Flying Through Fear

This week found us on a walk through history at the Museum of Flight on Boeing’s campus outside of Seattle. We were there to see my son’s first adult place. I came from a girls’ trip in Savannah, my husband flew in from New York and my other son met us from Michigan. It was fitting to hit on the one museum we had the most in common. I was expecting either an infomercial or a recently added justification tour, given its poor record of tightening bolts. What I got instead was a spectacular walk through my personal history of being afraid to fly.

The Concorde was on display—that supersonic transport that was supposed to revolutionize transatlantic travel, getting us across the entire Atlantic in just under four hours. Invented on the heels of the space race as a joint venture between the French and English, it promised an evolution in travel in the 1970s and 80s. My Brooklyn public school class took an entire trip to watch it take off from a JFK airport lounge. And it was quite a bird, its nose pointed upward like a rocket. Whenever it passed overhead, we’d point it out to each other, often stopping to watch its trajectory.

In the end it proved too expensive, loud and cramped for the luxury leaning passengers it was intended for. Why not a few extra hours when the noise was softer and first class service was available? When they retired the last one, I was sad I never got to see for myself what it was all about. I can cross that off my list. It looked like the back of planes are now—cramped and uncomfortable.

Inside the future

My take off into flying began shortly after my infancy and into the years before I knew enough to understand that whatever existence you are offered in this life is a gift, and not at all a right or a given.

The first flights of mine were so long ago they included smoking, hot meals, a full tour of the cockpit, a coloring book and a decorative set of wings to pin to my chest. The pilots were all men and the stewardesses had weight limits—truly a different era.

Quickly though I realized that soaring through the air was an aberration, a way to defy a perfectly good field of gravity. I tried not to work myself up too much, talking myself through it, looking forward to the destination—either to see my grandmother in Florida or my uncles in Los Angeles. The thing that lingers in my memory, however is the death grip my father’s warm fingers held over my hand during the “dangerous times” of takeoff or landing. 

On my own, I was quite fearless, going crazy places overseas or back despite the flutter in my chest. I loved the destination, but the route took some steely preparation. Fearful, but not scared enough to stay off the plane, I became convinced that dying on a gigantic 747 was worth the risk if I got to see the land of my ancestors or the storied Pyramids of Giza.

I moved to Los Angeles after school, where I met my husband who was living in San Jose. We’d kiss hello goodbye right at the gate—another aspect of flying that ages me.

The traveling on the hour or so flight between his place and mine was only a short hop. However, it proved more stressful than any long haul. There was only enough time for a bag of peanuts and a diet coke before returning that tray table to its upright position, and panicking about landing.

It was about that time my fear blossomed into something more sinister. Excited, in love and looking forward to a new life, I was sure happiness was the gateway to ruin. We would be that tragic couple with clipped wings before we started out. 

Here, I will point out that while my creative mind has offered me all of my clarity, it has also sunk me into pits of despair, unnecessary and cruel. I tried to keep my own wise counsel, reading the statistics that everyone quotes. Flying is the safest form of travel.

I prayed. I begged. I wide eyed stared at the flight attendant for clues that things were amiss. Or not. I tried, but failed to read. The one movie offering was too far away to see up front. The headphones they gave you were inevitably one sided. I assured myself that piloting was as easy to those in the cockpit as driving a car was to me. That was a comforting two minutes.

My aunt, the spiritual one told me once to close my eyes and think of white light safely holding the plane aloft. I’d do it, white knuckled grip on armrests with ashtrays recently welded shut. It only served to focus my attention on the turbulence. Each jolt felt like the plane giving up, suddenly realizing, Wile E. Coyote style, that there was nothing keeping it in the sky.

Vigilantly, I kept my seatbelt on, hoping to survive the nosedive of the plane, not even daring to sleep like it was up to me, in seat 28C to telepathically control the flight plan. 

It only got worse as the kids were born. We packed up and took them with us where we wanted to go. They sat in the window seat trying to show me things, while I remained en garde, in my death posture, one hand on the armrest, the other continuing the same death grip on them that my father had over me.

Having experienced both; there is flying, and then there is flying with children. While both are a special hell for me, at least I can keep my panic to myself. Beleaguered parents out there, this infant/toddler portion of your journey is short. You will make it through.

I’m proud to say, my fear never stopped me. Before the pharmaceutical companies had to pretend to be responsible, someone gave me a prescription for Xanax.  I broke one in half and took it when we boarded a flight to Europe. Suddenly, that fear melted to utter relaxation. I have not flown totally sober since, nor did I ever allow myself to take the pills outside the fuselage.

That prescription is long gone, but after a few glasses of wine in the airport bar, who cares if we go down? I performed my usual counting of rows to the exit, forward and backward, deciding which was closer. Instead of debating whether it would be worse if the contact lenses melted into my eyeballs, or I lost my glasses on impact, I was ready to float my way into oblivion no matter what the plane was doing.

Don’t judge me. It’s a strategy and traveling, seeing the world, has proven one of the great joys in my life. Throwing myself into new situations and places is the easiest way I’ve found to come alive again. Repetition doesn’t soothe me; expanding my understanding does.

In the same way that writing this blog has become less nerve wracking over time by sheer dint of repetition, so has flying. Or, I’ve come to a place where dying is less a tragedy and more a numbers game. Life is full of opportunities to die, and also to live. The dying is not optional, but living is a choice. Whether I go down in a plane accident or to cancer is a crapshoot at this point. 

The world’s greatest museums are flights away and I’ve loved walking the cobblestone streets the world has to offer. If that requires me to fasten my seatbelt and put my fate into someone else’s hands for a few hours, so be it. It’s not about the ride anymore; it’s about the legroom and proximity to the bathroom. I am so glad that while I have wasted brainpower, I have not wasted the miles. I wonder if I have enough to upgrade to first class?