Shirley, Brayden, and I flew home from New Orleans last night. Rather than land as we approached the runway, our Southwest pilot bypassed landing and began wide circling over St. Louis. After about 15 minutes, he announced that the plane's flaps were not working. He was flying around, trying to get them to function. He was reassuring, telling us we could land anyway, but he preferred to do so with working flaps. After another 15 minutes he told us we were going to land, using "of course, the longest runway," and that there would be fire trucks along the runway but only in an abundance of caution. [In all my years of flying, this was only the second time fire trucks lined the runway in anticipation of a problem.]
Shirley was perfectly calm. Brayden and I began measuring our heartbeat rates with my Apple Watch. (Our heart rates picked up considerably.) The pilot landed the plane with a very, very long bumpy ground ride, brakes screeching. When the plane stopped, everyone cheered, especially Brayden and I. Shirley said she only became alarmed when it took so long to stop the plane. Then the pilot announced that we would sit for a bit while the firemen checked out the plane's brakes. After another short wait, we turned toward to the gate. We could see there was about 100 feet more of runway as the plane turned.
We were very happy to disembark, about 45 minutes late.
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