Terror at However Many Feet

I'm a Tad Concerned

It is my hope that by the time you are reading this epistle I will be in the beautiful country of Ireland, for that it where my lovely lady and I are spending the next couple of weeks. This will be my third visit to the Emerald Isle and we’re both somewhat excited for our little getaway. If you’ve never been to Ireland then I would urge you to do so at your earliest possible convenience. It is a stunningly beautiful land full of friendly people and great food and drink.

Where we are headed (West Cork) the seas around the coast are as clear and blue as anywhere you’d find in the Med and some of the views there will bring you to tears of awestruck wonder at their natural beauty. And that is not me over-egging the pudding by any margin. It truly is a lovely place that to me, almost feels like home whenever I’ve been.

So yes, I’m looking forward to our holiday.

Except…

Well, except for our mode of transport in getting there.

The last two visits we made to Ireland were taken on the ferry from Liverpool. I like ferries and if the sea is calm enough then it’s such a pleasant way to travel. This time, however, we are taking to the skies and flying to Dublin.

And – I – am – ter – ri – fied!!!

Allow me to reveal my greatest fear (my second being sharks) which is flying. There are no superlatives to adequately describe the vomit inducing fear I have of getting onto a plane. I’m petrified gentle reader and before you tell me that it is the safest mode of transportation let me tell you that I know it is. I know it’s all a question of statistics and that I’m a thousand times more likely to be killed in a car accident than a plane crash. I’m not an idiot.

I’m just uncontrollably scared of being up there.

I catastrophise you see. I do it all the time. My mind always goes straight to the worst-case scenario and I picture our aircraft, in my mind, hurtling towards the ground at a phenomenal rate of speed whilst I desperately try to reach my arse with my lips in order to kiss it goodbye.

I can picture, most vividly, the huge ball of flame as the plane explodes on impact and my fragile body being instantly vaporised in the ensuing blast. I know we’ve all got to go sometime but damn it all I’m not ready yet and when I do go I want it be as calm and as pleasant as possible and not in some gibbering, foaming, wild-eyed state of terror.

That’s the thing about dying in an airplane crash versus a car crash. The downward plummet. The feeling of utter helplessness as you rapidly descend. Knowing that the end is fast approaching but there’s absolutely bugger all you can do about it except scream your lungs hoarse and pray to the Almighty for a miracle.

If that sounds a bit dramatic then I make no apology whatsoever. That’s what fear will do to you. It builds up in your mind until it becomes a reality that only makes sense to you.

I think a small part of it may be a feeling of not being in control. If they’ed let me drive the plane I’d probably be alright up there. But knowing that we’re cruising at thousands of feet above the Earth with someone else at the helm fills me with dread. And I’m not having a pop at airline pilots when I say that. Those guys and gals are highly trained and professional individuals who are at the very top of their game. But everybody has a bad day at the office at some point.

I still have vivid nightmares about a flight I took from Washington D.C to Heathrow in 2000. It was the flight from hell. We flew over the Arctic circle and the turbulence was brutally violent and almost non-stop. Even the hostesses were all buckled up in their seats for most of the flight and one passenger actually had a heart attack in mid-air.

The mental scarring will remain with me for the rest of my days.

So, yes, I am looking forward to my holiday but I am not looking forward to the journey. I’ve heard many people say that for them the landing is the worst part but to me that is the best bit. Knowing that we’re back on Terra Firma brings a huge sense of relief.

And flying from Leeds/Bradford to Dublin only takes an hour; basically you go up and then you go down again, but its going to be sixty minutes of intense bullet-sweating panic and anxiety for yours truly until that glorious announcement comes over the Tannoy telling us to fasten our seat belts as we’re due to land very soon.

I do apologise to those frequent flyers amongst you for being so alarmist but I’m afraid I am one of those sad and ridiculous people who firmly believes that if we were meant to fly then we would be born with wings.