Bryan W. Alaspa 1The whole flying thing
September 18th 2009 13:27
There was a time when it was easy to get me to fly. This was back when I was younger and naïve and unaware of a lot of things. When I was a kid, I was excited to fly. I sat by the windows and got such a thrill watching the cars and buildings get smaller and smaller. The cars went from big things that could run me over to looking like my Matchbox cars to tiny dots and then to being too far below for me to see. Then, the reverse happened when we landed. I loved it.
Back then I was easy to pacify. You just had to tell me that the bumps the plane was experiencing were like the bumps on a road. I remember my mother telling me that on one of the first flights I ever took, which I believe was to California. I remember being totally pacified by that. I shrugged and kept coloring or doing whatever the hell it was I was doing.
In my life I have flown a lot of places. I have yet to make a trans-continental flight to another country such as England, but I have flown across the Pacific to Hawaii. I then flew from one island to the other on Aloha Airlines. I did that without a care or concern. I knew about hijackers and I knew that planes crashed by then but, for some reason, it just didn’t bother me.
Somewhere along the way things changed, though. Somewhere along the way my imagination became a double-edged weapon against me. This is the problem with having an active imagination. Sometimes it works great. I make, or attempt to make, my living as a writer and I write a lot of fiction. Having a great imagination makes that much easier to do. However, at times, that imagination can turn on me and bite me. The noises I hear in the house at night go beyond the house settling and into some horrific monster.
Well, somewhere along the way I was suddenly able to imagine what it would be like to fall from 26,000 or 40,000 feet. You see, you wouldn’t die right away. No, you would have many, many minutes to fall from that great height, likely conscious the entire way down. Then, when you hit the ground, you might die right away, or you might not. Sure, you would think you would just splatter all over the ground and, most likely, you would. However, you might also hit at an odd angle and lay there broken and bleeding just long enough to feel yourself roasting in the heat of burning jet fuel.
See, this is the double-edges sword of the imagination. Yes, my head is filled with images of that. I remember stories of improperly inspected planes and planes that blew apart due to tiny electrical problems buried in the ceilings or the wings.
What it all comes down to is that I am no longer and easily-pacified flyer. I used to be unable to sleep during a flight when I was a kid because I was too excited and wanted to stare out the window. These days, I am unable to sleep on a flight because ever bump and jiggle wakes me right up.
I know, I know. It makes no sense. I know it is safe. I know that I am more likely to die driving to work than on a plane. I know all of that, but I still cannot relax on the plane.
Those planes shouldn’t even be able to get off the ground, for crying out loud. Do you see how big they are?
Back then I was easy to pacify. You just had to tell me that the bumps the plane was experiencing were like the bumps on a road. I remember my mother telling me that on one of the first flights I ever took, which I believe was to California. I remember being totally pacified by that. I shrugged and kept coloring or doing whatever the hell it was I was doing.
In my life I have flown a lot of places. I have yet to make a trans-continental flight to another country such as England, but I have flown across the Pacific to Hawaii. I then flew from one island to the other on Aloha Airlines. I did that without a care or concern. I knew about hijackers and I knew that planes crashed by then but, for some reason, it just didn’t bother me.
Somewhere along the way things changed, though. Somewhere along the way my imagination became a double-edged weapon against me. This is the problem with having an active imagination. Sometimes it works great. I make, or attempt to make, my living as a writer and I write a lot of fiction. Having a great imagination makes that much easier to do. However, at times, that imagination can turn on me and bite me. The noises I hear in the house at night go beyond the house settling and into some horrific monster.
Well, somewhere along the way I was suddenly able to imagine what it would be like to fall from 26,000 or 40,000 feet. You see, you wouldn’t die right away. No, you would have many, many minutes to fall from that great height, likely conscious the entire way down. Then, when you hit the ground, you might die right away, or you might not. Sure, you would think you would just splatter all over the ground and, most likely, you would. However, you might also hit at an odd angle and lay there broken and bleeding just long enough to feel yourself roasting in the heat of burning jet fuel.
See, this is the double-edges sword of the imagination. Yes, my head is filled with images of that. I remember stories of improperly inspected planes and planes that blew apart due to tiny electrical problems buried in the ceilings or the wings.
What it all comes down to is that I am no longer and easily-pacified flyer. I used to be unable to sleep during a flight when I was a kid because I was too excited and wanted to stare out the window. These days, I am unable to sleep on a flight because ever bump and jiggle wakes me right up.
I know, I know. It makes no sense. I know it is safe. I know that I am more likely to die driving to work than on a plane. I know all of that, but I still cannot relax on the plane.
Those planes shouldn’t even be able to get off the ground, for crying out loud. Do you see how big they are?
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