On Fear and Flying

My seatmate on the airplane had a cough. It was a shallow cough, like he had something stuck in there. As the little instructional video played, the cough took on a punctuating rhythm: “To fasten your seatbelt…” (cough, cough) “pull tightly toward you…” (cough, cough).

I glanced over. He seemed distressed.  It would be a while before the flight attendants made their rounds with drinks, so I dug around in my purse and found a cough drop to offer him.

The man’s face lit up. He rejected the cough drop but grabbed my arm with both hands, thanking me over and over. My new best buddy leaned close. His breath should have come with a warning: keep away from open flame.  Eyes slightly glazed, he explained, “I cough when I’m nervous. And I’m absolutely terrified of flying.”

I nodded sympathetically, and my companion launched into his life story as we taxied down the runway. The faster we rolled, the faster he talked and the tighter he clutched my arm. With a little hop, we were airborne. Finally he turned, relaxed his grip and asked what I’d been doing in Ecuador. I explained that I grew up there and was visiting family. “Ah,” he nodded. “So you speak Spanish?”

“Yes,” I answered and switched languages. He stuck to English. He told me about his children. The flight attendants made the rounds. I had a glass of water. My buddy had two bottles of wine. 

“So,” he asked, filling the silence while he filled his glass, “what took you to Ecuador?” I explained again: grew up there, visiting family. “Ah,” he nodded. “So… did you learn any Spanish?”

The man wasn’t actually listening, just trying to drown out the fear. I smiled and nodded. He began nodding. The wine kicked in and he drifted off to sleep. I sipped my water and pondered the nature of fear.

I’ve never been afraid of flying. When I was little, I would undo my seatbelt on flights just to see how high the turbulence could bounce me. (Once, I flew so high that my head hit the console above me. I was too impressed to cry.)

On the other hand, I won’t willingly drive on tall one-lane overpasses.

If I find myself forced onto a high, skinny bridge, every sense goes on high alert. My heart pounds. My hands sweat. I creep along at a death-defying 5 miles an hour until I reach the crest and start the slow descent to solid ground.

Where my flight buddy feared what he could not control, what sucks the air out of my lungs is the sense that I might irrevocably and disastrously screw up what I do control. Either way, it’s fear. And the thing about fear is that the more we focus on it, the louder it becomes. Don’t try to explain why I won’t fall off that bridge – at that moment, I can't hear you. 

As I sat on my flight pondering the consuming nature of fear, we hit some impressive turbulence. Trays rattled. A sideways glance at my seatmate showed white knuckles gripping the armrest.

“Wheee!”  There was a sudden shriek of delight in front of me.

A little girl – maybe 5 or 6 – had her hands in the air, giggling wildly. “Look, Mommy!” she squealed as we bounced around.  “It’s making me dance!”

I wanted to throw my arms up and squeal right along with her, but this is the age of cell phone video. My own grownupness made me a little sad. When we don’t have control anyway, what’s a little dignity?

We landed safely. Once off the plane, I made a mad dash for Customs. There wasn't much time before my connecting flight. Once through security, I pulled out my boarding pass to check the gate. It was at the opposite end of the airport. My feet were beginning to hurt, I was hot and it was hard to go faster than a trudge, but I pointed myself in the right direction and started out. 

Beep. Bee-beep. An airport cart pulled up beside me.

 

“Do you need a ride--?” the young man started to ask, but by then my carry-on suitcase was on board and I was following suit.  

The driver was young and solemn-faced. He took his job very seriously and at full speed. We slalomed around other passengers and flew down hallways. We went so fast that the wind blew my hair back from my face. I couldn’t help grinning.

I thought of the little girl on the airplane and the little girl I was before I knew about tall overpasses; I thought of my seatmate and his white knuckles; I thought of how fear seduces our modern world into searching out every talking head and website that validates the terror du jour.

 

And as we sped down the halls of Miami International I threw jazz hands in the air and, mindful of my youthful driver’s dignity, loudly whispered, “Wheee!”