The Rural Voice, 2000-09, Page 58FLIGHT PLANS
A white -knuckle flyer must develop all kinds of strategies
to survive a transcontinental flight
By Sharon McGregor
When my daughter Hilary
and her family moved to
BC, it presented a
transportation problem of me of
nearly insurmountable difficulty.
Time and distance preclude most
forms of travel. Now I want to get
this clear right off the bat — I'm not
afraid of flying; I'm TERRIFIED of
flying.
I just can't get past the "heavier
than air" concept. If you throw a rock
in the air, it comes down — straight
down. I can't think of a commercial
jet as anything other than a very
Targe, streamlined, rock.
The first thing I do when I arrive
at a boarding lounge is to scan the
faces of potential crew members as
they stroll past. I want to say to the
boarding clerk "The man in uniform
over there; the one with the worried
frown who looks as if he has been
dealt a severe emotional blow, is he
our pilot?" But I resist. I'm afraid
she'll smile brightly and point to the
other man in uniform, the one who
doesn't look old enough to shave and
say: "That's your pilot; it's his first
54 THE RURAL VOICE
commercial flight. Isn't that
exciting?"
Instead, I turn my attention to my
fellow passengers. I wonder if there
is anyone here with whom I'd be
comfortable sharing my last mortal
moments. Is there a doctor on board
or an executive of the airline that
might indicate extra precautions are
being taken? Does anyone exhibit
unusual bulges on any part of their
anatomy? I know if a woman dressed
in a nun's habit walks into the
boarding area carrying a guitar case,
I'm headed for the nearest exit. I've
seen too many disaster movies.
My phobia is not helped one iota
by the routine emergency spiel we are
given before take -off. To every side
are signs of the precarious nature of
flight — emergency exits, air
sickness bags, oxygen masks, and
flotation devices (to help, no doubt as
we slide down the side of the
mountain).
As we prepare for take -off a
stewardess obviously recognizes my
symptoms of distress. She leans over
me to ask in a soothing voice
designed to calm the wildest
psychopath, "Is this your first time
flying?" She doesn't fool me. The
attempt at conversation Nis a ruse to
lean over and disengage my frozen
fingers from the forearms of my
seatmates.
By the time we have reached
cruising altitude I've passed the first
stages of fright and ,now enter a
zombie -like trance, aided no doubt by
the generous nature of the driver of
the drinks cart. I decide to try
relaxing. I breathe deeply and
rummage in my bag for a book.
Nothing can pass the time better than
a tried and true friend such as an old
Agatha Christie mystery. I pull out
one of the few I had thrown
carelessly in my bag and glance at the
title "Death In The Clouds". I return
to my zombie state.
The stewardess makes another
attempt to calm me. She indicates a
point of interest below. "If you
glance out to your left," she begins,
"You can make out the city of
Regina." Now, nothing in the world
is going to make me lean over to my