There’s an irony in my life. Well, to be honest, there’s more than one. But for the sake of this column, the focus is on one in particular — a deep-rooted, pathological fear of flying.
As a freelance travel writer, this can be a bit of an obstacle to overcome when trying to get from point A to point B by air.
When time and geographic logistics allow, I opt to keep both feet firmly planted on the ground — in a train, car or bus.
But more often than not, expedience wins out over trepidation. I find myself on a plane, fighting panic while making sure my seat is in the raised, upright position and my tray is folded and properly stowed.
That panic lasts pretty much the duration of the flight until the plane has landed and taxied to the gate and all overhead luggage (which, indeed, shifted in flight) has been collected.
You’ve probably seen people like me on flights you’ve taken. We’re the ones who follow the attendants’ preflight safety presentations word-for-word, who study the emergency cards in the seat pocket in front of us with a near-religious fervor and who actually believe the seat cushion can be used as a life vest in the unlikely event of a water landing.
Not that I’ve ever really needed any of that information, but let’s just say my skies have not always been particularly friendly.
Sometimes, the enemy is Mother Nature.
Such was the case on a flight from Presque Isle to Boston, when we flew straight into the path of an approaching hurricane.
It was bright, sunny and calm when we lifted off in northern Maine. But as we approached Logan Airport, things began to deteriorate.
About 15 minutes before our scheduled arrival, the pilot of the small commuter plane came on the intercom and announced that conditions were about to get “bumpy” as we passed through some “choppy air.”
This, I knew from experience, translated into “hang on for dear life and pray” — which is exactly what I did as the plane plunged and rose abruptly while seesawing back and forth.
At this point, it’s important to note that we were on a new (and what turned out to be a short-lived) airline serving northern Maine.
So perhaps it should not have come as a complete shock that in the midst of this rough descent, the pilot and co-pilot could be seen through the open cockpit door wildly flipping through what looked suspiciously like the plane’s owner’s manual.
They must have found what they needed, because we landed safely a short while later.
If it’s not the weather, it’s mechanical.
My grandfather was a flight instructor and once told me about the “eight seconds of no return.” According to him, if something goes awry during the first eight seconds of a flight, the plane does not have the speed, lift or ability to recover.
Since then, the moment the wheels leave the ground, I clench the seat rests and count under my breath, “One-one thousand, two-one thousand …” until the eight-second window passes.
Such as on a flight from Bangor to San Antonio, during which my late husband and I connected through Cincinnati. I had reached 17-one thousand and had begun to relax as much as I ever do in the air when a very loud explosion rocked the plane.
The explosion originated in the left rear engine, and since we were seated on the left in the rear, we were the first to know about it.
The plane pitched and rolled, and its ascent stalled.
The commuter flight’s lone attendant was seated in a jump seat next to us and, smiling, she said, “I see a red light has come on. I’ll call the captain to see what has happened.”
A few moments later, she announced — still smiling, which must be something they are trained to do right until the nose of the plane slams into the ground — “We have lost the left engine, but we still have one working engine, and we are heading back to Cincinnati.”
She then turned to me and — I am not making this up — said, “Can you see the engine out of your window?”
I told her indeed I could, to which she replied, “Can you keep an eye on it and tell me if you see anything unusual?”
Unusual? Like beyond the fact it was broken?
Obviously, we made a safe landing, and all 75 passengers walked away — most of us in the direction of the nearest bar — shaken but otherwise unharmed.
I can only wonder how long it took some poor maintenance worker to scrape the imprint of my face off that window.
Troubles in the air can also be self-induced.
Several years ago, my father moved to Maine from Portland, Ore. This meant his cat also made the cross-country move.
Logistics and scheduling meant my father and my husband were on one flight straight through to Bangor, while the cat and I ended up on an international flight out of Seattle to Quebec City.
I had definitely drawn the short straw on this one.You see, this cat hated me. She hated just about the entire world except my father, whom she adored.
It was just by luck that we caught her and were able to get her to the vet’s for a pre-departure checkup.
At the same time, I requested some sort of kitty calmers, since she and I were going to be stuck with each other for the next 36 hours.
Whereupon the vet asked me what flavor of liquid feline relaxant would we like.
Flavors? Sure enough, the choices were tuna, bacon and — believe it or not — banana bread.
I opted for the tuna.
At Sea-Tac International Airport, once the cat and I had reached the head of a very, very long line at the ticket counter, I was informed that the cat needed her own ticket to the tune of $50.
This was because she had to ride in the main body of the plane. The summer cutoff date for stuffing critters in the cargo hold had passed several days earlier.
I shelled out the $50, and we made our way to the even longer line at security.
This, I thought, could be kind of fun, as I wondered whether they would let me watch the screen as the cat went through the X-ray machine.
Nope. Only because I was told to remove the cat so a security agent could “wand” her.
I don’t know, maybe she fit some kind of terrorist profile. Luckily, the little beast was deep in a tuna-relaxant haze, so she was quite amenable to the inspection and pat-down.
That hurdle past, we got to the gate and boarded. I’d just stepped into the plane when the only surly flight attendant I have ever met stopped me, glared and asked, “What do you have in there?”
“My father’s cat,” I said, certain I’d already broken some sort of flying-with-felines rule.
“Well, you are NOT going to let her out during the flight, are you?”
Right, that was my plan all along — let the cat run amok at 30,000 feet.
I assured her that the cat would remain in her carrier, and we were allowed to board.
From Seattle to Quebec, it was nonstop turbulence. The kind in which food and — regrettably — bar service stops.
We made it, but not before I was seriously contemplating how bad tuna relaxant would taste.
In the days and weeks after her arrival in northern Maine, that cat actually began to tolerate me.
Frankly, I don’t think it was out of any kind of fondness; rather, she was looking for a tuna fix.
There have been other cases of in-air fright. Like the time we were taxiing from the gate out of Charlotte and I noticed a large patch of duct tape covering something on the wing.
Or the one time I bumped up to first class, where I learned that passengers are privy to way too much information.
On that flight, I think a handful of us were civilians — the rest were pilots and attendants who’d been bumped from several earlier flights because of bad weather.
That meant the bad weather into which we were flying was the big topic of discussion as they boarded the plane and passed through first class.
Statistically, flying is the safest form of travel and, as family and friends take to the air this holiday season, I wish them all safe flights and arrivals.
If they are really lucky, their luggage will get there at the same time, too.
Julia Bayly of Fort Kent is an award-winning writer and photographer who frequently submits articles to the Bangor Daily News. Her column appears here every other Friday. She may be reached by e-mail at jbayly@bangordailynews.com.
