The downside to this wonderful perk is the risk of being bumped from the flight. When this happens (and it happens quite often) we're forced to stand by for the next flight. And maybe the next. By the time we're turned away from the last flight of the day, we are frazzled, bitter and worn. Then we return to the airport the following day to repeat the nonrevenue-passenger process.

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My most interesting in-flight encounters have been with regular people, people like you and me. But there's a downside to conversing with hundreds of interesting passengers every week: Occasionally you meet some real pigs.

I've been forced to serve passengers who ate like pigs and smelled like pigs, who dressed, waddled and snorted like pigs. I've waited on pig families. I've tried to silence pig tour groups. But like most flight attendants, I can't claim to have ever been on an airplane with a real pig -- the oink, oink, roll-in-the-mud, soon-to-be-bacon variety.

Unfortunately, some of my colleagues at US Airways can no longer make this claim. On Oct. 17, aboard a Boeing 757 en route to Seattle from Philadelphia, passengers were startled to see a pig in first class. That's right: a pig, in the first-class cabin of a commercial jet. Reports claimed the beast weighed as much as 250 pounds.

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For one nerve-rattling moment it seemed as though she might actually snatch my head with her massive paws and squeeze until it burst like a grape. Instead, the woman made a nonviolent, albeit equally intimidating gesture. Lips pursed, nostrils flaring, she brought her face to within a few inches of my own and thrust her hands upon hips that jiggled like huge jello molds in an earthquake. Then she sort of growled. That's the best way to describe it. She took one deep breath after another and growled.

I was assaulted by harsh breath that shot from her nostrils as if from a high-pressure air hose. The nose blasts hit me right between the eyes, on and off, on and off, in tune to the rhythm of her animosity. Despite a nervous twitching in my upper lip, I stood in front of the boarding gate like a true airline professional: a phony smile pasted across my face, fingers locked behind my back, shoulders back, chin up, chest thrust forward like an army recruit in the face of a maniacal drill instructor. I was dauntless. Unflappable. Quite capable of handling the situation. But as the hulking passenger loomed before me, growing angrier with each blink of her eyes, I felt the first pangs of vulnerability.

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Two months ago, a KLM Royal Dutch Airlines 747 was forced to make an emergency landing when engine pieces plummeted to the ground. Amateur video captured a huge metal cowling as it fell from the Amsterdam, Netherlands-bound plane and landed on a crowded Los Angeles beach.

Beachgoers scattered as fingers pointed toward the sky, tracing the path of the falling object. No one was injured and the plane landed safely. But the investigation uncovered interesting results. As might be expected, KLM was not blamed for the incident. The engine parts fell not because of shoddy maintenance or a mechanical explosion, but because of the flight path of a luckless bird. The Federal Aviation Administration said a Western sea gull flew into the engine, where the National Transportation Safety Board found the bird's splattered remains.

Plane collisions involving birds are quite common. Some 5,000 "bird strikes" were reported last year. But because such reports are voluntary, the FAA believes the actual number of incidents could be five times as high.

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Released from the grip of gravity, you soar through recirculated airplane cabin air, high above those who were wise enough to heed the captain's P.A. announcement. You are still clutching a plastic cup in one hand, but the beverage is now dripping from your seatmate's face. The other hand has let go of the periodical you'd been reading, bringing a whole new meaning to the term "in-flight magazine." You see these images in the slow-motion, frame-by-frame vision of one who has been forcibly ejected from his seat.

From this new and unusual vantage point, you look around and catch glimpses of insanity -- a walking cane minus its owner hurtling through the cabin, a laptop crashing against a bulkhead, an explosion of peanuts, a sea of twisting heads. No longer do you have to imagine how it would feel to fly. You are flying. You are a virtual Peter Pan -- an airborne tourist caught in the grip of severe turbulence.

This is what can happen when you fail to buckle your seat belt.

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Her name is Bertha, but we call her "Big Bertha," not simply because her ass is as wide and unruly as the tail section of a jumbo jet in turbulent air (30 years of feasting on airplane lasagna can wreak havoc on a flight attendant's posterior), or because her voice clacks through the cabin as if amplified through a megaphone. We call her Big Bertha because she's crass, mean, a borderline psychotic  truly the flight attendant from hell!

Like Bigfoot and the Loch Ness Monster, Big Bertha existed in the realm of legend and imagination. In more than a decade of flying, I had never actually seen her. But news of her existence was widespread, instilling fear in those who had yet to fly with her.

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At 7 a.m. one bright and cheerless morning, my ass was in such a sling. But when airline management came to castigate me, when the cold iron hand of guilt snatched me by the neck, I protested innocence with the skill of an indicted politician: "I am not aware of, nor have I ever been aware of, any wrongdoing on my part."

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She was eroticism personified, an angel with wicked predilections. But when we flew to Jamaica two weeks later, when her conflicting personalities came at me like a three-headed beast, I realized our getaway had gone a bit too far.

For all intents and purposes, Tanya and I were still strangers when we checked into the Tree House Hotel in Negril. I knew that she was a struggling New York actress, that she rarely wandered north of Greenwich Village, that she wore a Hefty garbage bag upon her exquisite head whenever she walked alone in Manhattan (she claimed it kept away weirdos) and -- not a surprise -- that she'd been under the baffled eye of a psychotherapist.

She was beautiful, I kept telling myself. I was lonely. Who cared if she was a little strange?

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Roger Fuller, a former police sergeant, has developed a device to help airline crews subdue violent passengers. Equal parts straitjacket and medieval torture instrument, the "Body Restraint Package" is designed with the most serious offenders in mind.

This is no joke.

When violence erupts at 30,000 feet, passengers and crew can't dial 911. They're temporarily cut off from society -- forced to deal with the problem on their own inadequate terms -- until the captain diverts the aircraft to the nearest airport and authorities gain entry to the cabin.

Airline crews are not properly trained to subdue in-flight attackers. Most flight attendants are not physically equipped for the challenge. Pilots are less willing to abandon two-person cockpits and risk injury while settling disputes. All that's left is a pair of plastic flex-cuffs, and the willingness of able-bodied passengers and crew.

Bring on the Body Restraint Package.

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For the past 15 years, I've earned a living as a commercial flight attendant, and having worked nearly 6,000 flights, I've had my fair share of scary moments:

Once, our 727 lost both hydraulic systems while attempting to land in Puerto Rico. The flight engineer had to rip up the carpet in the aisle, pry open a manhole cover and check for the proper indicator while the captain tried to manually crank down the landing gear. In another incident, our captain aborted two consecutive landings during rough weather in the Ecuadorian Andes. He landed on the third try, but later confessed that it was the most perilous landing of his 17-year career.

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I know exactly how they feel.

I'm a flight attendant who works for a competing carrier. A couple of years ago, my airline experienced a similar rash of cancellations due to pilot slowdown.

As is the case with United, our pilots were angry about contractual issues. In protest, they refused to fly overtime -- a tactic that forced the cancellation of countless flights. As is the case with United, our management should have had the foresight to employ an adequate number of pilots.

The world's largest airline has been feeling the pilot squeeze for three long months. With the recent announcement that 2.5 percent of all flights will be canceled in August, there may be no end to the frustration. Thousands upon thousands of pissed-off passengers are spewing venom at the ticket counter, vowing to never fly United again.

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According to news reports, as many as 15 men were involved in the July 6 heist. Armed with machine guns, they overpowered guards at the VASP Brazilian Airlines cargo terminal and drove two vehicles onto the tarmac. Not far away, three suitcases filled with gold were being transferred from an armored car to a VASP airplane bound for Ptrto Alegre. The precious metal was the property of a mining company and had been flown to the airport by helicopter.

The robbers approached the plane, overpowered workers and snatched the three heavy suitcases. During the getaway, they exchanged gunfire with federal police who had arrived at the scene. Though none of the 70 passengers was injured during the shootout, a bullet struck the airplane's wing, missing a fuel tank by inches.

In all the confusion, the gang left behind one suitcase containing 50 pounds of gold. They escaped in stolen vehicles with one hostage, who was released the next morning.

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According to news reports, a 40-year-old man felt a sting on his hand approximately halfway through the flight. Mesaba spokeswoman Shirley Doering says the man looked down and saw the offending creature, which was swiftly killed by another passenger. "Our guess is it probably got into a passenger's carry-on luggage from the Southwest, Mexico or the Caribbean," Doering said.

Passengers were put on other flights while the plane returned to Detroit for fumigation. The victim received immediate medical attention upon landing (of the 1,400 species of scorpion that exist worldwide, only one deadly breed is found in the United States), and was released the same day with a swollen hand and a helluva story. He might be disappointed to discover just how familiar his tale is.

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The gentleman seated in 5-D seemed most likely to pose a problem. Scowling, demonstrative, irritable as an old coot who'd forgotten his medication, he'd stormed the aircraft demanding a double bourbon on the rocks. "Now!" he said, before allowing me a chance to respond.

When I asked him to wait until the boarding process slowed and the aisle was clear of passengers, he flung a hand in the air and mumbled something about lousy airlines and flight attendants who hoard the goddamned liquor.

I had my answer: It was going to be a bad day.

As with most Boeing 727s, our first-class configuration accommodates 12 passengers. On this particular day there were only six passengers aboard: three double-breasted business types on the left of the cabin, three on the right. All of them -- as is so often the case -- were men.

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I shake my head while reading, finding no comfort in the fact that this particular act of violence occurred outside of Bogota, rather than Cali -- our destination. As is the case with most large Colombian cities, the government and police control Cali. Venture past the outskirts of the big city, however, and the roads give way to unimaginable lawlessness. Here you're likely to run into leftist rebel groups like the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia (the group suspected of murdering Elvia Cortes) or the National Liberation Army. If you manage to slip past them unmolested, you'll probably be stopped by right-wing militias who've been known to slaughter those who they believe support the leftists. Then there are bandits, and of course the drug cartels ...

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It took less than two weeks for airline management to terminate the captain. Like the special meal he so desperately desired, his 22-year flying career was consumed, digested, flushed down the toilet and forgotten.

Though such reactions are rare, food -- or the lack thereof -- is as volatile an issue for crew members as it is for airline passengers. Some union contracts require that airlines provide on-board meals for pilots. At Delta Airlines, where pilots have no such provision, the company recently announced a voluntary program to spend $3 million to $5 million for cockpit crew meals on flights where food is served.

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Back bruised and aching, skin lightly broiled from the South Pacific sun, I hobbled to my thatch-roof bungalow on the French Polynesian island of Moorea. A moment earlier, I had been water skiing. Or to be more precise, I had been making an attempt at water skiing. During my third try I lost control and ended up with an intimate understanding of the agony of defeat.

Slowly, cautiously, I limped across the room and sat down next to the big, black duffel bag laying open on my bed. Because I was traveling alone and didn't own a big, black duffel bag, the air grew thick with suspicion.

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As with most forms of public transportation, your travel experience is affected as much by the staff as by the passengers sitting next to you. At times, your seatmates can have an even greater impact. We've all sat next to someone who talked until our eardrums bled, who laughed obnoxiously while watching the in-flight movie, who yammered endlessly on the in-flight telephone. We've endured the frequent-flying moron who sucks his teeth, clips his dirty toenails (there's nothing worse than being hit by toenail shrapnel), picks his nose unmercifully or falls asleep and either drools from the corner of his mouth or snores with the vigor of a drunken wildebeest.

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Having been alerted of the impending attack, the co-pilot was armed with an ax. He fought with Bradley, suffering a cut to his hand that would require eight stitches. Struggling to fly the plane during this tight-quartered assault, the pilot made an urgent plea for help over the intercom. At least seven passengers responded. The 6-foot-2, 250-pound assailant was snatched from the cockpit, wrestled to the ground, bound hand and foot with plastic restraints and taken into custody by federal authorities upon landing in San Francisco. A potential airplane disaster was averted. But what might have happened if no one had responded to the captain's plea? Or what if the response had been too little or too late?

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Having been the last person issued a boarding pass by the gate agent, I was hustled onto the aircraft and told to sit in any available main-cabin seat. I slid sideways down the single aisle, scanning the split sea of contorting faces, careful not to whack heads with my shoulder bag, hoping there was an aisle or window seat available, praying, believing -- and ultimately stung with a dose of reality when I finally found the last remaining seat in coach. It was a center seat in the very last row. A seat flanked by two beefy business types who rolled their eyes maliciously when I stopped, cleared my throat and shrugged my shoulders in apology.

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