The first time I realized that my plane—just possibly—could crash, I was twelve years old. My parents and my sister and I were flying to Buenos Aires, Argentina, where we would be living for the next six months. The Andes were 20,000 feet below, their arid heights dotted with lakes an impossible shade of green. As I marveled at the vivid color, it dawned on me that the safety of my parents’ protection had nothing to do with the safety of the aircraft. If the plane went down, my family would be wiped out.
We arrived in Buenos Aires in March 1966, my sister and I in white go-go boots.
I was an optimistic girl, so my realization floated away before it had a chance to harden into fear. Then, for reasons I still can’t fathom, I became afraid of flying when I hit my late forties. Strapped into my seat, I would pray that TSA had kept a sharp eye out, that the pilot wasn’t having suicidal thoughts, that the plane was shipshape even though it rattled like it was about to fly apart at the seams.
“I’d experienced the life-changing power of traveling and living overseas, and I wanted to do more of it. ”
This newfound dread distressed me. I’d experienced the life-changing power of traveling and living overseas, and I wanted to do more of it. I had to find a way to stop torturing myself with catastrophic fantasies. Several months later, I heard someone say that people become what they pay attention to. What I was paying attention to was my fear, not to all the places I wanted to see. I changed my focus, and my anxiety gradually melted away.
Since the recent crashes of two Boeing 737 Max 8 jets, I’ve been thinking about people who are curious about the world but are so afraid of flying, they won’t get on a plane. The Max 8 disasters, I imagine, have only reinforced their decision. Boeing’s squirrelly corporate behavior has done little to inspire confidence. The F.A.A.’s reluctance to ground the planes hasn’t helped, either.
Even so, the trend toward increasing automation (such as in the Max 8) has reduced the number of crashes over the past decade. Everybody knows it’s safer to travel by plane than car, but once anxiety grabs hold, the mind doesn’t care about statistics—it cares about maintaining the illusion of safety. Cars are routine, and routines are safe. Therefore, cars are safe.
When I get in my Subaru, I perceive myself as an irreplaceable human being in control of my destiny. Countless times I’ve swerved out of harm’s way before I was aware of a car veering into my lane. In traffic there are so many variables, I know I could become a grease spot on the asphalt in an instant, but to function behind the wheel, I have to stash that unpleasant thought away. In the air, I’m not behind the wheel, so my imagination will gladly take over if I let it, filling my head with visions of disaster when the air gets rough or lighting flashes across the sky.
Some people feel so overwhelmed by their dire fantasies, they never fly again, which is sad, at least for those who would otherwise love to see the world. If you’re like that, maybe all you have to do is change your focus. Dream about the places you’ve always wanted to see, no matter how far away they are. Galapagos? Dublin? Botswana? Rome? Instead of grounding yourself for life, book a window-seat and enjoy the ride. Feel the thrill as the aircraft gathers speed, as the wheels leave the earth, as this amazing human invention takes to the sky and bears you across the turbulent ocean in a matter of hours instead of weeks. Then look out the window as if you’re twelve years old again. Look at the towering cumulus clouds, at the patchwork fields six miles below, at the toy cars and red-roofed dollhouses, at the mountain tops dotted with lakes an impossible shade of green.
Fly!
After all, the world beckons.