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IN PLANE SIGHT

If there is one thing I can definitively say about our government’s war on terror, it is that, without a doubt, they are not racially profiling a durn thing.

I base this on the fact that, if you ask most Americans, they would not tab my 4-year-old old daughter as a potential terrorist. Yet the whole lot of us got the extra special treatment recently when we traveled from Atlanta to Miami.

This was the first time flying for my kids. The last time I had flown was in July of 1999. It’s an easily identified date because, as I sat in the terminal waiting for my plane to leave, the televisions in the airport repeatedly showed scenes of officials hauling John F. Kennedy Jr.s plane from the water. Not exactly what you want to see when you’re about to board a flight.

My wife had been out of the skies even longer, having last flown for our honeymoon in 1998. That was a less than stellar flight as well, because her husband of about 10 hours became essentially crippled by a searing sinus pain that I can only hope never, ever happens to anyone but the most evil people of society.

Add to that Sept. 11, and I can say that my wife and I are not big fans of commercial airflight. Most of our family live in the Southeast, so there’s no reason not to drive there. And with two kids, we don’t travel much that doesn’t involve family visits, so we have been able to successfully avoid air travel for years.

And then the Keys trip came up. Originally, we were going to take a train down to Miami and rent a car there. The trip was affordable, even cheap. Then when we went to book, we found the price had magically jumped to more than $1,400. We knew the only way we were getting to the Keys was through the friendly skies. (Driving was not an option, since 18 hours in a car with a two small children is, well, insane.)

The first thing we had to do was to figure out a way to pack as light as possible. This would not be easy, because for every child you travel with, federal regulations require 43,000 individual toys accompany you. Somehow, my wife managed to trim our luggage down to two suitcases, two carry-ons, and two car seats. (“Underwear is a luxury. We don’t have room for luxuries,” she told me.)

When we arrived at the Atlanta airport, we efficiently loaded up our crew. Her father was dropping us off, and under new regulations, non-flyers can only come as close as Marietta, so we had a good haul ahead of us. After checking what we could, we were down to two carry-ons, one car seat, and two children. Bring on Homeland Security.

Atlanta has one of the busiest airports in the world, and its security queue reflects that quite well. There is a long, snaking mass of angry humanity waiting to get probed, questioned and searched. In an effort to make your search as easy as possible, airport officials have not only cut off the air conditioner, but apparently pump warm, stagnant air into waiting room. It’s like standing nestled in a giant armpit.

As we approached the checkpoint, a security person pulled us aside and told us that the four of us had been selected for additional screening, and that we were to head down a corridor to our right. Now I am sure that he knows as well as everyone else with eyes and the most basic sense of reasoning that the Gibbons family ain’t exactly fitting the profile of your average terrorist. Perhaps feeling obligated to reassure us of our pending hassle, the security clerk leaded over to my wife and me and whisepered, “Don’t worry – you’ll get through secruity faster than all of these people behind you.”

So we headed down the long hall, and were ushered into a small gate with a metal detector. I had to take off my belt and watch, but my shoes were allowed to stay on. The Hello, Kitty sandals my daughter was wearing had to go through the x-ray machine. You figure that one out.

When we got through the detector, we were ushered into a small area where they proceeded to closely inspect our carry-ons and wave a detector wand over every inch of our bodies. Standing there witth her arms outstretched, a woman in a uniform checking every nook and cranny, I am sure my daughter was thinking, “ I have NEVER had a timeout like this.”

In fairness to the guards, they were very professional and courteous, and they are doing a rather thankless job in an effort to keep us safe. And if a security probe of a 4-year-old will keep the skies safe, I’m all for it.

The flight itself was uneventful, which is exactly how flights should be. When we landed, my wife and I were both thrilled with the way everything had gone. In the new era of air travel, this was probably as smooth of a flight as you could have. We were on the ground in Florida, and it was time to start our vacation…

Next week, Mike and his family hit the Keys. And nothing says “parental responsibility” like parasailing 400 feet above the water with your 4-year-old.