Musings: Fearless, almost

I had been married for 25 years, then one day I wasn’t. Divorce was a shock, but it provided the catalyst for acquiring some much-needed self-determination without threat of domestic reprisal.

Unfortunately, that was only one fear dispensed with. My list was long. Raised by a trepidatious mother, I contracted her anxiety and many of her phobias almost by osmosis. I’ve come to realize some of them were unfounded. Like my fear of flying.

I had never stepped into an airplane, at least not one preparing to leave the ground, until I was 52 years old. It marked a milestone in my life, of a magnitude not easily comprehended by others.

For years, I suffered from an inordinate fear of death. Coupled with a vivid imagination, it set the stage for some lurid scenarios. Not all of them were hypothetical. Every once in a while, a bridge does collapse while people are driving across it, and the occasional camper does get eaten by a bear. Things happen. And, no question, dramatic things have been known to happen in airplanes. That’s why I avoided them.

Until I became acquainted with Curt, that is. I’d known who he was for the multitude of years we’d both lived in the same small town, and, truthfully, I’d always been intimidated by him. He was several years older than me, with a demeanor austere to the point of forbidding (well-practiced, I’m sure). When he first initiated a conversation with me in a local bookstore—where we nearly collided in the history section—I was caught off guard.

It was common knowledge that he was a commercial pilot and the owner of an airplane. I couldn’t fathom why a person with such credentials would make his home in our humble community. It seemed like a valid question, so I asked him. He informed me (while maintaining a straight face) that even pilots must live somewhere. I couldn’t fault his logic.

When he discovered that I was a freelance writer, he pointed me in the direction of a possible story about a restaurant, some 30 miles north of where we lived, situated near a skydiving business and boasting its own airstrip. I was intrigued by the story idea, but even more so by Curt. He wasn’t as scary as I’d believed. From him, I soon learned that pilots are people, too, just people who aren’t afraid to fly. It was rather eye-opening.

As I got to know him, Curt struck me as the responsible type, so I wondered if it might be safe to ride in his airplane—a novel concept, since the very idea of flying had always filled me with terror. But, now, I saw the possible opportunity to overcome that fear.

I gave it lots of thought. To fly, or not to fly, became the question. Not quite as existential as the one posed by Hamlet, yet still one I wrestled with. I decided that, yes, I was brave enough to leave the ground, which then begged the question of etiquette. Curt had never formally offered me a ride in his airplane, so would it be presumptuous to ask for one?

A publisher assured me that all pilots like it when people express interest in their airplanes, so I called him. True to his nature, Curt’s reply was unrevealing. Although he didn’t sound overjoyed at the prospect of taking me up for my maiden flight, neither did he seem put off by my request. He simply instructed me to meet him at the local airport.

While driving the short distance, my heart was in my throat from both fear and excitement. It occurred to me that I had no idea what sort of airplane he owned. Not that it mattered, of course, since, presumably, any size would get me off the ground.

I first thought his was the small jet parked to the side of the runway, which elicited a chuckle from him.

“Nope, it’s this one,” he said, as he led me to an Aviat Husky A1–B, discreetly marked and impeccably maintained.

Per his instructions, I ducked below the right wing, then performed the sleight of feet and feat of agility required to procure my entrance into the narrow rear seat. After contending with a bewildering assortment of straps and buckles, listening to his speech informing me of the whereabouts of the barf bag and the emergency exit, donning a headset, and taking several deep breaths to steady my nerves, I felt ready for takeoff.

After positioning himself in the front seat and adjusting his own headset, Curt called, “Clear,” and the engine roared to life. I was committed. No time now for second thoughts. Taxiing down the runway presented me with the opportunity for some last-minute qualms, but not for long. We turned, picked up speed going in the opposite direction, then soared skyward.

My fear was immediately a thing of the past. The exhilaration of becoming airborne was like nothing I’d known. That thrill is but a small part of the pleasure of flight, though, I’ve since discovered. Leveling out and flying effortlessly above familiar terrain, while viewing it from a higher perspective, strikes a chord deep within me. Peace reigns. Worries can’t reach me when I’m high above them.

Why hadn’t I made this discovery when I was much younger? I wondered. It might have spared me a few gray hairs.

Sheila Harris, a freelance writer, lives in southwest Missouri.