Fear of Flying

by Jean Marie Moffa
September 19, 2005

This weekend, I went on a trip to Las Vegas. Not for casinos, shows and poolside fruity drinks (although the walk through the Wynn was nothing short of enchanting), but to fly. In a plane and in a glider, with my high school friend Paul, who is an expert pilot and flight instructor.

I have wanted to fly since I was a child--the dream of doing it was my single-most consuming childhood dream. Yet somehow (the reasons could well be the subject of another piece...) it never happened. Knowing that Paul will soon be moving from Las Vegas, and learning from him how exceptional the flying conditions are there, I decided I needed to go. Now.

While my dream of flying has been filled for the most part with awe and wonder for what to me has always been the miracle of flight, I will admit to some fears. Never having made sense of basic physics, becoming airborne remained incomprehensible. This left plenty of room for fear of the unknown, and each rare and tragic airplane crash I'd see in the news over the years would punctuate this fear with a sense of panic. I will admit to having a rosary handy on most flights, and to feeling relief that my departure from Las Vegas this weekend was, at 12:54 a.m. on September 12th, clearly 54 minutes free and clear of the haunting date of 9/11. But now it was time to focus on the awe, on getting a greater sense of understanding, and to see if I could release the fear and pursue my dream.

This weekend I flew once each day: Friday and Monday, on commercial flights, Saturday in a Cessna, and Sunday in a glider. I had wondered if I'd be afraid on any of them. My findings surprised me.

Flight #1: Northwest Airlines, Detroit to Las Vegas. Departure 8:30 a.m., flight duration 4 hours, 11 minutes.

A typical commercial flight experience for me, with a minor adjustment. What was consistent with my previous commercial flights was the ever-present sense of wonder that this huge, metal bird can lift itself from the ground and fly, as well as my solid hope that the pilots would do their job well. The one difference: the Vegas party had already begun. Laughter, loudness, passengers standing in the aisles, leaning over seats... I was surprised not only to see people's actions shift so noticeably, but also to see that the flight attendants did not intervene. Las Vegas seems to be a place of suspended reality--even before you arrive.

Flight #2: Cessna 172S, local trip from Boulder City Airport, Boulder City, NV. Departure 9:00 a.m., flight duration 1 hour, 30 minutes.

Paul taught me a lot about this plane, during pre-flight instruction and inspection, and while flying. I found myself getting it, too--or, getting a handle on the essential forces at play, the physics behind this process.

My comical first attempts at taxiing, the engine's unwillingness to turn over, after fueling. Cryptic runway abbreviations becoming less-so, with explanation. A growing sense of what each dial indicates, and which dials are important to read when. A lot was going on.

And then there was the unbelievable backdrop of the scenery below. Some flying of my own, working through some turns, then Paul's demonstration of stalling. My initial fear upon hearing that word dissipated quickly with his very accessible explanations, before, during and after. Physics. It works.

This was a fabulous flight, with just the right amount of information, and more than enough beauty--my appetite has been whet. It's true: I need to learn how to fly.

Flight #3: Grob G103 Twin II (glider), local trip from Jean Airport, Jean, NV. Departure 12:30 p.m., flight duration 31 minutes.

The Las Vegas Valley Soaring Association occupies a portion of the Jean Airport, with 20 gliders (7 on the flight line year round, and 13 in trailers, ready to be assembled as needed) and 1 tow plane (Piper Pawnee--a 1940's era crop duster). Control center is a circa 1970 trailer, picnic benches out front, with awning for shade. No bathroom. This area is indicative of glider flying itself--this is flight, in its most elemental, essential, and pared down form. No engines, no frills, nothing to distract from the science--and art--of navigating the earth's winds.

On Paul's command, and with the support of a solid, deep breath, I pulled the release cord, freeing us from the Pawnee, at 6,000 feet. The moment of soaring free and clear, off and away from the tow plane, was breathtaking. Searching for thermals, flying into their lift, watching the altimeter rise and fall, as per Paul's maneuvers from one thermal to the next. Were it not for my inner ears' rebellion against this new feeling, and the ensuing motion sickness, I would have gladly stayed up for quite some time.

An hour of sitting on the picnic benches, hearing the wind, looking across the desert, watching the small staff of glider club members, soaking in the place: there is a deep respect that pervades this simple trailer in Jean, NV, and all the people who fly here. An elemental keenness of vision, of nature's ways, of reliance on one another. All of this transforms what at first glance seems to be an extremely isolated flying experience into a profound communion with and reliance upon Nature, herself. No room for fear here. Just respect. Preparation, training, support, all founded in respect.

Flight #4: Northwest Airlines, Las Vegas to Detroit. Departure 12:54 a.m., flight duration 3 hours, 51 minutes.

Boarding a plane at 12:54 a.m. (that's 3:54 a.m. in my time zone) is no picnic. Enduring the flight ended up being sheer suffering.

It was a bad sign when the flight attendant announced that there were just 4 blankets (these would be going to the children). Worse yet, not a single pillow was to be found. But the real problem was the young man sitting next to me. He and his wife had come prepared with their own pillows, and they spent the entirety of the flight flopping this way and that, in fits of frustration, trying to find the positions that would bring them rest. In the midst of this search for comfort, the inevitable occurred: he came over my way. Initially, it was the predictable battle over rights to the arm rest. When I could no longer hold my own, it became a crowding of the space within the bounds of my own seat. After some (restless) time, I awakened to find him sleeping on my shoulder. (A firm "Excuse me!" got him back into place.) But the moment I am still trying to forget was when I jolted awake, realizing that not only was he sleeping again on my shoulder, but his hand was on my breast. Nearly jumping out of my skin (and seat), I choked out, "Your hand is on my chest!" A mumble, a fitful turn aside, and he kept on sleeping.

I anxiously awaited the flight's end, guarding my seat and my body with whatever was left of my energy. When the plane finally taxied to a stop, I jumped from my seat, to get off the plane as fast as I could. Reaching up for my carry-on luggage, and waiting for the door to open, I glanced down at the man sitting next to me, only to be more shocked: his pants, worn below the hips, with boxers exposed, had, during the course of the flight, fallen to just above his knees. His boxers had rested in such a place as to lay open. There, below me, in clear view, was a sight I most certainly did not want to see. Could the plane door open fast enough? I wanted to run as quickly as I could from this spot, from this flight. When I arrived home, the first order of business was to scrub off my whole flight experience and rinse it down the drain.

And so it ended. Four flights, in just as many days.

Final flight aside, this weekend was huge for me. Years of hopes and dreams, finally addressed. A chance to find out if what I have longed for, these many years, is right for me. A chance to find out if lingering fears would get in the way. I am thankful that something within me knew to seize this opportunity when it arose. Thankful that my estimation of a dear friendship, and how I could rely on it, was spot on. There is goodness to be found, when we take these moments as they arise, and explore them. There is goodness in allowing ourselves the time and space to discover that once we enter into our fears, they do not hold as much power as we have been granting them.

Fear of flying? I don't need to fear learning to fly or becoming a pilot. I will learn why and how flight happens, how to provide for my safety, how to navigate the earth's winds. This weekend it became very clear to me: there's far less to fear about planes and the flying of them, than about the people on board.

I will do this. I will learn to fly. And when I do, I will choose who rides in my plane.