Fly Me To The Fear

Pteromerhanophobia. A deluxe name for what essentially means, 'I hate flying more than is socially acceptable.' Pteron is Greek for wing. Not to be confused with Pteronophobia - which is a fear of being tickled with feathers. Perhaps the latter (of which I don't have, luckily) cancels out the former. If so, feel free to tickle me at high altitude. Anyway I share my Pteromerhanophobia with some cool people: David Bowie. And also some not so cool people: Kim Jong-Il. Britney Spears.

Given that there are so many ritzy sounding labels for phobias, my recent challenge has been to find a professional name (one with a wage, briefcase and a blow-dry) for fearing flight, yet being an aviation and plane loving geek. I have been temporarily unsuccessful. However, the wings of the web forum has proved I am definitely not alone in this particular quarter of the bonkersverse.

AA777, says: 'I love airplanes. But if we have windshear when we are landing, I'm shitting my pants! I also can't do air pockets.' Adding, 'A shrink friend of mine said that to overcome the fear of flying I should go parachuting. YEAH RIGHT.'

Flashmeister replies: 'I love watching, reading and learning about planes. But I can't do take offs. I try to just breathe and put one (NOT two) hands on the seat in front.'

Out of context, air pockets sound like trendy Shoreditch trainers. And what would happen if I put my second hand on the seat in front? (Perhaps Otto Pilot might appear). Anyway, the general conclusion, is to fly more.

I took nine flights in 2001. None of them got easier. The final one was made mildly more interesting by sitting beside Mr Asbestos Bladder, who by some miracle of medical science failed to make a toilet trip in 13 hours (yes, I checked the rise and fall of his chest). But I wouldn't say the eight previous flights had somehow infused the final experience with a festive sparkle. The opposite in fact when I consider the choppy landing, during which we circled Heathrow so many times we practically boiled a cloud. I've never found statistics helpful either. Knowing I'm more likely to catch the Monkeypox off my kitchen or glue my face to the sun just doesn't resonate.

Thus I've spent a large proportion of my life avoiding films like Alive and Final Destination (that documentary Airplane is ace though). And wherever possible, avoiding flight. I once got a train to Paris, a taxi and a connecting train to Bordeaux, simply to avoid a short haul. It was an expensive journey which tested my near dead linguistic skills to the max. And took a whole day. I got to take in a lot of French countryside and watch a lady consume two impressively large bars of Milka though.

And yet, I love planes. And airports. I feel it's only right to acknowledge the contradictory nature of my blog. Do I like aviation because I'm scared of flying? Is it that compelling euphoria that comes after the weak-legged, chunk-surpressing main event is over and you're thrilled to discover you not only made it, but enjoyed a dry croissant along the way? A 'fight or flight' reflex, as old as mankind, which leaves you feeling both emotionally bankrupt yet triumphant...

I always go for a window seat. I don't want to pretend I am somewhere I'm not. It seems rather patronising (if you can patronise yourself.) And it's the only way I can get the movement to make sense. I won't close my blind for night nor blazing sunshine. Sorry sleepers. But another reason for remaining window-side, is that in spite of myself, I'm captivated. Mid-air, I'm obsessed with the lay of the land below us. The way it looks like it's been cut from a stencil and coloured in.

I am an incessant gazer. I select my music tracks* (oh, you know it!) to best represent the vista I see, be that outlines of rivers and roads, ferry specks in giant seas, glowing conurbations at night, a lucent horizon made from acres of sun-soaked clouds - or simply wind over wings. When the whole plane is asleep, and subjected to 'lights out' like a flying dormitory because somewhere in the world it's bed time, I'll be at the back; peering through the emergency exit window, wondering who is staring up at my contrails. How remarkable, that while my feet are on hard ground, the hard ground is slicing through soupy air at a speed I'll never understand.

Forget films. The flight tracker channel is my narrative. I get engrossed in where we are, how high we are, how fast we're going, and all of that over again, in whichever languages are available for me not to understand. I'm peculiar enough to have taken screen grabs along the way too.

I've mentioned Captain Stacy Chance. He is probably the reason I can appreciate parts of flying now instead of chewing a flight sock. His tutorial acknowledges every sensation from take off to landing and explains them all in detail - far more effective in cutting through the grease of my fear stain than anything else. So, consider Captain Chance the Flash to my dirty hob. Hm.

Often fearful flyers end up at the helm, taking lessons. I can see that. It's like squaring up to a monster and instead of passing out, getting it on side and working for you in accounts. And who doesn't want a tame behemoth type, bashing out some top drawer arithmetic on the company abacus?

I will leave the final words to AA777:

'This might sound kinda weird. But my sister has gotten over her fear of turbulence by just pretendings [sic] she is on a magic carpet...'

AA777...

Am I your sister?

*Fleet Foxes, Simon & Garfunkel, Ryan Adams, Rilo Kiley, Cashier No. 9, Walker Brothers (Blue Ridge Mountains, Only Living Boy in New York/America/Old Friends, Easy Tiger album, So Long, Lost At Sea, No Regrets.)