OUT OF THE BLUE

Before the pandemic, planes were in constant motion, pinballing between continents. But in March 2020 all that came to a halt. What did a year without flying do to our jobs, our horizons – and the planet?

- Cal Flyn

ON 14 MARCH 2020, I LEFT MY HOME in the Orkney Islands to drive to Edinburgh international airport. I was due to travel to Germany for a research trip. Full of nervous anticipation, and making frantic last-minute preparations, I hadn’t paid as much attention to the coronavirus crisis as I might have, but events were developing so quickly across Europe, it was dawning on me that international travel might not be an option for much longer.

By 5am, as I boarded the ferry, the radio bulletins seemed apocalyptic. On board, passengers sat separately, in their own private islands of paranoia. I wore a mask over my nose and mouth, and cleaned my armrests with a baby wipe soaked in Dettol. In the toilets, the ship pitching beneath my feet, I scrubbed my hands for 60 seconds and examined my own reflection. Grey, I thought. Anxious.

Four hours later, I stopped in at my parents’ place near Inverness, where I checked emails on my phone. I had a lot of them. “Don’t come,” one of my German contacts said, simply. Another had cancelled our meeting due to childcare problems; all schools had suddenly closed. A hotel regretfully informed me that it would not be able to honour my booking. My flight, however, was still scheduled to depart on time.

Far above, thousands of planes were still pin balling around Europe, Asia, Africa, the Americas. They crowded the airspace over London and Amsterdam and Paris, converging from all directions. They were launching over oceans with a cannonball momentum; weaving cleanly between each other in a mannered, balletic dance.