Takeoffs and Landings

I never used to be the type of person who is afraid of flying. My first time in an airplane, I was so excited about the shrink-wrapped airplane food and barf bags embossed with the airline’s logo that it didn’t occur to me to be afraid of the fact I was being propelled through space thousands of feet above the ground. (And it was some years later before I learned I should also have fear for the food and the bags, and the relationship between them.) I made my first trans-Atlantic flight when I was fourteen, and specifically remember feigning fright so that the young man in a cowboy hat who was sitting next to me would hold my hand to “comfort” me. But secretly, the thrill of flying overpowered any worry about the safety of the mode of transport.

My favorite parts of flying are, ironically, the most dangerous: takeoffs and landings. Sitting on the runway is rather boring, but once the jet’s engines start to hum and the armrests begin to vibrate, the fun begins. There is always a moment when the mounting churning of the engines breaks from a rattle to a forward push, and it is this moment when, without fail, my heart begins to beat faster. I am pushed back into my seat as I careen to look out the window to see the ground flying by. Similarly, landings provide the exhilaration of the fast approaching ground and the invisible force of momentum pulling me forward as the plane rapidly decelerates. Takeoffs and landings are not frightening; they’re thrilling. My discomfort is reserved for cruising altitudes above 30,000 ft.

Looking out the window and seeing, thousands of feet below, nothing but an endless sheet of blue ocean is not relaxing. The reclining seatbacks and child-size pillows do little to ease my concern about the unlikely suspension of our multi-ton aircraft.

I am a reasonable person. I have reasonable confidence in modern understanding of aeronautical physics. Our heroes Mr. and Mr. Wright took to the skies over one hundred years ago, and commercial air transportation has since become a multi-billion dollar industry that transports millions of people all over the world every year. So why can’t I just sit back and enjoy the mini pretzels and five-dollar cocktails?

On my last flight, I found myself asking this question somewhere over the Arctic. Cruising alongside a four-hour sunset reflected in a sea strewn with cracked sheets of aquamarine-edged icebergs, I turned to the young man sitting in the seat next to me and pointed at the view out the window.

“Why is that so scary?” he looked confused, and leaned over me to get a better look at the ice below.

“I didn’t see it. What was it?” he clearly was having trouble matching the concern on my face with the beautiful sunset.

“That,” I pressed my palm against the small plastic windowpane, “that huge ocean full of ice and freezing water.”

“Ice is freezing water,” he smirked, “and anyway, that’s nearly six miles below us. We’re safe up here.”

“Safe?” I balked, “That’s exactly the problem: we’re up here. And what is keeping us up here? Do you see the wings moving?” I knew my argument was making me appear like a lunatic, but really I just wanted someone to talk me back into a rational place.

“Actually, the wings are moving. Can’t you see them flopping around at the tips?” I could. And it was not making me any more at ease. “Look, if it bothers you, just close the shade. Try to relax a little. Airplanes are, after all, the safest way to travel.”

And there it was, the phrase that everyone likes to tell the sweating pteromerhanophobic: flying is the safest way to travel. And suddenly, like the doorbell ding of the fasten-seatbelt sign, I realized that my fear of flying was not a fear of crashing, but a fear of safety.

It would seem that a fear of safety is oxymoronic; after all, aren’t we usually afraid of things that threaten our safety? But fear can also be understood as unwillingness to accept the unknown. My fear of cruising altitude, of safety and security, is just another way of interpreting my fear that my life will become, for lack of a better word, comfortable. Of course, I enjoy the comforts in life. I have been extremely fortunate and am deeply grateful for everything I have. And yet, I fear becoming too settled into any one place or situation. I yearn for the dramatic perspective shift of takeoffs and landings.

Though this elevated epiphany helped occupy my thoughts for the remainder of the flight, it did not relieve my uneasiness about our impossible yet secure suspension above the freezing -and frozen- ocean. I found my relief seven hours later as the plane crossed Japan’s eastern coastline and roofs and cars began to loom up from the terrafirma below. As we bumped along the runway and were jostled in our seats, I turned to the young man next me. He was firmly clutching both armrests with white-knuckled fists.

“Why is that so scary?” I asked him, pointing out the window.

“Landing is the most dangerous part of flying. Anything could happen,” his lips pressed into a concerned grimace. I turned back to the window and let the momentum of the halting plane pull me forward from my cushioned seatback.

“And isn’t that wonderful?”