Coffee, Tea, or Flee? by Grandpa Jim

A White Knuckle Paper

Those who know me well often chide me about my aversion to airplane travel. They think, I guess, that I have a phobia about flying. But that is not altogether true, for if I had such a phobia, I couldn’t fly. On the contrary, I have flown. Some may think that I am afraid to fly, but they are not aware that I have flown ten or so times and that averages out to once every eight point one years! So I’ve decided to describe for them (and you) a clearer understanding of my “aversion.”

Let’s start with the departure. I think it would help me a lot if I could, miraculously, just walk up to the gate, into the plane, and take my seat without any delay. This way, I could prevent that stage of anxiety brought on by (A) waiting, and (B) the IMAGINING that is so alarming. You must understand that time is definitely against any chance I might have of feeling comfortable.

Then, there’s the take-off. To me, that bumpy, loud, long, suspenseful surge down the runway is not at all pleasant or comforting. I don’t know why they can’t smooth out the concrete, muffle the engine, and just CATAPULT all 200 of us into the sky.

Once into the air, the climb to 35,000 or more feet seems to take forever. If I had the nerve to look out of the window (I tend to stay as far away as possible) I just know I would be nervous about our angle of ascent. Even the engine sounds as if it were struggling.

Arriving at our proper altitude is a mixed blessing. On one hand, there is relief. On the other hand, there is the knowledge that we are seven to ten MILES above that terribly hard earth.

Now that we are cruising along at a smoother, but faster rate, I can concentrate on the sound of the engines. You wouldn’t know it to look at me, but I COMMUNE with jet engines! I think, sometimes, that I may have extra-sensory awareness of every one of the trillions of strokes, or revolutions, or whatever goes on in those monsters. I just know that I’m going to hear a missed stroke, and that that will mean we are in trouble. It is the waiting and almost expecting it that is so troubling.

I can read a book, eat something, try to nap, or listen to music, but always I am keenly alert to the rhythm of those whirring blades.

One of the real comforts of a flight is to see the seat-belt sign go on and hear the announcement that we are beginning our descent. Well, maybe not a COMFORT, I guess. It does mean that I can relax my sensitivity to engine sound and now all I have to think about is the landing that will take forever, no doubt. To me, the landing is the worst part. Will a tire blow out? What does a plane do if that happens? Tires seem so fragile as we drop millions of tons of plane and people and cargo onto a tiny, concrete slab. I don’t think airplane tires are anywhere near big enough to support us.

Then comes the touch-down, always somewhat of a jolt and a bang that I can’t identify, a deafening roar as the engines are thrust into reverse, and my heart as it is also thrust against my ribs when the brakes are stomped on, and then my final concern; is the runway LONG ENOUGH? “Thank you, Captain…fine flight.”