'You panic you die'

I’ve asked myself that every time I’ve buckled into an airplane seat in the past 50 years, whether on a Boeing 777 flown by a professional pilot with thousands of flight hours, or by myself in a single-engine Cessna. It’s not just flying; my acrophobia extends to all heights, so I still hold my breath on a giant Ferris wheel, notably the London Eye, or looking down from the 1,050-foot observation deck of the Empire State Building.

I first confronted my fears when I was a young doctoral student at the University of North Dakota. The university had a flight school with a fleet of airplanes and instructors, operating out of a nearby airport outside Grand Forks. I made friends there and soon found myself talking about my fear of flying with a flight instructor named Larry. I hypothesized that if I learned how to fly myself, I would feel safer.

“Flying is relatively easy,” Larry told me.

“So’s dying,” I told myself, as I proposed to torture myself at 4,000 feet above the frozen tundra of North Dakota.

I had taken a course under some behaviorists while studying for my doctorate and was intrigued by the then-innovative behavior modification techniques of B.F. Skinner and others, involving operant conditioning, using a system of rewards and punishment. My reward would be flying without terror, hopefully avoiding the punishment of misery every time I thought about an airplane. I was young and realized that the life I wanted was going to require flying. For instance, I wanted to go to Japan, and flying there without phobias would be more pleasant.

After some discussion, Larry agreed to give me flying lessons. We both thought maybe I’d be less fearful if I learned that flying wasn’t as complicated or mysterious as it seemed. As a pilot, I would be in control and know what to do.

“David, remember this: you panic, you die,” was Larry’s stark observation as I reluctantly climbed into the pilot’s seat of a tiny Cessna. I knew that at a minimum, I’d have to learn enough self-control as a pilot, so I didn’t crash because of panic.

My soon-to-be-dead eyes stared at Larry. “Now, fly the airplane,” he said bluntly.

In fact, he was a skilled teacher, and it was reassuring to have him in the co-pilot’s seat. But, after a few basic lessons, came the terrifying words, “OK, David, you’re ready for your first stall. Level off at 4,000 feet, and we’ll take it from there.”

I’m still anxious about turbulence when I’m on a commercial flight, but I learned to tame my dysfunctional fear and enjoy traveling all over the world.

As a phobic, I had long imagined a stall, as a nightmare where the engine of the airplane stops flying as the ground rushes maddeningly toward the airplane. I panic and reflexively jerk back on the controls. The airplane starts spinning, the wings rip off, and the day is ruined.

“Do we have to?” I asked in a squeaky voice.

“If you want to pass your private pilot’s test. And remember, don’t panic. I won’t always be up here with you.”

“That’s comforting,” I thought to myself as I leveled the Cessna.

“Now, reduce engine speed, put on the carburetor heat, and pull the controls gently back toward you. Just like taking off.”

The little airplane started vibrating. The stall warning sounded.

Through the windshield, the frozen soybean fields rushed up at me, my body stiffened, and I stopped breathing and started sweating. What had I gotten myself into?

My instincts shouted, Pull back. Pull back.

Larry said calmly, “Don’t panic. Push the controls forward…gently.”

I’m a good listener, especially when facing impending death. I pushed the controls forward toward the ground. The ground came closer.

“You’re flying the airplane now,” said Larry. “Breathe, add power, and calmly pull back on the controls.”

The nose of the airplane rose, and my life would continue.

“You recovered in 350 feet,” he said.

“Is that good?” I asked, trying not to hyperventilate.

“This was your first time. You’re still 3,650 feet above the ground.”

I knew that practice was necessary to react to stalls that occurred during takeoffs which occur close to the ground.

Larry said, “You’ll get better with practice.”

Or die trying, I thought. But, with practice, I did learn and improve.Fast forward a year. I got my private pilot certificate. One day in February, a temperature of minus 1 degree Fahrenheit (33 degrees below freezing!) I took off to practice stalls.

On a wing and a prayer, I was alone at 4,000 feet. I put on carburetor heat, cut the power, and pulled the controls back until the airplane stopped flying. The stall warning came on, and I saw the ground rushing up at me. I immediately pushed the control forward, and the little airplane became a glider.

I tried to apply power, but silence filled the cockpit. The engine wouldn’t restart! I turned the starter key while adjusting the throttle and watching my airspeed while adjusting the carburetor heat. It just wouldn’t start. I was gliding down. I tried again. Nothing. I called Grand Forks Tower and declared an emergency.

There was no response from the tower. The propeller wasn’t moving. The ground was rushing up. Off my wing, I saw a Boeing passenger jet bank and fly away from the airport.

There were three things in my favor: It was minus 1 degree, and the vast North Dakota soybean fields were frozen solid to a depth of several feet, so I could land just about anywhere. Grand Forks International Airport was less than four miles away. All I had to do was glide over the city to reach its ample runway. And, I didn’t close my eyes and scream, “Larry, help me.” I was on my own.

I remembered Larry’s warning, “You panic, you die.” Words to live or die by.

I focused on keeping the airplane aloft, skimmed over Grand Forks, lined up on final, and touched down with a perfect landing. I rolled along and turned onto the taxiway. All the while, the tower remained silent. I went through the procedures and the engine started right up.

I spoke into the microphone, “I’d like clearance to taxi to the hangar.”

I felt good about myself. I’d had an emergency, didn’t panic, and lived to write about it. Over the years I’ve come to realize that fear only comes back if I am not in control of the airplane. I’m still anxious about turbulence when I’m on a commercial flight, but I learned enough to tame my dysfunctional fear and enjoy traveling all over the world.

My flying story is unique. I don’t expect others to follow my example. There are great organizations, such as AOPA, as well as commercial airlines that offer support and resources for pilots and others who suffer from the fear of flying.
David R. Wheeler is a private pilot from Boston, Massachusetts, and professor emeritus at Suffolk University.