Fear of Flying

I confess I have a fear of flying. I don’t mean anything like Erica Jong’s novel of sexual boredom! I didn’t always have this fear and can remember how excited I was the first time I boarded an airplane at O’Hare. My girlfriend Vickie wanted the window seat. That was fine by me because I disliked heights.

Our Boeing 707 flight into Miami was without problems. We then were directed to walk across the tarmac to board the one owned by Out Island Airways. This plane was so small, there were only twelve passenger seats. The stewardess told us to keep our seat belts fastened because we would encounter turbulence. After taking off, the ship shuddered, shook, and went up and down, worse than any roller coaster ride. Vickie prayed out loud that we would safely reach the Bahamas.

It was certainly scary, but this didn’t bother me enough that I wouldn’t fly again. Our trip back to Miami was smooth. On our return trip to Chicago, we had a two-hour layover in Atlanta.

The TV news reported on crashed flights and on planes which disappeared and were never found. This was normal.

During the next several decades, I flew into Phoenix twice. No problems going or returning. No suitcases were lost.

Flying into Oakland to visit my brother was okay. Coming back was another story. Once we boarded, the plane taxied onto the runway, where we sat for several hours. Our direct flight to Chicago, ended up being directed into Denver for refueling. We arrived at O’Hare five hours later than we should have. This wasn’t something unusual.

The horrific events of 911 were certainly extraordinary. Certainly not normal for a plane to be treated like a guided missile. I didn’t find this off-putting.

I can hear you asking, “Why are you so fearful of flying?”

It’s because I’ve watched too many episodes of Dr. G Medical Examiner. So many older people have died after spending hours in an airplane. A few days after they arrived at their destination, they suddenly died of coronary thrombosis. Stuck on a long flight, you cannot get up and walk around.

This is the reason I decided to drive to Ohio and back. With my fourth novel unfinished, I didn’t want to risk it. Driving the 3800 miles, I could get out and stretch. I could also get iced mocha coffee anytime I wanted.

At this stage in my life, I wouldn’t board any airplane. Not even for a million bucks!