If you know me even a little, you have probably heard me jabber on about airplanes. Specifically, commercial aviation. I love it, and I completely nerd out about it! If anybody, and I do mean anybody, tells me they are getting on a flight, I will impose upon them to ask more about the time, the date, the airline and the plane, so I can track the aircraft they are on. This scratches an itch for me; it feels good to be in the know and to have confidence that everything went well and all parties are safe. Knowing that someone is flying over Lebanon, Missouri, or Eastern Nova Scotia, with an estimated flight time remaining of so many hours and so many minutes gives me almost a spiritual certainty that the world around us is on the move and that we are just trying to keep up with it. 

It was 21 years ago this week when I took my very first flight. I was 10 years old, and the flight was a direct service from Detroit Metro Airport (DTW) to Orlando International Airport (MCO) on board the dearly departed Spirit Airlines. My grandparents were taking my family and I to Disney World, and then on a short Disney Cruise. I had traveled before, I would even say extensively for someone my age, but never on an airplane. I remember so many things about the experience, but I will treat you to some of the funniest bits: I asked my grandmother if this flight would be on a 747 jumbo jet? The answer was no, it was an old MD-83 with some tragic vinyl upholstery. I remember getting on the shuttle bus to get to the terminal and the only other passenger on board with us was a woman travelling for business with American Airlines. I remember the way we throttled up and climbed out of Detroit, and I felt the intense pressure of being glued to my seat as we gained altitude. I had the window seat, which remains my personal preference to this day. And finally, to prove to everyone that it was my first flight, I made sure to engage the flight attendant call button to ask what I felt was an urgent question: What was our current altitude? My mom was seated next to me and was shaking her head. The flight attendant chuckled and told me he wasn’t exactly sure but probably about 35,000 feet, and we should be on the ground in a little over an hour.

I was as happy as I’d ever been. We saw Magic Kingdom, we dined with Goofy and Micky Mouse. We saw the Bahamas and swam in the ocean. We ate ice cream and pizza late at night by the pool. This was the first time I ever had Frogs Legs and Escargot, unlocking new heights to my culinary adventures for years to come. This trip was also the first time I had room service, which I found out was not free. Can you imagine? Macaulay Culkin made it look so easy. 

In the last week, I have been thinking a lot about this trip. This fascination I have with airplanes, airlines, and aviation started on a low-cost carrier known as Spirit Airlines. This was well before they went all in on the bright yellow livery, and even before they decided to change the aviation industry forever and charge passengers for carry-on bags. Hell, even the terminal that we flew out of at DTW doesn’t exist anymore. But that airline, with all its quirks and all its charm, is where it all started for me. We had a great family vacation, and since that trip in May of 2005, I have traveled by plane all over the United States, as well as over the pond to Europe on three separate occasions. I have broadened my horizons, and now I consider myself a frequent flier.

I got my wings with Spirit, and I would be lying if I said I wasn’t grieving this loss like it was one of my own. All the people, the crew, and of course, the passengers, felt a certain amount of comfort in knowing that Spirit would definitely squeeze you in, nickel and dime you up the wazoo, but they never had a fatal crash and they were serving destinations that made it easier for people like us to get those magical moments that feel core to who I have become.

I will leave you with one more story about Spirit Airlines. I boarded a flight in Atlanta, coming home to Detroit, for a long weekend in February of 2018. I didn’t pay extra for anything; I packed light, I dressed in layers, and I had my very own granola bar. I did not have a seat assignment, and when I got to the boarding gate, I was pulled aside while the agents assigned me a seat. They said something about assisting in an emergency and I knew exactly what was in store for me: I had secured an exit row seat. Jackpot, I thought. Only problem was I was in the middle seat of the exit row, which these thick thighs of mine were not happy about. Once the boarding door closed, I slid over to the window seat of the exit row. This was the height of luxury. I had leg room, the window seat, and a couple hours to kill in the air before getting back home. As we were preparing for takeoff, the flight attendants were doing their final cabin checks. My backpack was tucked under the seat in front of me but, out of reach now that I had all this extra legroom. A blonde woman in her Spirit uniform came by and tucked my bag further up under that seat in front of me. I quietly said, “Thank You,” and she said in perfect form, “That’ll be $9.99.” I laughed all the way to Chattanooga.

With grateful admiration,

Daniel J. Neebes