DrippingLife

In prehistoric times, when cave men hunted, they were armed with homemade spears made of sticks and stones they had worked into points to (perhaps) bring down their prey. If they merely speared the animal, their fear sent a message of two choices to their cave man brains – either stand and “fight” or run -- as fast as they could, and if they were lucky, they outran the mammoth or saber-toothed tiger they had wounded. (Psychologists call this response to fear “the fight or flight syndrome.”)

The other day, I was thinking about the times in my life I had truly experienced fear and the first incident that came to mind occurred during a flight from the California coast with a stop in Phoenix before flying on to Houston’s Hobby Airport. 

In Phoenix, we noticed several flights being cancelled during our stopover, but thought little about it. We watched the take-offs and arrivals board in hopes our flight wouldn’t be cancelled. It didn’t happen, so 20 minutes before takeoff, we boarded and settled in for a relaxing trip back to Texas, happy we would be getting home that night after a long week of work.

It was not to be.

Just as we crossed the state line between New Mexico and Texas, turbulence took over the aircraft and for the next 60 minutes or so, it seemed as though the winds were pushing and pulling, up and down and side to side, all at once, sending us on a rollercoaster ride of the first magnitude…so bumpy and dippy, I thought the airplane might just rip apart…and I hoped our half would either keep going…like a glider or land somewhere soft like the sandhills in Monahans.

Harking back to the cave man, at least he had some place to run, some place to hide. We, on the other hand, could do neither at 30,000 feet.

I held my husband’s hand so tightly for the majority of that flight, I may have cut off circulation temporarily, and as the wind tossed us around, I somehow prayed this aeronautical nightmare would end…and the sooner the better.

In case you think I’m exaggerating, they stopped serving drinks soon after we took off, and I noticed a few flight attendants with unadulterated terror in their eyes.

Hats off to the welders and riveters at Boeing. Our plane didn’t come apart, mid-air, although I’m sure the aircraft landed with a few loose screws (I thought the pilot may be suffering from the same malady).

As soon as we touched down and taxied to our gate, I did what any self-respecting, white-knuckler would do. I found the closest barf bag…and I wasn’t the only one.

Standing at baggage claim, my husband soon spied our tall, tanned and gray-haired pilot (he arrived there so fast, he must have run the entire distance), meeting up with a statuesque young blonde wearing four-inch hooker heels and a revealing dress my father would have described as “probably not something she would’ve worn to church on Sunday.” Giving our captain the benefit-of-the-doubt, I thought the woman was probably his wife, even with their obvious age difference…and they were obviously overjoyed to see each other, judging from their long and numerous kisses. 

My husband’s assessment was probably closer to the truth: that the pilot had made the call to fly out of Phoenix, even when other flights weren’t taking off because of reported tornadic winds and uber turbulence. The reason? Because Capt. Courageous didn’t want to miss a minute of a clandestine date with his Houston mistress.

Like the pre-historic hunters, sometimes when we’re fearful, our choices are limited especially in mid-flight. But rather than experience another two solid hours of fear and trembling (not to mention nausea), I chose the obvious option – no more “flight” for me. I’d rather “fight” highway traffic -- and that was my last trip ever into the wild, blue yonder.