The Flight - Part I

I do not enjoy flying. When I was a kid I loved it. I looked forward to going to the airport and flying on a plane like most kids look forward to Magic Mountain or Disneyland. My love of flying spanned three European trips between the ages of 14 and 20 and even memories of severe jet lag could not dampen the anticipation, the excitement of the unknown as I prepared for each new voyage overseas or elsewhere.

All of that ended in 2000 or so. I’m not sure what happened, although I know it was not a single, traumatic event. I do remember getting on a plane from Omaha to Seattle in the spring of 1999 and feeling anxious during a bumpy take off. It was a year later, on a flight to Hawaii, that I realized that I was actually scared to be on the plane.

Terrified. For the entire flight. Take-off to landing.

I remember sitting near the gate waiting to board the plane and that my father, who had dropped my sister and I off for the flight, was also there (this was prior to 9/11 when non-flyers could go to the gate). I told my dad that I was “a little bit nervous about flying.” His helpful reply: “Look! The engine is on fire!”

Now you know you are suffering from an irrational and paranoid fear of flight when someone makes such a lame and obvious joke and you whip around in terror, fully expecting to see the waiting aircraft consumed in flames. In fairness to him, he had flown with me many times and knew nothing except that I loved travel and being on planes. He must have assumed that I was joking. I think he finally “got it” when he practically had to drag me onto a flight to Washington D.C. a few weeks later while I bawled, convinced that I was heading to my death.

Ever since then I have battled with varying levels of flight fear. Unfortunately the only solutions to this problem are either A) to keep flying and try to work through it or B) to sit at home and never go anywhere. Since I love to travel, staying at home would probably kill me and since the technology for teleporting is not yet available, I opt to continue flying.

My fear is much much less than it used to be. I used to get on every single flight convinced that I was going to die, palms sweating with visions of planes dropping from the sky dancing through my head like a demented version of “The Night Before Christmas.” Now I get on most flights in relatively good shape. Aside from mild anxiety during take off and a few bad moments when turbulence hits, I do pretty well. Landing does not bother me so much. I guess my logic there is: “Well, at least we were supposed to be heading in that direction.” No surprises, right?

I do especially well if the person sitting next to me is also afraid of flying and is freaking out. As horrible as it sounds, there is something about keeping it together when somebody else is freaking out that really helps calm the nerves during stressful situations. Especially if that person happens to have the exact same phobia that you do.