FEAR OF FLYING

The best thing after my divorce was no longer flying in small airplanes. However, it took me a few years to recover from the fear of flying after several near-death experiences.

My then-husband, Jack, thrived on high-risk experiences.  Jack enjoyed off-road motorcycle racing until he shattered his ankle after crashing off a cliff.  After graduating from law school, he still had a year or so left on the GI Bill and used it to get his pilot's license.  In exchange for providing legal assistance to a company that managed small airplanes for the owners, he could rent small aircraft anytime.  The downside of this arrangement was that we had a different plane every time, which required becoming familiar with a new aircraft each time. We flew everywhere for business and pleasure, especially since my job required travel. 

 

One of our non-business trips was to the Indy 500.  Jack had yet to receive an instrument rating, but that didn't stop him from flying into clouds and thunderstorms while chasing the ever-elusive St. Elmo's fire.  St. Elmo's fire occurs when aircraft passes through heavy, electrically charged skies.  We were fortunate to experience the fiery colors swirling around the propeller, but extreme turbulence during the flight was frightening.  During this trip, I asked him if he was afraid of dying.  He wasn't, which should have been my first clue that flying with him could be deadly.

 

Shortly after the St. Elmo flight, we were invited to travel with another couple and stay at their condo in Taos.  Jack agreed to fly us, but he had only been flying for a year and had yet to obtain his instrument rating.  Taos is over 500 nautical miles from Dallas.  We refueled in Dalhart, but the distance and delay meant we would be flying into Taos at dark.  

 

We were low on fuel when we approached Taos, and the skies were pitch black.  Jack couldn't figure out how to turn on the panel lights, so I pointed a flashlight at the instrument panel.  Unfortunately, the Taos tower was closed, and our only communication was with Albuquerque.

 

We attempted twice to land in highly turbulent crosswinds. Still, we had to keep circling around and trying to land until the gas gauge indicated that we had to land or run out of fuel while in the air.  Right before we touched down, I saw my life passing before me because I did not expect to survive the landing.  It was a fast, hot landing, with the landing gear hitting hard on the runway and the wings slamming against the pavement as the plane swayed from side to side.  

 

We quickly reached the end of the runway, and the aircraft landed propeller first into the ground with one less wing. Jack's hand froze on the yoke, and the couple in back talked about turning on a lighter to find her purse.  The odor of the little fuel left was overpowering.  I unlocked Jack's hands, told the couple to put away the lighter, and we all climbed out of the cabin.  Thus began my fear of flying.

 

After our daughter was born, she accompanied us when we flew to various places for pleasure. There's nothing like a baby screaming at the top of her lungs for several hours in a small airplane.  I thought I would lose my mind on those trips, but they were infrequent enough that my mind stayed intact. 

 

When Marcy was four, we flew to a family reunion in Oklahoma.  It was a short dirt strip surrounded by trees. As we were taking off with the fast-approaching trees at eye level, Jack could not figure out why we weren't gaining altitude until I screamed at him to raise the "damn" gear! This aircraft had retractable gear rather than the fixed hear we had grown accustomed to.

 

Our final trip was a few months after Mount St Helen's erupted. Jack was fascinated by the volcano eruption and was determined to rent an airplane and fly over Mount St. Helen's. His wish was fulfilled, but I stayed in the car while he flew over the vast devastation caused by the eruption.

 

After our divorce, Jack flew a small plane to the coast with our daughter, a friend, and his friend's son.  On the return flight, the aircraft started losing oil, and he had to land in a farmer's field.  After that incident, he was forbidden to take our daughter in an airplane, the last time he piloted a plane.

 

Jack closed his practice several years ago, sold his building in Dallas, and retired to Houston with his long-time girlfriend.  His dream was to spend his retirement years sailing.  Shortly after buying the boat, he broke his hip on a balance board.  The sailboat was sold after the fractured hip, and he's been content to spend his remaining years playing the piano and reading.

 

Jack's not the only one to take unnecessary risks, as I've done my share. Despite near misses in our younger years, perhaps we'll each live to see age 80. It's been one hell of a ride! 

 

I wouldn't change a thing.