During the final 20 minutes of a nine-hour all-nighter from Rio de Janeiro to Miami, I came face to face with an unspeakable horror. It was about 5 a.m. The cabin was dark, save for a few passenger reading lamps and a dim glow from the main-cabin galley where I was busy completing the liquor inventory.

As I locked the last of the service carts, a young kid stumbled into the galley. He was about 8 years old, with big doll-like eyes that blinked sluggishly beneath his wrinkled brow. He frowned and held his belly in both hands.

"What's the matter?" I asked.

"I don't feeeeel good," he said. He spoke in a soft, reedy voice that would have melted the hearts of my co-workers had they not retreated into the lavatories to freshen up before landing.

My heart didn't melt, however. I took two steps backward, worried that the kid would puke on my shoes.

"Where are your parents?" I demanded.

"Sleeeeeping."

"Do you need to go to the bathroom?" (I said this while nodding vigorously and pointing to the nearest lavatory.)

"Nooooo."

"Hmmmm ... I guess your tummy hurts, huh?"

"Yesssss," he said.

I sat him on the jump seat while I searched for some ginger ale to help settle his stomach. He stared sullenly into space, rocking, with both arms wrapped around his waist.

By the time I turned back to give him the glass of ginger ale, his eyes seemed to have grown to twice their original size. There was a look of blatant surprise on his face -- the comical expression of a boy who, upon hearing his father tumble down the stairs, suddenly remembered where he'd left his toy fire engine. His eyes grew even wider. His lips pursed. His cheeks swelled to Dizzy Gillespie proportions. But this kid was preparing to blow something other than air into a trumpet.

In 13 years as a flight attendant I've seen more than my fair share of air sickness. I once saw a drunken couple take turns barfing into each other's lap, as if playing a sickly version of "Can You Top That." I watched a Catholic priest vomit into the face of his secular seatmate. I watched a teenage girl open the seat-back pocket in front of her and proceed to fill it with the contents of her stomach. I watched a queasy businessman splatter the last row of passengers after an ill-fated sprint toward the lavatory.

In one particularly memorable episode that triggered a chain reaction of in-flight regurgitation, I watched the volcanic eruption of a 300-pound vacationer who'd eaten three servings of lasagna. After witnessing this spectacle (and inhaling the pungent odor that wafted through the cabin in its wake) more than two dozen passengers leaned into the aisle and retched. Gallons of heavy liquid splashed onto the carpet; even if you closed your eyes you could not escape the sound. Or the smell. I still get queasy just thinking about it.

Throughout all these years of high-altitude nausea there is one consolation, however. Though I've dumped enough air-sick bags to fill an Olympic-size pool, though my olfactory gland has been violated far beyond the limits of rational expectation, though I've sprinkled more puke-absorbent coffee grounds than Maxwell House would care to know, I have never been splattered by a single drop of vomitus.

But now, an 8-year-old kid with bulging eyes and a high-octane stomach was aiming his nozzle directly at me.

In the split-second that I realized he was about to explode, I dived to one side like a stunt man in a Schwarzenegger flick. I hit the floor, rolled once and came to rest against the aft right-hand exit door. From this relatively safe vantage point, I watched the action unfold in a semi-detached, slow-motion blur.

Just before the kid convulsed, he managed to cover his mouth with both hands. But this maneuver seemed to cause more harm than good. Thin sheets of ejecta shot from between his tiny fingers and splattered the face of all four galley ovens. His head proceeded to swing side to side in a 180-degree assault that covered the galley in a yellowish-orange slime.

I stared at him with a mixture of awe and repulsion. It was as if he had become one of those rapid-fire lawn sprinklers with the rotating mechanical head. The Lawn Boy 2000: We guarantee maximum saturation or your money back! The stuff just kept coming and coming and coming.

After what seemed like an eternity, the kid finally ran out of juice. Literally. With one half-hearted swipe of his sleeve, he wiped his chin, then turned to look at me. His eyes had returned to normal size. But now they were heavy, weighed down by guilt and embarrassment. His spew-covered hands began to tremble as tears ran down his cheeks.

Watching this display of raw kiddie emotion, my hardened heart loosened a bit. Fighting the stench that was beginning to make me dizzy, I rose to my feet and stepped toward the kid, careful to avoid the pools of ooze that covered much of the galley floor.

As I approached, he began to cry in earnest. Big boo-hoo sobs. Crocodile tears. He just sat there, bawling, covered from head to toe in liquefied airplane cuisine.

Overcome by a paternal urge to pat him on the shoulder, but unable to find an adequate dry spot, I reached out with one finger and sort of ruffled his hair a bit. He looked up at me wearing an expression that, for a moment, tugged at the heartstrings of forgiveness. Then the unthinkable happened.

Much like that infamous scene from "The Exorcist," the kid looked right into my eyes and let loose a Linda Blair pea-soup blast that covered me from the knees down to the tips of my uniform shoes. I stood there, motionless, feeling the molten bile seep through my socks and into the gaps between my toes.

Before I could throttle the kid he leapt from the jump seat and disappeared into the darkened cabin.