The View from 30,000 Ft.

By Jacob V. Lamar Jr.

Covering a campaign from the back of a plane

Some call it a cocoon, sealed off from the realities of the world. Others call it home. It offers perhaps the best view of a presidential campaign, and the worst. Tightly knit and suffused with the cramped camaraderie generally enjoyed only by soldiers enduring basic training or inmates in an asylum, the fuselage of a candidate's plane provides the skewed perspective from which many of the country's most prestigious political reporters view the electoral process.

Reporters often try to escape its claustrophobia. "I'll be traveling, but I'm going to do it in America, not this," said the Chicago Tribune's Jon Margolis when asked if he would be a regular on Walter Mondale's chartered 727. "This is a hermetically sealed tube." Yet the only thing worse than living with the plane is living without it; traveling alone denies the reporter easy access to the candidates and their staffs. When the Mondale campaign announced arrangements for its new chartered plane, it said that in order to provide regulars with the luxury of having the middle seat of each row empty, some newspapers, including the Tribune, would not have a reserved seat. The ensuing uproar sent Press Secretary Maxine Isaacs scurrying to come up with some compromise.

One of the greatest problems on a plane is working out the rules. Journalists generally want the right to report whatever is said or done, yet many value the informal interchange that occurs when there is an agreement to keep certain activities off the record. On Air Force One, an eleven-member press pool sits in the back, well behind President Reagan's closed-off cabin, and gets regular briefings from Spokesman Larry Speakes, which the pool shares with the rest of the press traveling on a separate "zoo plane." There is an unwritten agreement that Reagan is not photographed at unguarded moments, although a picture of him wearing sweat pants and standing in a doorway was transmitted by U.P.I, this week, despite White House requests that it be withheld. Vice President George Bush avoids the situation entirely: his staff has decided to allow no reporters on his plane.

In response to demands by his traveling press corps, Mondale has lifted his longstanding rule that the plane's activities are off the record. As a result, he and his staff are rarely available for unscheduled chats. Geraldine Ferraro's new press secretary, Francis O'Brien, followed suit. When he brought Ferraro back to the press section, a near melee erupted. Television technicians, cameramen, reporters and others jostled in the narrow aisle for position, leaving most of them bruised and unsatisfied. O'Brien then announced that by popular request, Ferraro would make no more trips to the back of the plane.

Aboard Mondale's campaign plane, correspondents on deadline hunch over their note pads or portable computers. Others unwind with a drink, socialize with colleagues or tune out the world with Sony Walkman tape players (Thomas Oliphant of the Boston Globe listens to opera, Dan Balz of the Washington Post is a country music fan). Life on a campaign plane can lead to a curious sociological hierarchy, which ranges from the "big feet," top national correspondents who come aboard for a few days and figuratively step on the toes of regular reporters, to the "roaches," local newsmen who travel only on one leg of a trip.

The greatest competition involves seats, which are jealously reserved by regulars with tape bearing the names of their organizations. Said one reporter covering Ferraro: "To prisoners, even little things like a crust of bread become important enough to risk your life over." Last week an elderly Las Vegas reporter stood stranded in the aisle, searching for a seat, as Ferraro's plane was taking off. A television correspondent and a producer occupied a full row, their personal gear piled onto the seat between them. A reporter who asked if the older man could take the middle seat was told, "Our network paid for eight seats, and this is one of them." Ferraro Aide Beth Donovan promptly gave her spot to the elderly reporter.

Incumbency can drastically alter the mood of a campaign plane. When Reagan was the contender four years ago, the atmosphere on his Leader-Ship '80 was warm and upbeat. At every takeoff Willie Nelson's On the Road Again was played on the p.a. system as Nancy Reagan rolled an orange down the aisle, trying to get it all the way to the back of the plane. The candidate cheerfully sat for interviews. Close relationships developed with the regular crew members, and three stewardesses later got White House jobs. Things are much different now, even among those flying in the zoo plane that accompanies Air Force One. The recreation rarely goes beyond the occasional card game or half-hearted food fight.

The four campaign planes lack the party atmosphere that prevailed on some planes during the primary season. There is no more skiing down the aisle on the plastic safety-instruction cards (as was common on Gary Hart's rickety charter plane), nor as large an arsenal of stuffed mascots, whistles and toys. Part of the reason is that the daily pressures are now more demanding. These days a nap aboard the plane is far more valuable than a party.

With reporting by Sam Allis, Laurence I. Barrett