When I was five, I had an encounter on a plane with a man who staff believed was a paedophile.
Trigger warning: This post deals with an encounter with a suspected paedophile and may be distressing for some readers.
After a week of holidaying in Queensland — a blur of movies, pool-time and tiny toys from the 20 cent vending machine at the corner store — my nanna and poppa put me on a plane to fly home to Melbourne.
As a small unaccompanied traveller, I had a little cartoonish “flying solo” tag pinned to my grubby grey tee shirt, signalling to the attendants that I needed to be kept an eye on.
I shuffled onto the plane, a red-cheeked tomboy of a kid with a mass of white curls, and buckled myself in with the help of a stewardess. Then, moments before we took off, a man with a ginger beard changed seats and moved to sit next to me.
The air attendants registered the unusual move but didn’t have time to move him while the plane was taking off. Their alarm heightened when the red-bearded man started to talk to me in a soft voice.
They couldn’t hear what he was saying, and I can’t remember many of the words.
I only remember him asking my name, then peering closely at the little tag on my chest, flipping it over, producing a pen and writing down the personal details recorded there.
He didn’t touch me. He didn’t get a chance, even if that was his intention: When the hostesses saw him take a note of the details, they confronted the man, moved him to another section of the aircraft, and raised the alarm.