Up, up and away

If I could avoid flying I would.  But sometimes there was just no avoiding it.  And as I board the 737, my anxiety is already beginning to rise.

It’s a cool August morning and in just over 3 hours, I’ll be stepping on to the hot tarmac at Rhodes Airport.  The plane’s beginning to fill up with excited holiday makers all looking forward to that UK rite of passage – two weeks in a European resort miles away from the hum drum of daily life.

I settle in my seat as the pilot makes the announcement that we’ll soon be on our way and, true to her word, we’re soon accelerating along the runway and within seconds we’re airborne.  I have a window seat and can see the ground getting more distant as we start to climb.  It’s noisy in the cabin as the engines power us into the sky and there’s lively chit-chat all throughout the cabin as we bank left and pass through some cloud.

Suddenly the plane plummets and a few seconds later it climbs again.  Then another drop followed by another sharp climb.  Behind me someone shouts out in angst, and I can hear others crying and shrieking.  The animated and carefree chatter is gone and is replaced with the voices of scared and nervous passengers and tension permeates the cabin.

Something is very wrong.  This wasn’t turbulence.  This was something worse.  Way worse. This is my worst nightmare.  I can feel the blood pumping through my veins and my hands are clammy.  I glance out of the window and can make out the cars on the motorway below – wishing I was a passenger in one of them instead of a few thousand feet off the ground.    

There’s a violent shudder and then we level out.  The man in the seat next to me is resting his head on the seat in front.  He’s mouthing ‘No” over and over again.  Across the aisle I can see a young mother holding a toddler on her knee.  I catch her eye and see worry lines etched on her face and in one sweeping movement, she cradles her child to her chest with silent tears streaming down her cheeks.

Her fear matches mine as the plane once again violently shakes and we pitch downwards.  The escalating panic and chaos surround me and above the screaming I can make out the piercing strain of the Rolls Royce engines as the pilot points us skywards again.

“Stay in your seats! Keep your seatbelts on! Stay in your seats!’ comes the command across the intercom.  And I can’t help but wonder why anyone wouldn’t be strapped in as we careen forward at 500 miles an hour.

I attempt to calm myself with some deep breathing: in for 7, hold for 7, out for 7.  But it’s useless.  My heart is racing, and I imagine this is what having a heart attack feels like.  My breathing is laboured, and my vision is blurred.  I’m utterly helpless.  The man next to me grips my hand, squeezes hard and I look up.  

‘I think this is it’ he states solemnly and, with that, the plane pitches down once again.  But this time it’s a far steeper and more violent descent than the previous ones.

The intercom crackles into life; ‘Brace! Brace for Impact!’  I hear the blood rushing in my head and squeeze the man’s hand tightly.  

“I think you’re right’ I whisper as I release his hand, bend forward and wrap my arms round my legs in a futile attempt to avoid the inevitable.