A nosedive at 30,000 feet was the last thing I expected.

I always relish the alone time when I'm flying.  I lose myself in magazines and movies and random converations with strangers.  I enjoy the smell of peanuts, the safety demonstration, even the sound of the seat belt sign.  

Cocooned within the vast expanse of sapphire sky, the prospect of hurtling violently downward doesn't enter my mind; I've never been afraid.

I have no idea that in a few short moments this will change--forever. 

I lower my seat back and sip on a gin and tonic as we glide gently over the Pacific.  The flight attendants walk the aisles with thin smiles.  They are getting older, I think, more bitter.  They look tired.

Coffee?  Tea?  They ask.  Chicken or fish? 

It's business as usual; they are serving lunch. The pilot must be expecting a smooth ride. 

There is no turbulence before it happens, no announcement to take seats or fasten seat belts, just a sudden startling lurch and shake followed by a sharp fall.

The plane plunges downward, shaking violently.

The walls move in and out as if elastic and I am certain they will soon break off and shatter to pieces. This is no longer a jet, it is merely a tin can hurtling downward, carrying me to my certain, fiery doom.

My head spins, I sweat and clutch my seat. Drinks fly through the air. Oxygen masks fall.  A baby screams. In an instant everyone on the plane is panic stricken.  Even the flight attendants fight back tears as they try to maintain some semblance of composure; one is pinned behind the cart.

I am certain we will all be dead in a matter of moments.  

I know immediately that this is not mere turbulence; it has to be mechanical.  I await the certain calming reassuracnce of the pilot's announcement telling us everything is under control, not to worry.

It never comes. 

I remain absolutely frozen with fear.  Time melts.  Flight attendants continue to topple over one another and I do nothing but sit motionless as my oxygen mask falls in front of me.  

I am traveling alone, my first trip since my son was born.  I think of him at home in his crib, six months old breathing in angel whispers.

I know I won't see him again.

There is no one to comfort me as I prepare for the worst.  The woman next to me is crying and shaking.  Her husband stares out the window in shock, his khaki pants covered with coffee.

Through all of this the faceless pilot remains utterly silent, making the situation appear all the more dire. I conclude that if he is not reassuring his passengers he must be a very busy man--busy keeping this tin can from crashing into the dark blue sea below us.

My thoughts are racing: why isn't he saying everything is fine? All we need to do is climb a bit higher to find a smoother ride, right? Is there a problem with one of the engines?

Why am I so numb?

We continue hurtling downward. 

My palms sweat.  My heart races.  I don't move or speak or breathe for what seems like an eternity.

And then, just as it began, it stops.  

The plane levels.  Passengers sit up, some holding hands.  They wipe away tears and try to regain composure.

Still, I can't catch my breath.

A flight attendant comes by, straightens her skirt, and asks if I am okay.

"What just happened?" I ask her.

"We almost crashed," she says, flatly, not making eye contact.  "You would've been unconscious though.  You wouldn't have felt a thing."

I think: is this supposed to comfort me?

She walks away, smiling, picking up coffee cups and giving passengers reassuring  pats on the back.

I can't move.  I am still clutching the armrest. 

We have two hours more to go before our scheduled arrival time, two more hours in this faulty airplane that I was just told almost crashed.

The pilot never says a thing and we fly the rest of the way in eerie silence.

      __________________________________________ 

We land safely that day and I walk off that plane determined not to let this flight instill new fear in me.  It's not my nature to be afraid.  I am bold,  I am strong. I am independent.  These are the things I tell myself as I try to think my way out of fear's clutches. I am convinced that this one little incident won't damage my psyche and that I will continue to fly with ease.

I am wrong.  

I have never boarded another flight without a feeling of sheer terror. It begins the moment I make my reservation and doesn't end until I've landed. 

I've tried everything to remain calm:  music, valium, scotch, valium and scotch.  Nothing works. I am still afraid. I can't think myself out of it.

This pisses me off.   

I arm myself with knowledge thinking that might help. I  read every possible statistic.  I can tell you at any given moment which airline is the safest to fly. I can tell you which airports are most dangerous.  I can tell you the safest place to sit.  

Want to know the best time of day to fly?  I can tell you that too.

Unfortunately none of this does me any good; it doesn't help. 

It's supposed to make me feel better, more in control, but instead it has the opposite effect.  

Now I know too much; all the new information only fuels the fear. 

Before every flight I take a good long look at the pilot to make sure he looks capable, not drunk, tired or pissed off at his wife. It's all I can do, really.  

This is the one little game I can play in my mind to make me feel as if I have some degree of control over my destiny.

if I'm not convinced the pilot if competent, I don't board.  

Here's the thing though.  Do I dread flying? Hell yes. I avoid it whenever I can.

Will I ever let it keep me from exploring this great big world?

No way.

I'll crash and burn before I ever let this fear stop me.