I used to be deathly afraid of flying. Once on a flight from Dallas to Amarillo, the pilot left the cockpit and leaned over my seat to look at the wings. He said there was a problem with the hydraulics system and that we may have trouble landing. We buzzed the control tower to make sure our landing gear was engaged and couldn't help notice the fire trucks and ambulances lined up on the runway. Even the news trucks had time to get there. After about an hour of terror, circling the sky unsure if we had our wheels locked down, we landed uneventfully.
Another time, I was on the last flight out before a massive thunderstorm hit Minneapolis. The storm system had produced a tornado that destroyed the town of Greensburg, KS the day before. We took off and flew sideways for a good solid minute before the pilot was able to gain control of the plane again. A solid minute flying sideways.
I once flew in a prop plane from Zambia to Botswana with cracked windows as the pilots used iPads to navigate and meticulously scanned the horizon for other planes. Maybe that's normal for some, but I'm not a prop plane kind of guy.
I say I used to be afraid because I'm not anymore. Crazy as it seems, each of these experiences worked to subdue my fear, and my terror is now in the past. What each of these terrors have in common is that I survived without a scrape. Call it immersion therapy or flooding, all I know is that I saw my fears up close and personal, then I walked right past them onto the other side. Visiting hours over, I descended the steps of the museum, the fear of flight hanging like a prosaic watercolor in the gallery of the past. Nearly forgotten, in fact.
Reading Mark Vanhoenacker's Skyfaring: A Journey with a Pilot opened up a new chapter for me. The idea of actually enjoying flight. Written almost as a prose poem, Vanhoenacker, a 747 pilot, allows the passenger to enter the cockpit of a pilot's mind. And not just any pilot's mind, but the the mind of someone who passionately and wondrously loves their profession.
If the cover evokes a canvas, his words and sentences are the brushstrokes. I've had the privilege of traveling globally and Vanhoenacker's definition and coining of the term "place lag" was revelatory for me, "the imaginative drag that results from our jet-age displacements over every kind of distance; from the inability of our deep old sense of place to keep up with our airplanes." If you've ever had your morning coffee in San Francisco and then afternoon tea in Hong Kong in the same 24-hour period or eaten from a box of Turkish Delights in Dubai and then shared them with your family in Dallas hours later, you'll recognize this phenomenon.
With this book, Vanhoenacker opened my eyes to another dimension of flight. Beyond the unknown, beyond the fear, past the overcoming, there is a place of awe and beauty above the clouds and below from the vantage point of a bird in flight. After all, flight is really just lift, place, wayfinding, machine, air, water, encounter, night, and return. These are not just pacifying words, they are also like images of the statuesque that happen to also be the very sustenance of life.