Fear of Flying.

Wednesday 13th May 2009. It is the last day of a holiday that I have conducted so far entirely by rail. From the UK I have travelled through France and Switzerland to Italy. My last two nights were in the town of Mestre which is just across the causeway from Venice.

When planning this trip I really didn’t want to spend two days getting home by train. I was travelling solo and certainly didn’t relish the idea of shelling out for a sleeping compartment on the train which I would have to share. So I had decided to book a flight. From Venice Marco Polo airport (the main one) to London Gatwick. Less than forty quid with easyJet.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I have flown before. Many times. To and from Moscow on Aeroflot, to and from Tokyo on Virgin, to and from the USA and Canada on a variety of carriers, to and from Goa in the most cramped plane I’ve ever done long haul in (Monarch) and various locations dotted around Europe. But flying does give me a feeling of suppressed anxiety. It always has. Whether long haul or short haul, jumbo or turboprop, fixed-wing or helicopter, there is always something that I perceive as high-risk about allowing yourself to be carried to a great height at great speed and to put yourself completely in the trust of trained professionals and maintenance staff and designers and builders and all those people who go back to the drawing board.

I have watched movies like “Final Destination” – fiction so that’s okay. But I’ve also seen “Seconds from Disaster” which are factual documentaries available on YouTube which unfortunately feature many aircraft disasters. So it’s this that plays on my mind. Not obtrusively; I don’t board the aircraft bolstered by brandy or sit in the cabin a gibbering wreck but I am aware of consciously acting casual as if I am totally at ease with flying.

On 12th May, the day before the flight, I had visited the railway station at Mestre and made one last enquiry about railway sleeping car accommodation back to the UK. The supplement was aggressively dear, over twice the price that I had paid for the flight. It would also take over twenty times longer. So I walked away from the station conscious that I had let my “last chance” go.

On the morning of the 13th I rose in time to partake of a hearty breakfast at the Hotel Plaza in Mestre. Then I undertook the brief three to four minute walk down to place in Mestre where the buses leave for both Marco Polo and Treviso airports (as well as to other locations). A bus came in. There was nothing on it to suggest the destination but I heard the driver mention “Marco Polo” in an otherwise unintelligible sentence. I boarded, having paid the three euros for a ticket. I validated it myself and hoped for the best. Yes, this turned out to be the right bus and within half an hour I was standing in the departures lounge at Marco Polo airport. My flight, easyJet 5264 for London Gatwick, due to depart at 12.35 hours was not yet announced.

This is good for me for a start. I find that to watch hundreds of people milling around about to start their journeys to destinations around the globe reassuring. The time seems to go quickly. Soon the check-in is open and after waiting in a queue for a relatively short time I am relieved of my hold luggage and am now able to proceed to security so that I can enter the inner sanctum of those who are checked in and ready to go.

To my horror, despite taking off my belt and removing coins from my pocket I am carrying something that alerts the security staff and I am stopped. Am I carrying water in my hand luggage? I must look completely vacant. Then the reason dawns on me. A friend had given me a bottle of vodka in Italy and I was taking it home in hand luggage to avoid it getting smashed if the case was roughly handled. NOT a good idea. Stupidly I had completely forgotten about liquids in hand luggage being forbidden and so the untasted vodka was confiscated.

Oh well. At least I was now properly checked in. I went to obtain a light lunch in the cafeteria and was now able to watch planes moving to and from the runway. Again this is good. The almost dull routine of planes taking off and landing is therapeutic. I remember once going to Sky Harbor Airport in Phoenix AZ and just watching the planes for two hours on the day before I was due to fly home. The routine was so everyday, so normal. Why should my flight be any different?

Then I went to the gate for boarding and was bussed across to the aircraft. I was keen to get a window seat so I didn’t study the aircraft much as I hurried from the bus and up the steps. Another excellent distraction. I got a window seat in the very back row. I have long decided that I don’t care whether I’m at the front, middle or back of the aircraft, but I’d rather SEE what is going on outisde so I prefer a window seat (even though I might be the first to be sucked out in a structural crisis, haha!!).

Then there is the crew. They do this journey day in and day out. The cabin staff are there to give the safety information and then get on with the job of selling refreshments and finally perfumes and train tickets to London from Gatwick etc. Two blokes and two women. Cheerful and obviously unphased. They go through the emergency evacuation and “brace! brace!” information procedures looking slightly bored. I’m sure that this is rehearsed. I like cabin crew to look bored when they do this. If they looked serious/concerned I would be horrified.

Then there is a slight setback. The sealing of the doors. The sensible side of me is glad that we are now on our way. The supressed side whispers “you can’t get out now, even if you wanted to!”

The plane starts to move and, compared to the larger city airports, we taxi to the end of the runway extremely quickly. I am lucky to be seated behind a young couple from Essex who clearly enjoy flying. Their chirpy tones ease me. Because take-off is, for me, the worst bit. “We’re on time!” the sensible me thinks as the jets roar and we scud down the runway. “This is it. In another few seconds you could be enveloped in a ball of flame!” hisses the devil on my shoulder.

One, two, three, four………twelve, thirteen, fourteen…..we’re still on the runway. Shouldn’t we have taken off by now? Fleetingly I recall that a woman I work with lost two relatives in an early jetliner crash at Orly in Paris in the 1960’s when the plane failed to achieve take off…..but then we’re off the ground and climbing. To distract myself I reach down for the camera and start to take pictures while the ground is still distinct. We’re still climbing, everything seems good.

Suddenly a woman gets up and walks down the aisle to get to the toilet. She is obviously a hardened traveller and has no fears. But she is told to return to her seat at once and she does so grudgingly. I resent her brazen arrogance and envy it too!

Then comes that blissful moment when the cabin crew start moving around. Ah! Everything is normal. They have received the message that the take off has proceeded according to plan and they can start getting on with their duties.

Now this is a cheap flight so if I want coffee or food I have to pay for it. I find that when this kind of thing is included it is a wonderful distraction. Now, however, I got out a book and pretended to read. Occasional chimes sounded which I am used to but I always watch the cabin crew after each just to be sure. And I always check the seat belts sign too. Just now it is still on.

After a few minutes the seat belt sign goes off. Another excellent development. I look down out of the window and see that we are crossing the snow-capped peaks of the Alps.

The pilot makes an announcement. He too sounds slightly bored but informs us that we are flying at thirty eight thousand feet (“that’s a long way down!” hisses my inner voice of doom).

Everything continues normally for five, ten, twenty, thirty minutes. My seat belt is still securely on.

Then, bump, bump, bumpetty bump and BUMP! Turbulance. The seat belt signs remain off. The crew continue their rounds. We are now over Paris by my reckoning although cloud cover prevents me from seeing the ground. Then the bumping starts again in magnified form. The sign to fasten belts lights up. The crew return to their jump seats. Ah!

There then follows a period of probably no more than six or seven minutes of profound bumping and jerking. I decide to pick up my book and look (but am very far from feeling) placid and relaxed. I am thinking of auditioning for an acting school because I think that I have the talent, haha! I discreetly tug at the seatbelt to ensure that it is secure. Somebody near me remarks “I’ve never had it as bad as this!” Oh, thanks for that! My real fear is of a sudden drop like being in a lift when the cable is broken. I had it happen to me only once on an Icelandair flight in the mid-eighties. I hated that. Air-pockets! However, we were fine and the turbulence was confined to shaking us around rather than giving us the roller coaster effect.

Then the crisis is over and the crew resume their rounds. In a very few minutes we begin our descent.

Bizarrely I am completely as ease with landing. I actually enjoy it. On this occasion the cloud cover was so thick that by the time we could see the ground we were about twenty seconds from actually making contact with the runway. I was momentarily alarmed because I have only ever landed at Gatwick making an approach from the easterly direction. I didn’t even know that they landed the other way. So I was expecting to see the railway lines just before the tarmac. They did bot appear and we were virtually on the ground. Then the proper runway markings came into view and I realised. The Essex couple’s female member remarked “Oh, we’ve made a westerly approach this time!”. The landing was fine. The reverse thrust kicked in and then we were soon on our way to the gate.

The devil over my shoulder hissed grudgingly “Well, that’s another risk you’ve run!” while the sensible side of me reflected shamefacedly on my unwarranted concerns. Now….time to go and pick up the luggage……