Oct 03, 2008 - 14:05:10 CDT
In what is probably news to no one who reads this paper's news, I'm not always on the right side of being right of mind. And I have my share of anxieties and fears, including spiders, insects, heights, packs of small children, globby textures in oil paintings and the number 23. But, whoa doggie, if Ihad to pick one fear that tops them all, it's flying.How unfortunate it is for me, then, that I'm sitting in an airplane pointed west, toward Portland, Ore., listening to a flight attendant go over safety instructions.
This seatbelt doesn't look nearly sufficient for the task ahead of us, and what's all this Ikeep hearing about water landings?
The flight starts in the worst possible manner. We tool around the runway leisurely, in such a fashion that Iwonder if the pilot is trying to trick me into a false sense of security. See?We're not doing anything scary. Just a calm joyride on the blacktop.
And then it happens. He guns the engine, we're drag racing like a DeLorean in pursuit of 1955. This doesn't feel at all safe. I need my mother.
After that, horror of horrors, we inexplicably start going the wrong way:up. And the worst part is we just keep going in that direction until we end up, as the passenger behind me tells her companion, "35,000 miles in the air." Logically, Iknow she's wrong, but right now, Ican't help but believe her.
The flight attendant starts pouring tiny glasses of Coke and Sprite for us. Idecide to eat my napkin.
I'm trying to make nice with the man sitting in the seat next to mine by asking him lots of questions like, "Is this it?"or "This is it, isn't it?" He's not incredibly responsive.
The best strategy to an early determination of whether your plane is about to crash is to intently study the facial expressions of the flight crew. They do this nonsense over 40 hours a week. Ifigure that, by now, they know what kind of noises the various parts of the plane should be making, and which bumps are natural and which ones are signs of impending doom.
My panicked stares are making the stewardess uncomfortable. They give me another napkin to munch on.
My girlfriend Annette the calm to my storm has flown to all points of this gigantic Earth, and none of this really bothers her. So she has been able to sleep for most of the flight, despite the river of sweat pouring from my palm into her understanding hand and the sound of my whimpering.
Four hours and a swift layover in Denver later, our plane is slowly descending into scenic Oregon on a crisp, clear day. My sweet Annette is awake and tucked snugly beneath my trembling arm, as we both stare out the window at the breathtaking aerial views of Mount Hood and distant Mount St. Helens.
And, as the landing gear makes its rough contact with ground, it's actually sort of a sweet moment. Time seemingly stood still, and Ithink it probably wouldn't have mattered if my whole world had come to a comfortable end, then and there.
I'm pretty glad it didn't, though. It'd just embolden my other phobias if one of them proved true.
(Reach scaredy-cat columnist Kelly Hagen at 250-8259 or kelly.hagen@bismarcktribune.com.)
Nate wrote on Oct 3, 2008 11:58 AM:
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