Flying fear
This
week, I had the misfortune of having to fly to Turkey. No, that makes me sound
more than a little ungrateful and rude. What I really mean is that this week I
had the misfortune of having to fly.
For
some the idea of flying is an exciting one and to some extent I agree. As a
child, I longed to be able to soar high into the sky and swoop around with the
likes of Peter Pan and Tinkerbell. But nowadays, even the prospect of boarding
a plane fills me with a sense of unbelievable dread.
I’m
not exactly sure what it is about flying that scares me so much. Perhaps it’s
the thought of being 3,000 feet in the air without much hope of surviving if
something went wrong. Or maybe it’s just imagining all the things that could go
wrong; crashes, attacks, engine failures, particularly over-zealous turbulence
or any number of other potential disasters.
Some
say that a fear of flying is irrational and often quote something like “The
chance of dying in a plane crash is 10 times less likely than the chance of dying
in the car on the way to the airport”. This statistic does nothing to soothe my
nerves and instead instils a new fear about the safety of any car journeys.
For
me, the fear of flying is perfectly rational, perfectly normal and perfectly
terrifying. I mean, what isn’t there to be frightened about? I can’t think of
any reason why boarding a partially stable contraption that heads
mind-numbingly high into the sky would involve any emotion other than fear.
You’re
sitting in a mildly comfortable seat with limited legroom and trying to keep
your heartbeat down and all of a sudden the engines kick into place. A roar
from all around you forces you backwards in your seat as you begin to pick up
speed. It feels like you're holding
the very plane up by the armrests. I can only imagine what it looks like as the
plane takes off, as by this point my eyes will be firmly shut.
A fellow passenger leans in and whispers “We’re
above the clouds now, you can open your eyes.” They seem to think this is
helpful. I can assure you it’s anything but. The very reason my eyes are
closed, my knuckles are white from gripping the seat and my mouth is silently
screaming is because of the fact we are now above the clouds. If they had said
“it’s okay, we’re still on the ground” then perhaps there may have been a
chance of me relaxing. But reminding me how high we are merits an angry glare.
Or at least it would, if my eyes were open. Which they’re not.
The thing is, flying has always been a two sided
coin for me: both a nightmare and a dream. When I am standing with two feet
safely placed on the ground, it seems like such a fantastic thing. The unlimited
prospects of the air is fascinating; a freedom can be found in the sky that
can’t be found elsewhere. As a child, I was caught up in the stories and
adventures of Peter Pan and longed to have the same ability to swirl and swoop as
he did. All I needed was faith, trust and pixie dust to make my wish come true.
Three little things that would allow me to see the world in a new way.
But, like most things, reality puts a gritty halt
to any dream you have. On a plane, you lose all control, and there’s certainly
no magical ingredients involved. Your life is entrusted to a pilot you have
never met. It’s like getting into a car where a stranger is driving. Just, the
driver happens to be thousands of feet in the air, and travelling at just over
500 mph. A worrying thought, I know. In fact, so worrying that you may feel the
need to spend a few weeks in a suitably sunny place just to relax from the
trauma of it all. I know I do.
Oh but if somebody does come across a way of
allowing us all to take off and fly through the air at will, do let me know.
Until then, I’ll just have to rely on faith and trust and hope that pixie dust
wasn’t too crucial an ingredient.
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