The other day, I was catching a last minute Uber ride to God knows where, late as usual, when one of my favorite aviation correspondents, Oriana Pawlyk, came on the radio to talk about the crisis at Boeing.
I used to report on aviation extensively when I was a journalist working in the accursed Russian Federation, and the topic of Boeing’s abject failures, laid bare for the world to see when a freaking door blew off a flight, is close to my heart.
I have seen what happens when aviation safety is ignored. I mean that literally — one of the worst moments of my career was reporting on a typical Russian crash and analyzing images and footage of bodies being hauled out of the river. These were hockey players — young and strong — and the fact that they had been sacrificed stayed with me, especially as Russia is a country regularly willing to sacrifice millions over something banal (like it’s currently doing in my native Ukraine).
Considering the fact that two Boeing whistleblowers are also now dead, it would be tempting to consider that a conspiracy is afoot. I liked Oriana’s even-handed approach to the subject, however — the whistleblower deaths must be investigated, but as Oriana pointed out, what’s currently important is what these people had chosen to do with their lives: expose the rot in one of the world’s most important companies.
One of the biggest problems with money is how it can insulate people from reality. Boeing was making money, so the idea that its engineers were essentially removed from crucial leadership positions didn’t seem bad to anyone. The accountants ran the show. The company became unbalanced. Quality and safety were deprioritized. Now it seems that the current Boeing leadership is failing to grasp just how big of a shitshow they’ve created.
I’m not one of those people who hates money and wishes we all went back to bartering berries or whatever. I love money. Money is great. But its blinding effect on people can be terrifying to behold. Money creates distance. Money creates rarefied spaces, in which only the people you choose may enter. And in this way, money eventually can create a disaster.
I’m not going to quote my Uber driver’s response to the Boeing segment we listened to as he drove me to my meeting — that’s a horrible journalistic cliche — but I do remember the long pause we both took after the segment ended, and his frustrated little sigh, which mirrored my frustrated little sigh.
Today, flying is safer than ever in wealthy nations. Much safer than driving, or taking an Uber. But the thing about those safety standards is that they’re not exactly written in stone. It’s easy to become complacent and forget how much more dangerous flying used to be.
You could say that I think this way because I have a deeply embedded fear of getting in the sky (and I do, OK, and I’d love to get rid of it). Or because I spent a good chunk of my younger days writing about various catastrophes.
But I also say that because there is something truly breathtaking about flying, and any enshittification of the industry feels like a special betrayal.
We’re used to enshittification coming at us from many angles right now. Google used to be better. So did social media. So did prices. So did goddamn airplane seats, come to think of it.
The last thing we need is for air safety to be enshittified too.
Image: National Transportation Safety Board
