Air. How are you? Julian Dekker’s voice is exactly the same on the phone as in real life. He sounds cheerful, almost happy. Come on, get on with it!

Mister Decker. I am fine, good, thank you. It comes too quickly out of my mouth while the words twist nervously. Couldn’t you call yesterday?

That’s great. Well, I can congratulate you... Your interview was successful, and we would like to offer you a contract, Amsterdam-based Fokker 50. The type rating will start on January 7. Together with three others, you will commence with the computer-based training, CBT, and full flight simulator training at the CAE Training Center here in Hoofddorp. But you will receive the rest of the information just before the starting date. His soft breathing resonates in my ear. Welcome to Denim.

Oh... In disbelief, I cover my open mouth with my free hand, my eyes wide open, my mind without a thought. Wow... 

Congratulations Marie… Well deserved.

Thank you. Get it together, girl. Thank you so much…

How I manage to utter the most used phrase of gratitude with sound and solidity, I can’t tell. I close my eyes and admonish myself, fighting the tears burning in my eyes. Bewilderment and shock crisscross through my body but are quickly replaced by a wave of happiness and excitement. It’s an unparalleled rollercoaster, a torrent of feelings I’ve never experienced. The indescribable feeling the moment I realize my life, like I have always known it, will change forever. The chaos has given way to calmness as all the little pieces irrevocably lock together and suddenly make perfect sense. It is actually happening. I am going to fly. Finally!

***

It’s January 7, early morning, when I stare up at the big grey brick building with a funny protruding window that houses CAE Hoofddorp––the place where my Fokker 50 training will take place.

Together with my new colleagues, Simon, Dex, and Austin, we have been assigned a classroom plus ground school instructor in the middle of the corridor for the time we need to finish the CBT (computer-based training).

The room has no windows, eight large white desks with vibrant blue chairs, eight computers, and a gigantic whiteboard. It feels like an uninviting cave, mainly grey and off-white, with bright, white fluorescent tube lights and a predominant smell of industrial cleaner. Even though the four of us have never met before today, and we’ve only exchanged the basics of an introduction, we share this slightly odd first impression of the room where we’ll spend the upcoming weeks of our life together. The bonding is quick, yet strong.

From day one, the workload plunged us into a whirlwind of craziness. Hundreds of gray slides follow each other in a never-ending loop: from ‘bleed air’ to ‘fire shut-off valve,’ from ‘probes’ to ‘landing-gear selector override button,’ from ‘wingspan’ to ‘AC emergency bus 1’.

The days are long, yet, in the cocoon of our transformed sanctuary, with all of us taking information-eating to the next level, where days meld into a seamless blur and render the concept of weekdays utterly obsolete, we have found ourselves a satisfying routing, giving me everything I’d hoped for.

For the second phase of the training, the full flight simulator, we get to use the newly acquired information in the one-to-one reproduction of the inside of a Fokker 50 flight deck. For a total of 49 hours, we get to push buttons, move levers and handles, turn wheels, and pull switches for all the different systems we have on board while we train for every single failure and emergency scenario possible during all stages of flight, at different airports all over the world. And with the subtle combination of play and seriousness so well put together, it is hard to imagine anything that can peer with this amalgamation.

The scheduled sessions for Simon and I are all late at night. And although I truly flourish as soon as the sun sets, these midnight sessions have cut through me.

But despite the fatigue, I love the intensity of the training, how every single movement made is imitated and followed up by the simulator. Pushing the throttles forward and seeing the indicator needles jump up and down. How a light pull of the control column takes the aircraft smoothly off the ground and into the air, what effect an extended landing gear has on pitch and speed, how alarm bells ring, or how an engine failure swings the aircraft in the direction of the ‘dead engine.’ 

Actions and solid commands run effortlessly in emergencies, and landing the Fokker successfully on one engine is hugely soothing to my soul. I adore the systematic workflow and the way my OCD gets to handle a step-by-step plan for every situation.

We’re in a little over a month, and I can hardly imagine my life any other way or how I ever lived without an aircraft underneath my butt. 

The progress is fast and smooth, and when the final exam, the prof check, is here, it’s hard to say where time has gone. 

I stare at all my notes and papers on the kitchen table, a shaky breath leaving my lips. This is, sort of, the most important examination of my life, where everything I have done before this needs to come together. Even though I have done plenty of other important exams, this one feels extra critical.

Being the only woman in my group and on the Fokker entirely has given my training file a lot of ‘extra attention.’ Maybe that’s why it doesn’t feel like a surprise when the examiner changes to Julian Decker at the last minute. At the eleventh hour, my boss decided he was the only one qualified to judge my performance. There cannot be any chance that, not as a pilot, but as the only girl, I’m unable to stand my ground in the right seat, nor incapable of performing in the utmost perfectioned way he has set for me the moment the decision was made to give me the position. 

No, it didn’t come as a surprise, yet I feel the pressure of not wanting to fail him. Him––my new boss. As if he is the savior?

Four hours––that’s all it took. Four hours to weave together the threads of intense training that have consumed my last few weeks. Four hours to flaunt my female flying skills and knowledge that should have satisfied Julian Decker’s impeccable standards for me. 

Did I do good enough to deserve a spot on the dudes’ team? Was I able to convince the main man that the girl rightfully earned a seat in his all-men crew? Could ‘milady’ handle the load? For a second, I want to tell him I can burp on command, but thank goodness I don’t have the guts to get the little joke rolling off my tongue with the needed banter.

Julian and our instructor Josh have left the sim, leaving Simon and me behind to close off before we silently walk, side by side, to the briefing room. 

As soon as I round the corner, Julian Decker meets my gaze head-on. Dark, hard eyes, unforgivingly locked onto mine, his expression stoic and unreadable. Welcome to Menland, baby…

My legs carry me willingly through the door, pulling me with magnetic force toward my new boss. When I am right in front of him, the icy silence instantly evaporates once he extends his hand towards me, mirroring our first meeting. The déjà vu’s sucker punches me off; nevertheless, I put my hand in his. Five large, warm fingers gently close around mine, drawing me a step closer. 

We’re face to face, with only a tiny amount of space between us, yet I don’t see him.

Congratulations, Marie! It booms around me. You have passed your Fokker 50 prof check! Well done, lady! All the hard edges of his face are now soft and warm as he squeezes my shoulder tenderly. You’ve impressed me! 

His words slam all sensible senses out of me, followed by the air in my lungs and the feeling in my legs when the meaning slowly registers.

You have passed.

You have passed…

You have passed!

It doesn’t take long for his words to settle in fully. A ton of emotions rush through me; my heart bangs with heavy pounds against my ribcage, and my head spins lightly into heaven. 

Thank you! I exhale while the words softly sing around me.

Julian lets go of my hand and turns to Simon, but their words are nothing more than a distant rumble, turning the noises around me into silence, and only the three simple words with such a huge meaning repeat themselves in my head: You... have... passed…! I have passed! 

3

Y ou’re not… concerned? The uncertain eyes of my training manager find mine.

Weakly, I shake my head.

Worried? He tries again.

A tiny frown follows, creasing the skin between his brows, his lips in a hard line. No, I was not concerned or worried, but with the look he’s giving me right now, I get the feeling he needs me to carefully reconsider that thought for reasons still unknown… 

I’m about to start the line training, and for my first trip, I am flying to Lagos, Nigeria. Alone… This little scrap of information is now causing a small stir at the office and that slightly anxious expression on my training manager’s face.

This is exactly what Julian was talking about during my interview—the difficult hassle of being ‘the only girl’ on a trip rotation. 

The heated silence drags on while he impatiently waits for my reply. 

I’ll survive. I decide on. 

I mean, how bad can it be…?

Three days later, halfway through the evening, I set foot on Nigerian ground for the first time in my life. After almost seven hours of flight, I stride, together with the rest of the crowd coming from the same flight, across Lagos Murtala Muhammed International Airport, hoping, as a herd animal, the group will lead me in the right direction of the baggage hall. 

I mean, there are clear signs, and I have an insane amount of directional awareness, but the easy-breezy approach at this new airport gives an odd sense of safety. Whatever makes you sleep at night, Marie. It’s a strange, settling feeling to follow strangers who all go in the same direction; even if it might be the wrong way, at least we are together. And now that I have entered the unofficially proclaimed ‘terrestrial portion of imperilment’ for my white female being, according to my supervisors, if something were to happen to me, there are a shit-ton of witnesses all around me. I don’t know why, but even that little piece gives unreasonable yet enough reassurance.

After a brisk walk, the herd leads me to the arrival hall, a huge hall with several baggage belts going around, way too many people, and unattended baggage scattered here and there in the far corners of the vast space. 

But as soon as I come down the stairs, the crowd’s attention is not on the appropriate baggage belt or their personal belongings. Instead, the scrutinizing, bright, and basting limelight is on me as I semi-casually stroll to the baggage belt with number 3 hanging above it. Well, that’s rather unfortunate and unnecessary…

Besides the unnerving effect a mass larger than four peeps has on my system, the detailed dissecting attention I’m receiving right now has also knotted my stomach and tightened the invisible strap around my chest. It’s not a good feeling, and for sure, not a good look.

In almost any other situation, I would face my ‘dreads’ head-on, but today is not that day. So, in a desperate attempt to duck from direct contact, I take out my phone and scroll semi-nonchalantly through my settings in search of the airport Wi-Fi.

A long list of weak-signaled routers appears in my network list, quickly vanishing my hopes for a workable connection. Of course, my daily dose of luck is below-freezing levels… so no surprise there… We don’t believe in luck, remember?

Time passes painstakingly slowly as we all wait for the baggage belt to start moving when suddenly, a young man accompanies me at the baggage belt. He introduced himself as the driver, the one tasked with bringing me to the De-Vine Hotel & Suites, the company’s choice of crew accommodation. 

We exchange a couple of benign acknowledgments before we both turn to silence.

For some unexplainable reason, his company is just as soothing as uncomfortable. Protective as well as unnerving. Although he looks rather young, his arms are the size of guns, and even though his eyes are dark but friendly, he does have this ‘don’t fuck with me’ appearance leisurely draped over him. 

How in the world did he get here, here in the arrival hall? It’s rather an unusual spot to pick up somebody. Maybe it’s standard for Lagos. He did mention the name of the hotel. Not that this info is a full-blown CIA protection program security blanket; the crew has gone to this hotel for years already. So, that secret has been out for a while now. Shit.

My hands entwine when the belt finally starts moving although without a sign of any suitcases arriving yet. Meanwhile, my mind has become a battleground of contradictions, each conflicting event colliding with the next at a dizzying speed, turning my thoughts into a chaotic whirlwind. But it’s too late when I realize I should have asked him more questions. My suitcase has appeared on the belt, and the young-looking guy grabs it before I can voice my objection.

I should have asked for his identification or at least his name. I could have cross-verified his identity with the office. Could have, should have. Now it’s too late, too late, to require some fundamental information about the man who has captured me and my suitcase out of free will. 

Shit! I exhale sharply as I chase after him through the busyness of the arrival hall towards the exit.

I must give it to him; he is quick, dodging peeps like a professional while rolling my large, shiny suitcase alongside him. As if he has done it a million times before, and the whole activity doesn’t cost him a single ounce of energy. On the other hand, I am panting from the short chase, desperate to keep close to him and dodging the same number of people in a decent attempt to stay alive. Props for the effort, girl!

We slide through the sliding doors outside, where many  more Nigerian men are waiting for family and friends. From one moment to another, I am slapped with the obnoxious humidity hitting my face, the crashing loudness, and the smell of car gases penetrating my nose. 

My frantic eyes fly left and right, scanning the heavy crowd before me. I think I have stopped breathing when we stepped outside because my lungs feel crushed when awareness quickly sets in: the spotlight attention I received inside the arrival hall is nothing compared to the studying I am getting right now. Why do these people find me so intriguing?

My face flares with heat. Gosh, there is so much, so much to see, realize, absorb, dodge… Nope, groups of peeps are not your thing.

As if my driver can sense my slight alarm, he stops his quick step, turns around, and grabs my upper arm. Not hard, but strong enough to lead me with determination to the waiting van on the other side of the road. 

The moment his large hand wraps around my arm, and he continues his fast pace, people miraculously part to let us through. I mean, it’s nothing short of that significant Red Sea moment a little while back. Good luck, girl. You need it. 

I can’t lie; my ‘new friend’ here has verve, slaying with a pomposity that is new to me. But it is not enough to settle the bubbling in my stomach. In God’s name, what is happening?

He escorts me quickly to the blinded, white van parked along many other vehicles across the street. Everything goes so fast: from pulling me through the heavy crowd, between parked cars and moving traffic, to the other side of the street, the roughly sliding doors of the van, and the unsubtle coercion of my rigid frame into the back seat.

Holy moly, I didn’t think this through enough, but the time to change my mind is gone; before I know it, I’m sitting in the back seat of an unknown van while the heavy sliding door closes with a bang behind me. Trapped.

My eyes fly left and right before they land on another young male in the front seat, dressed in military clothing and with an AK-47 clamped between his legs.

As we all know by now, I never made it to the basic military training, but I do recognize the most commonly used firearms and this particular bad boy right away. No…

The kidnap suspicion has swiftly become a reality with a velocity I could’ve never imagined. It is only 9:45 p.m., and I have gone from joyfully following the horde to being taken into hostage willingly—all in all, one hour something since my arrival. 

Oh… hi... the words sound foreign, even to my own ears. But I’m staggered by the lack to fathom a clear mental picture as my heart beats out of my throat.

I chuckle mellowly, although funny is the least of all things I’m feeling right now. 

For a second or so, nothing happens. Then, he slowly opens one eyelid, emits a low, humming noise in my direction, and tilts his head ever so slightly to the left. Oh… Was that a sign for me to stay seated, nice, and quiet, otherwise, disciplinary actions will be taken? Or was this a friendly welcome into the