I think it is fair to say that I have, finally, conquered what was left of my fear of flying. I say what was left of it because there was not a lot. From what started as an irrational fear when I first flew from Heathrow to Rotterdam on a tiny little Fokker (that’s a plane, by the way), the years have gradually seen my feelings of panic subside and now disappear altogether.
The flight from Bristol to Corfu last Friday was the final piece in the jigsaw. We had a few beers in the departure lounge – it is against the law not to – and my eldest son and I made the schoolboy error of “breaking the seal” before boarding the aircraft. I cannot speak for women but for men that first “visit to to the bathroom” once the drinking is done means the next one will not be far behind. And by the time we reached the gate, the need to pay a visit was not just compelling but utterly painful.
Luckily, we had an on time departure, but not before we had to wait for a couple of planes who selfishly wished to land before we could leave. We swung onto the runway and immediately took off. Relief would be close at hand. But no. The seatbelt sign stayed switched on until we had climbed to, at a guess, some 15,000 feet, maybe more. And there was not a single bump of turbulence either. Suddenly, the sign went off and my son and I were in an unequal race to see who could get there first.
After the agony followed by intense relief, the rest of the flight was a breeze. I usually react to changes of engine pitch, the various bongs that occur during flight, the start of the descent and that moment when the pilot comes on (“I am sorry to tell you the engines have both failed”) in varying degrees of irrationality, but all the stupid anxieties had disappeared “at a stroke”.
I enjoyed the descent too, as the engines idled back until they were doing little more than idling (that bit always scared me, despite understanding the principles of life) until the last few miles to the runway in Corfu.
I have had the odd hair-raising incident on planes before. On a flight to Tenerife, liquid started pouring from the luggage compartment above our heads, which I presumed to be fuel because of course aircraft fuel is always stored in the cabin (it was wine that was leaking from a poorly sealed bottle). Once,on a Dan Air flight, the cockpit door flew open on take off, revealing the captain, not wrestling with the controls, but drawing on a cigarette. And worst of all, when my seat collapsed on take off whilst we left Corfu in a geriatric Boeing 707. The flight was event-free, albeit very noisy, but I spent what felt like an age lying on my back on the floor where my seat used to be. Great days, eh?
But now, the distraction of my bursting bladder seems to have effected a permanent cure to my fear of flying. I might break the seal next time, too.
