But what can they do? In one of those dreaded realizations that pilots are advised to avoid, the insulation between cockpit calm and atmospheric anarchy looks thin indeed. An extrapolated vision of horror: the riveted aluminum planks bending apart, the wind rushing in, explosive depressurization, death, the first airliner -- no, the first vehicle -- in history to crash because of an overflowing toilet. Into the sea, where divers and salvage ships will haul up the wreckage, detritus trailing from mauled, unrecognizable pieces while investigators shake their heads. At least, the pilot thinks, odds are nobody will ever know the truth; the cold ocean will carry away the evidence. He's as good as dead but saved, maybe, from immortal embarrassment. A dash of mystique awaits him, the same that met St. Exupéry at the dark bottom of the Mediterranean, another lousy pilot who got philosophical and paid the price. Maybe he blew up the toilet too. Probable cause: unknown.

"Call flight control," commands Jens, hoping a dose of authority will inject some clarity into a scene that is obviously and hopelessly absurd. "Get a patch with maintenance and explain what happened."

The pilot rushes back to the cockpit to call the company's maintenance staff. He fires up the HF radios, small black boxes that can bounce the human voice, and any of its associated embarrassments, up off the ionosphere and halfway around the world if need be. He will announce his predicament to the mechanics, but also to any of dozens of other crews who happen to be monitoring the same frequency. Even before keying the mike he can see the looks and hear the wisecracks from the Delta and United pilots in their state-of-the-art 777s, Mozart soothing their passengers through Bose headsets, flight attendants wiping down the basins while somewhere in the night sky three poor souls in a Cold War relic are trapped in a blue scatological hell, struggling helplessly with a flood of shit and chemicals.

"You say the toilet exploded?" Maintenance is on the line, incredulous but not particularly helpful. "Well, um, not sure. Should be OK. Nothing below the cabin there to worry about. Press on, I guess." Thanks. Click.

Jens has now grabbed the extension wand for the fire extinguisher -- a hollow metal pole the length of a harpoon -- and is shoving it down into the bowl trying to agitate the mixture to a stop. Several minutes have passed, and a good 10 gallons have streamed their way onto the floor and beyond. Up front, the first officer has no idea what's going on. Looking behind him, his view mostly blocked by the circuit-breaker panels and cockpit door, this is what he sees: a haze of white odorless smoke, and his captain yelping with laughter and thrusting at something with a long metal pole.

The pilot stands aside, watching Jens do battle. This was a little kid who dreamed of becoming a 747 captain for Pan Am, the embodiment of all that was, and could still be, elegant and glamorous about aviation. And poor Jens, whose ancestors plowed this same Atlantic in longboats, ravenous for adventure and conquest, a 21st century Viking jousting with a broken toilet.

So it goes, and by the time the airplane touches down safely, its plumbing finally at rest, each and every employee at the cargo hub, clued in by the amused mechanics who received our distress call, already knows the story of the idiot who poured dry ice into the crapper. His socks and hundred-dollar Rockports have been badly damaged, while the cargo net, walls, panels and placards aboard aircraft 806 are forever dyed a heavenly azure.

The crew bus pulls up to the stairs, and as the pilots step aboard the driver looks up and says excitedly, "So which one of you did it?"

Do you have questions for Salon's aviation expert? Send them to AskThePilot and look for answers in a future column.

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