Fight or Flight
Facing my worst fears in the cockpit of a small plane.
Rowan Forsythe in the cockpit of a plane // photo courtesy of Rowan Forsythe
by Rowan Forsythe
Despite the commonplace nature of air travel, few will ever fly a plane. Only 0.22% of American civilians are currently certified to fly an aircraft as a student or fully-licensed pilot.
I am one of them.
“CLEAR PROP!!” I bellow out the window of the little Cessna airplane.
Several seconds of whirring, cyclic cranks from the starter. A cough, a sputter, and then a sudden and cacophonous roar that overwhelms the buzzing drone of the gyroscopic flight instruments. Thrust from the propeller vibrates and buffets the airframe.
[embed]https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o6X7Oyb1FAs[/embed]
For me, the sensation is equal parts invigorating and terrifying.
I spent hours of my youth gazing at birds through binoculars, marveling at the aerodynamic efficacy of their feathered figures. When it came to flying, birds certainly did it better than me and my taped-together cardboard wings ever would.
From synchronous, darting flocks of doves, to the captivating high-altitude V-formations of migratory species, it is no wonder that humanity has sought to emulate this gift — with one small caveat.
Humans have arms.
No wings. No feathers. Just fleshy, gangly, awkward appendages — much to the chagrin of Red Bull’s marketing team.
This rather unfortunate fact compelled Wilbur and Orville Wright to launch the world’s first powered aircraft in 1903. Scarcely a century later, the Federal Aviation Administration would come to manage more than 45,000 flights a day.
“For your 21st birthday, we want to put some air under your wings.”
This was the rather cryptic statement that my grandfather made during my visit that week. He was offering to pay my way through flight school and I, knowing the severity of my fear, was unsure of what to do.
As we ate our deli sandwiches on the deck, I took the plunge and accepted his gift. Flying it was!
Though I took my first commercial flight at just three months old, I grew into someone who practically needed bribes to board a plane, held hostage by fear. I love planes, but I hate flying.
I can still remember my grandfather, a 30-year veteran of the United States Air Force and Boeing instructor pilot, walking little 3-foot-tall me up the aisle to see the cockpit of a Boeing 737 as we deplaned. These days, I wait impatiently to scurry up the gangway back to stable ground.
This character arc sure surprised me.
Aerophobia (the fear of flying) and acrophobia (the fear of heights) are quite common. Like most phobias, they are instinctual and irrational — resistant to logic and reason.
Combined, these fears leave me paranoid and claustrophobic, trapped even — locked inside a dimly lit aluminum tube with no forward visibility, no control, and no way out. It’s a waiting game — too anxious to sleep, too tense to read — dreading turbulence and the uncontrollable adrenaline rush.
Just one thought of a stuffy airplane scent is enough to summon these familiar feelings. Despite this, I begrudgingly board commercial airliners upwards of four to six times a year. A part of me refuses to give up on the idea that someday, I might be less afraid.
Mark Twain described courage as mastery of fear, not the absence of it. Courage is having fortitude when running would be easier, it means choosing to go where the pain is. Indeed, it takes courage just to make the decision to be courageous.
That is why facing our fears is so difficult — just the thought of failure is enough to trap you. Having now faced one of mine, the reward is not something I would soon give up.
So, what does flying feel like?
Stressful, mostly fun, but bloody overwhelming.
If flying were just “driving in the sky,” it would be the approximate equivalent of steering with your feet whilst listening to a podcast and reading a compass. Except you would also be using the gas pedal with one hand, manually adjusting the air-fuel ratio, while having an involved conversation in a foreign language, occasionally taking notes.
It’s a lot of work.
In its best moments, flying is harmony between man and machine, a series of carefully planned and executed maneuvers that require coordination from all appendages.
Just a few minutes at the controls would show anyone that birds have it easy — as flightless flesh bags, we need weeks’ worth of videos, phonetic alphabets, 500-page manuals, and over 40 hours of practice… just to get a license.
Learning to fly is both gratifying and humbling — each tidbit I learn, every maneuver I master, is immediately replaced with more things to admit I cannot yet do.
Facing your fears takes patience. Courage notwithstanding, flying is still a white-knuckle affair. After every stint of touch-and-go landings comes a moment spent peeling my cramped hand from the yoke.
I don my grandfather’s olive drab flight jacket each time I fly, with its worn American flag and old squadron insignias. I owe this opportunity to him. Besides, I figure there is a little courage left in that old coat.
“Bellingham tower, this is Cessna 3051 echo at the FBO with information foxtrot, looking to do some touch and goes.”
I had to think before I said that — I’m still learning the language.
“Cessna 3051 echo, you are clear for touch-and-goes, runway 34, taxi via foxtrot alpha golf, hold short for traffic on final.”
“51 echo, foxtrot alpha golf, hold short runway 34,” I responded.
And with that, we’re off. I still have hundreds of landings to go, but each flight brings me one taxi closer to replacing my worst fear with a new passion.