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What Happens to Babies Born on Planes

When contractions begin at 39,000 feet...

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Debbie Owen assumed that the British Airways flight from the Ivory Coast to London Gatwick would be straightforward: seven hours non-stop, swapping the heat of Africa for the cozy pre-holiday glow of Britain. At seven months pregnant, Owen was traveling solo back to the U.K. with her four-year old daughter, Claire, in tow; husband Duncan was still at home in Africa, and would follow closer to the birth. But it wasn’t long after take-off that the twinges started, which soon turned into contractions. Owen knew her baby wasn’t due until Christmas, seven weeks later: She’d even visited her doctor for a check-up before the flight, and had a letter deeming her safe to travel. Still, it was clear that her second child was planning an early arrival.

Debbie fought the contractions at first, hoping to reach Europe and a hospital, but it soon became clear that her baby would touch down before the plane did. The crew took care of Claire, while a Dutch doctor, Wym Bakker, en route home from providing maternity care in Ghana, took charge of the birth. The flight was just off the coast of the U.K. when the baby was born; she would be called Shona Kirsty Yves, or SKY. Duncan didn’t receive the news from his wife, though: “The pilot phoned my father himself to say, ‘This is the BA pilot, and your wife is going into labor,’” says Shona, now 28.

Shona is one of the almost 50 people worldwide known as skyborns—impromptu deliveries who increase the passenger manifest, mid-flight. When tasked with creating a digital journalism project as a student, Shona created a website and community for skyborns, and researched the history of births like hers. There have been a few stories in recent years: Matthew Dulles de Bara made headlines not long after Shona’s arrival, when his mother gave birth en route between New York and Orlando; another bonus passenger emerged in 2015, a little girl who joined a plane mid-flight between Taipei and Los Angeles. Virgin Atlantic’s first birth at 36,000 feet came in 2004. The baby was named Virginia, and Branson’s firm named a plane in her honor. Eight years later, on a flight to Johannesburg, another Virgin baby arrived—this time, a boy.

Shona was particularly delighted, though, to unearth the story of the first such baby; she found it in an obscure clipping from a Florida newspaper dating back to 1929. “The father was an airplane enthusiast, and a doctor whose wife was heavily pregnant, so when she felt she was about to give birth, they got into his plane and kept circling at 2,000 feet until she gave birth,” says Shona. “They called her Airleen.” Shona also found a story that involved the birth of twins—one of whom was born in flight, the other after landing. And, sadly, there have been at least three instances where babies have been born in airplane bathrooms and abandoned by their mothers. Despite the potential risks of in-flight labor, per Shona’s research, there have been no fatalities or stillbirths on board. (Intriguingly, she adds, there is no official data held by airlines, medical associations, or industry bodies like the International Air Transport Association.)

It’s a remarkable statistic—and a rare occurrence, too. Births like these occur in approximately one in every 26 million passengers, per aviation medical support firm MedAire. “In-flight childbirth is very, very rare, and when you review the cases they were unexpected—these were premature babies,” says Dr. Paulo Alves, the company’s global medical director. “It’s not the best place for you to have your child, for many reasons. For one thing, the air is thinner, so it’s harder for the baby to breathe. It’s like giving birth to a premature child in Mexico City, altitude-wise.” Even more sobering: There are no prenatal experts with high-tech equipment to assist if there is distress during birth, or an emergency C-section is required; and the Eustachian tubes in newborn babies’ ears struggle with changes in air pressure.

The risks aren’t just around premature birth, as Laura Einstetler, a pilot for a major U.S. airline who blogs as Captain Laura learned first-hand. “On a particular flight half way from Los Angeles to Hawaii, a passenger who was nearing seven months pregnant began to hyperventilate,” says Einstetler. “She had a previous medical condition that she could not take medication for now that she was pregnant, and we were two-and-a-half hours from the closest airport. We were able to get her stabilized, but not without some anxious moments.”

Procedures for in-flight births are not formalized: Commonly, as in Debbie Owen’s case, the passenger might be moved to a more spacious and comfortable seat in business or first class, or an area cleared in the galley. Einstetler also says that emergency landings are unlikely. “It would take a minimum 45 minutes to get the passenger from, say, 39,000 feet to a hospital,” she says. “This option is inconvenient for the other passengers, costly for the airline, and disruptive to the aircraft schedule.” Instead, cabin crew will act as ad hoc midwives as the plane speeds to its original destination.

Aviation regulations around pregnant fliers are woolly. There is no industry-wide rule: Some airlines refuse to carry women after 27 weeks of pregnancy, while others will accept them up to 40 weeks, with appropriate medical notes—Delta is one such airline. (“The recommendation is that pregnant women not fly within four weeks of their due date, and to check with their physician before flying,” says a Delta spokesperson. “But it is a recommendation.”)

As for the citizenship of a child born at 36,000 feet, MedAire’s Alves says that can vary, too. “There is no universal rule, but keep in mind an aircraft is considered that country’s soil,” he says, under the 1961 Convention on the Reduction of Statelessness. It’s a technicality, he points out, since in most cases, children receive their parents’ citizenship via the convention of jus sanguinis, or right of blood. This is the policy most often followed, though some countries adhere to the alternative concept of jus soli, or right of soil, which confers citizenship on a child according to the location in which they are born. The only time the 1961 Convention rules comes into play is on the rare occasion when the child would otherwise be stateless; in that case, the airline’s country of origin will determine the passport. Per the U.S. State Department, a child born in international waters should list place of birth as “at sea”; if a child is born in flight in a region which no country claims, he or she would officially be classified as born “in the air.”

Shona Owen has a U.K. passport, though her place of birth has caused confusion when she’s tried to renew the document. Originally, it was noted on a special page for official observations as follows: “Holder born on an aeroplane 10 miles south of Mayfield, Sussex.” When the British passport format changed to follow EU directives, this page was eliminated, and she was forced to list a place of birth in a different format: “born at sea” was the closest official category available.

Passport problems aside, a successful in-flight birth is happy news, both for the parents and the airline, which will likely turn it into a PR boon—see how Virgin granted one baby free flights until the age of 21, while British Airways gifted Shona Owen a pair of tickets to any destination for her 18th birthday (she chose to fly to see her grandmother in Australia). Free flights for life, though, are more wishful thinking than aviation fact. Owen does make sure to tell her story at check-in, though, as she says she often receives a free upgrade as a result.

Owen suffers no complications for her unexpected, early arrival: “I’m 6’1”, so it didn’t stunt my growth at all,” she says. It did prove prescient regarding her career, though. Fittingly, Owen chose to work in travel, currently for Yellow Zebra Safaris’ U.K. office.

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This post originally appeared on Condé Nast Traveler and was published October 26, 2018. This article is republished here with permission.

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