I hate flying. In fact, I don't even like being on an airplane. If God wanted us to soar in the sky, he would have given us wings. I am a land creature. I like the reassuring feel of my feet firmly planted on Earth. And yet I have logged over one million air miles, a sure sign of lunacy.
I take some measure of comfort in the fact there are many Americans who share my phobia. The National Institute of Mental Health says this fear, called aviophobia, affects 6.5 percent of the population. That means there are 20 million of us with the jitters every time we board an airplane.
For me, the fits of fidgeting start the night before the flight. I consult the weather both at my current location and destination. Oh, Oh. Forecast calls for thunderstorms. I imagine violently lurching around the sky, making sleep impossible. I pray the airline crew gets sick, scrubbing the flight.
I acquired my phobia the old-fashioned way. I earned it on a flight from Midland-Odessa to Dallas. It was the summer of 1972. As the commercial plane ascended, I spotted lightning flashes streaking across the evening sky. The takeoff was non-eventful, but we were soon engulfed in a thunderstorm.
The plane bucked and convulsed. Rain pounded the aircraft and downdrafts sent the airliner plummeting a couple thousand feet. I was terrified. When the plane finally landed in Dallas, I breathed for the first time since takeoff. I didn't just kiss the ground. I caressed it.
Now you understand my phobia. Well-meaning friends have tried to soothe my anxiety by reciting the fact that your chances of dying in a plane crash are one in 11 million. The odds are better (one in 5,000) that a person will perish in a car crash, they say. But what if I am that one in 11 million?
Don't get my wrong. I am not afraid of dying. I just think hurtling toward the ground and exploding into a fiery ball on an airplane would be particularly gruesome death. But in a perverse way, I want to be awake if the aircraft plunges to earth. I may never get another opportunity to see a plane crash.
Over the years, I have developed my own coping mechanisms. I always scan the pre-boarding area to see if there are any Catholic nuns on my flight. That is usually a good sign. Surely, God wouldn't allow a plane carrying a sweet old nun to crack-up in midair and unceremoniously thud to the ground.
Conversely, you don't want to occupy a seat next to the loudmouth salesman gulping gin and tonics and telling lewd jokes. His days are numbered. Never take a seat next to an atheist unless you have a death wish.
When I have confided in fellow passengers about my fear of flying, invariably one will employ logic, suggesting no one dies unless it is his or her time. I get that. But what if God is calling the passenger next to me? I get charred in the wreckage along with him. Seems terribly unfair.
Nearly 40 years after my Midland-Odessa experience, I was beginning to think my fears were unfounded. I had encountered no near brushes with death in the skies. And then IT happened. Two years ago I boarded a Southwest Airlines flight in San Antonio on a cloudless day.
We had just started our climb to cruising altitude when the entire plan shuddered. A passenger excitedly reported smoke billowing out of one of the engines. I was convinced this was that one in 11 million flight. The pilot calmly announced our aircraft would return to San Antonio airport.
Operating with only one engine the plane limped back toward touchdown. On approach, I glimpsed out the cabin window and saw the runway lined with a sea of ambulances and firetrucks. My pulse was racing faster than the plane's air speed. Thankfully, we landed safely without incident.
I swore that was my last flight. Never again would I tempt fate. The odds were starting to tilt in favor of an air disaster. Then I remembered I had an upcoming flight to see my grand kids. I couldn't disappoint them. It was at that precise moment that I decided I would become a nun.
Don't get my wrong. I am not afraid of dying. I just think hurtling toward the ground and exploding into a fiery ball on an airplane would be particularly gruesome death. But in a perverse way, I want to be awake if the aircraft plunges to earth. I may never get another opportunity to see a plane crash.
Over the years, I have developed my own coping mechanisms. I always scan the pre-boarding area to see if there are any Catholic nuns on my flight. That is usually a good sign. Surely, God wouldn't allow a plane carrying a sweet old nun to crack-up in midair and unceremoniously thud to the ground.
Conversely, you don't want to occupy a seat next to the loudmouth salesman gulping gin and tonics and telling lewd jokes. His days are numbered. Never take a seat next to an atheist unless you have a death wish.
When I have confided in fellow passengers about my fear of flying, invariably one will employ logic, suggesting no one dies unless it is his or her time. I get that. But what if God is calling the passenger next to me? I get charred in the wreckage along with him. Seems terribly unfair.
Nearly 40 years after my Midland-Odessa experience, I was beginning to think my fears were unfounded. I had encountered no near brushes with death in the skies. And then IT happened. Two years ago I boarded a Southwest Airlines flight in San Antonio on a cloudless day.
We had just started our climb to cruising altitude when the entire plan shuddered. A passenger excitedly reported smoke billowing out of one of the engines. I was convinced this was that one in 11 million flight. The pilot calmly announced our aircraft would return to San Antonio airport.
Operating with only one engine the plane limped back toward touchdown. On approach, I glimpsed out the cabin window and saw the runway lined with a sea of ambulances and firetrucks. My pulse was racing faster than the plane's air speed. Thankfully, we landed safely without incident.
I swore that was my last flight. Never again would I tempt fate. The odds were starting to tilt in favor of an air disaster. Then I remembered I had an upcoming flight to see my grand kids. I couldn't disappoint them. It was at that precise moment that I decided I would become a nun.
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