SEPTEMBER 6 — The departure board says "DELAYED”. Then "CANCELLED”. Around you, children are sleeping on luggage, phones are being charged wherever a socket can be found, and somewhere beyond the airport, an Indonesian volcano is quietly changing thousands of travel plans.

If you are one of those waiting tonight, let me tell you a story.

It is a story about a very large aeroplane, a very powerful volcano and a night when nature reminded human beings that sometimes the safest journey is the one we postpone.

On June 24, 1982, British Airways Flight BA009 was flying from Kuala Lumpur towards Perth. The aircraft was a Boeing 747-200 named City of Edinburgh, cruising at around 37,000 feet above Indonesia when it entered something the crew could not see: volcanic ash from Mount Galunggung in West Java.

And here is something remarkable for Malaysian travellers sitting in an airport tonight: BA009 began its journey in Kuala Lumpur.

The passengers had expected an ordinary flight to Perth. Instead, somewhere above Indonesia, their journey became anything but ordinary.

Passengers first noticed what appeared to be smoke inside the cabin. Then came strange flashes outside the windows. The aircraft began to shake.

One engine failed.

Then another.

Then another.

Then the fourth.

All four engines were silent.

For the aviation enthusiasts among you, here is a detail worth remembering. That mighty 747 was powered by four Rolls-Royce RB211 engines — four enormous turbofans built to carry a Jumbo across oceans.

That night, all four fell silent.

Not because the aircraft was defective. Not because the pilots had made a reckless decision. A volcano had simply placed an invisible hazard directly into their flight path. Volcanic ash entered the engines, causing them to surge and eventually flame out.

For a moment, the mighty Jumbo was no longer a machine of power. It was simply a glider in the dark.

The pilots began descending. Passengers put on their oxygen masks. The cabin grew quiet. Some prayed. Some held hands. Some thought about their families. Some simply sat there, trying to understand what was happening.

And yet, remarkably, there was no mass panic.

People helped one another. Cabin crew reassured passengers. Travellers looked after children and elderly passengers. Some prayed; others simply tried to remain calm.

And the crew kept doing their job.

As the aircraft descended below the ash, the engines eventually began to come back to life. One, then another, then another. The great Rolls-Royce engines that had fallen silent began to breathe again.

The aircraft eventually landed safely in Jakarta.

Everyone survived.

Decades later, researchers interviewed some of those passengers and crew. They remembered the fear, but they also remembered kindness, responsibility, the calmness of the crew and the simple human instinct to care for one another when faced with uncertainty.

Perhaps that is the part of BA009 we should remember tonight.

If you are sitting in an Indonesian airport, waiting for a cancelled flight, you are not failing to get home.

You are waiting for the right moment to get home. There is a difference.

And if you are Malaysian, perhaps this story belongs to you a little more than you realise. Forty-four years ago, other Malaysians and travellers began their journey from Kuala Lumpur expecting to arrive in Perth. Instead, they found themselves confronting an Indonesian volcano thousands of feet above the ground.

They had a destination too.

They had somewhere they wanted to be.

And they, too, had to wait for the sky to allow them through.

So take a breath.

If your family is waiting anxiously for your message, call them. Tell them you are safe. Tell them the flight can wait. Tell them you will come home when the sky is ready.

The volcano has spoken, not with words but with ash. It has travelled through the sky and reminded us that nature does not consult our itineraries. Sometimes the departure board must surrender to something much older and more powerful than our schedules.

Tonight, perhaps, the mountain is simply asking us to wait.

Safety does not always look like movement.

Sometimes, safety looks like staying exactly where you are.

So call your mother. Call your father. Call the person waiting for you. Tell them you are all right. Hug the child beside you. Hold the hand of the person travelling with you. Share your charger with someone whose phone is dying. Let the tired child sleep.

And if you are alone, look around. You are surrounded by thousands of other people who, just like you, were supposed to be somewhere else tonight.

You are not alone in waiting.

Please remember this: a cancelled flight is an inconvenience. A flight sent into a dangerous ash cloud can become a tragedy.

The people keeping you on the ground tonight are not keeping you from your destination.

They are protecting your journey.

Forty-four years ago, a mighty Boeing 747 nearly bowed to the wrath of an Indonesian volcano. Tonight, we have something BA009's passengers did not have. We know. We can see the ash. We can track the volcano. We can close the runway.

We can wait.

And sometimes, safety is nothing more complicated than having the courage to say:

Not tonight.

So rest, traveller. Let the volcano speak. Let the ash settle. Let the engines wait.

Your destination will still be there tomorrow.

And to every Indonesian traveller waiting to continue your journey, and every Malaysian traveller longing for home:

Welcome home soon.

Not tonight, perhaps.

But soon.

And somewhere, someone who loves you is waiting to hear three simple words:

"I'm okay. I'm safe.”

Tonight, that is enough.

* Dr Marziah Zahar is a senior lecturer in Safety, Health and Environmental at the School of Business Management, Universiti Utara Malaysia.

** This is the personal opinion of the writers or publication and does not necessarily represent the views ofMalay Mail.