FLYING IS FOR THE BIRDS
I am not scared of flying, per se. But I don’t totally have faith in it. This is mostly because I don’t begin to understand the science behind how a plane works. Planes, like phones, computers, televisions..., are things that I prefer to relegate to the domain of “magic”. It mainly applies to technology things (but also anything to do with the stock market…Zzzzzz), because on the odd occasion that I inquire about the inner workings of these unknown (unknowable?) things (for example: data mining), my brain instantly falls into a defensive, boredom induced, deep sleep state. Because I don’t know how they work, planes seem like gigantic, hubris-inspired, contraptions hurtling through space 10,000 feet in the air. Which, to be fair, is exactly what they actually are. So, while I am not scared of flying, I don’t love it, and I definitely don’t understand it.
To be fair, it started off rather badly. The first time I ever flew alone was on a 27 hour flight to Australia at age 15. I, and two other girls, were going on an exchange between two all girls schools. We were required to wear our uniform - complete with items like a “tunic” and “bloomers”, plus oxfords and a tie, on the flight. So we both looked like total nerds and were really uncomfortable. Truly not a reasonable requirement for a 27 hour flight. Especially since 27 hours turned out to be the low end of the time spectrum. After loading everyone on board, some mechanical issue (always reassuring!) had us sitting on the tarmac for 3 hours before we even took off. Being the 1980s, this was still in the era of smoking - and as it turns out, partying - on planes. We were, of course, booked in non smoking seats. At the time meant that our row was non smoking, while the ten rows immediately behind us were smoking (because smoke abides by the little no smoking light when it is wafting around as thick as fog). Add to this that the airline, in an ill-advised tactic to ward off irate customers, decided to help everyone pass the time on the tarmac by opening the bar. As in, OPEN bar. They began to distribute free drinks. I an’t recall what time of day it was - perhaps it was 8am and they figured "how many mimosas or ‘Canadian Breakfast Cocktails’ (Caesars) could a jumbo jet full of bored, annoyed people consume?" I am not sure what the answer was in the other cabin areas, but in our cabin - which not incidentally was also the bar cabin (again, it was the 80s) - the answer was A LOT. Like a s—t ton lot. It turned out that aside from three barely-teens sporting kilt pins and knee socks (and not remotely looking like Britney Spears), our cabin was filled with members of the Bellville Rugby Club (which is a weird detail to remember, but must be true because why would my mind concoct Belleville of all places?). I recall feeling like the dudes were middle aged. I expect this means they were, like, 25. Either way, I can tell you with full confidence that these guys were BIG, and had an EPIC capacity to consume alcohol (and cigarettes). Not surprisingly, the Belleville Bulls proceeded to drink their faces off until they ran the bar dry. Not an auspicious start, to that flight or my flying future in general.
I have a particular dislike of landing and turbulence. The landing bit has a known source: growing up my brother would be 100% for the duration of the flight, plenty of vigour and vim to poke and annoy me until I got ratty and, because life is “SO unfair”, I got in trouble. (This also happened in the car, the result of which is that I had to sit up front between my parents on the 1970s Buick bench seat. The grossest of injustices) My brother was all good, until the landing…when he would vomit each and every time. The good news was that he was so consistent that we would already be poised with the ‘Barf Bag’. The bad news is that dealing with a barfing kid right when everyone is filling the aisle and jostling and pulling bags down on top of his head, is particularly poor timing. So, yup - I definitely don't like landing.
The turbulence thing is likely disconcerting for everyone. But a few experiences stand out in my mind as underpins for my discomfort on this note. One time, travelling over a mountain range the turbulence was so severe that the woman seated directly behind me started to pray. “Our Father, who art in heaven…” As the turbulence went on, and on, she got louder and faster, finally abandoning long form altogether and basically screaming “Hail Mary! Full of Grace!” Repeatedly. I can tell you, of all the things that I was feeling, “grace” was not one of them.
Another time we were flying to Bahamas from Florida in a Cessna. I know it was a Cessna because when we explored booking a charter for our group, the pilot’s sales pitch was “You don’t want to go in a Cessna. They crash all the time. And you wont die from the crash. You will get eaten by sharks. Thousands and thousands of sharks.” Full deadpan delivery. So, we didnt hire Mr. Charming and instead found ourselves aboard a … you got it … Cessna. This particular plane probably dated back to 1955 (first Cessna flight, I just Googled it). There was duck tape (I am not lying) taping various parts of the plane together - including on the wing outside my window and the wall above my head. Once in the air, we hit some turbulence. It wasn’t “Hail Mary” turbulence, but we were (apparently) flying over shark infested waters. The girls were seated nearer the front of the plane, and I was at the back. As the turbulence started, I called up: “Girls? Just so you know I love you!”. When we disembarked they were mad at me, and embarrassed.
Girls:“Mom! What the heck? Everyone knew what you were saying!”
Me: “What? I was saying I loved you!”
Girls: “AND that we were all about to die”
Me: “…Yes, and that. Definitely that.”
By now, I have given up all pretense that I am the adult in the room - ever/anywhere, but certainly while flying. In the airport, I am the mute dependent, joggy-walking to keep up. On the plane, the girls will quietly reach their hand across the aisle during turbulence and landing and wordlessly hold my hand.
I hate flying. But I love that part.