This Is Your Captain Speaking

When you're afraid of something but you do it anyway, are you really afraid of it? I am one of those people you could classify as "afraid to fly." I say things like "I'm afraid to fly." That's a pretty good indicator. I get a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach just booking a flight. There's an incredible amount of deeply internal self-talk going on during the drive to the airport. Chances are I hardly slept the night before. Sometimes people do that cuz they're afraid to miss the flight. I can't sleep because I know I have to get on the flight. I've flown a lot, not as much as one of those crazy businesspeople but enough to have crisscrossed the country numerous times. I've crossed the Atlantic a few times. I've only missed one flight despite sprinting (how afraid are you when you are actually sprinting to board the thing you're afraid of?) from one gate to another in Memphis. I guess I was still high from having landed safely. The best time to ride the roller coaster is immediately after you've ridden the roller coaster. I survived! Let's test it again. One of these times will surely be the disaster I've envisioned every time I buckle in. Maybe that's the part I fear most. My own imagination. Outwardly, I look like everyone else getting on the plane. Smile at the boarding personnel, trundle my carry-on down the jetbridge, give a reassuring nod to the other passengers that I've done this before, glance at my cell phone a few times. One thing I always do before boarding is touch the outside of the plane. It's a thing, like if you connect with the bird it will get you there safely. Then I say hi to the flight attendant, look a little bored while waiting in the aisle, stick my tongue out at the baby when mom isn't looking, brighten when I realize my whole row is empty for the moment, swing into my window seat (if I am so afraid, why do I insist on this view?), pull out my Sudoku puzzle book and purple pen, pop a stick of gum in my mouth, shove my backpack under the seat, buckle my seatbelt, text loved ones goodbye, turn off my phone. And the last thing I see before I bury my head in numbers are the words, "Your seat cushion may be used as a flotation device." Now see, that's all it takes. Every mini peptalk I've given myself that morning from my bed to seat 17F is shot to hell. I am painfully aware that my seat cushion can be used as a flotation device. I've read that thousands of times. If someone had written "Peas taste like chocolate" in that exact spot on the seatback in front of me I would probably be eating them right now. I act like I'm doing puzzles, but inside I'm thinking why do I need to be reminded every time I fly that I could end up floating? Who has not read that yet? Can we just take it off of there? I want to stand up and say, hey, any first timers on board? This your first time flying, miss? Well, let me tell you something in case you haven't heard. Your seat cushion floats. It's a miracle of science. In the unlikely event of an emergency water landing, you will be fine. The thing is, we don't believe you fully grasp that by me telling you, or the flight attendant telling you, or the in-flight safety video and seatback pocket card telling you. In the likely event that you will forget this important tidbit as we plummet toward Lake Mead, we have written it in Arial caps bold on the seatback in front of you, at eye level so that you may read it and be reminded at the very instant you need to know it. Of course, your head will be between your knees, so perhaps we should have tattooed it on your ass when you boarded.

It doesn't take much to get me thinking about what could actually go wrong while I'm suspended 35,000 feet over purple mountains majesty. Of course, my visions are peppered with every aviation misstep and horrific crash known to man. I picture the plane bursting into flames at least twice during the flight. The first time is right when the plane takes off. It's so loud and things shake and one time I saw smoke coming out of a vent and that was the flight that an orange-vested mechanic with a really big wrench visited just before take-off. I thought what if he missed something? Maybe he went back for a different wrench and we took off anyway and now, boom. That's when I see the fireball come down the aisle. My palms get sweaty and my mouth goes dry just thinking about it. I take deep breaths and eventually the fireball morphs into a nice flight attendant who asks me to please not hug the seat in front of me and call upon the Lord Jesus Christ Our Saviour just yet. Would I care for a sedative? I mean, I really have no reason to be afraid. Not until we start to land anyway. And if it's particulary windy I'm fairly certain the plane will burst into flames. I know it will if there's lightning. I don't know why I assume the worst when I have never really had a bad flight. I'm a little claustrophobic and I'm not good with heights, but those things don't even enter into the equation. I fear the fireball. The odds of that happening are somewhere in the neighborhood of me winning planet Earth, I'm sure, and for that reason I am mildly okay with having not hit it big in Vegas just yet. I have to fly there by way of Miami (don't ask) in two weeks and I am already nervous about boarding. While I'm there I will be nervous about hitting it big. So when I get on that flight home with $13.1 million in my backpack, I'm buying it an extra seat and strapping it in. I want to make sure it's floating next to me on the other side.