Fear of Flying

I slowly walk into the plane, a big aluminum tube, nothing more than a thin sheet of metal between the atmosphere and helpless passengers. The captains are already locked in their cockpit, immune to influence. Warily, I glance around, looking for a weakness, looking for a failure. Carefully I sit, choosing to locate myself closest to the emergency exit. The door closes; a stewardess locks it in place. Now it is the worst, I need out, I need control. Trust needs to be placed in the pilots, and I cannot. I cannot fasten the seat belt, sealing my certain doom. Fear, like a monster in the deep, clawing to get to the surface, I suppress it, with difficulty. I fail. Fear takes control, for I cannot.

They say flying is safer than driving, but I will always prefer to grasp the future with two hands, steering myself through every obstacle. They say flying is romantic, but I prefer roses and wine. They say flying is faster, easier, cheaper, but I prefer to gaze at the gauges of my own machine, fill the fuel tank myself, tilt the throttle body ever so slightly to speed up. I will not listen to Them, even though They may be right. I fear flying. I fear giving up control to a couple of complacent captains who have never met me. It is not death I fear, it is dying because of someone else's hand. If I am the one to make the final, fatal mistake, so be it. I can assume responsibility, but I cannot trust the responsibility to anyone else.