It’s been just over a year since I developed a fear of flying. It came on a snowy morning, when I was due at the airport, and there was news of a plane that had crash landed short of the runway the night before. There were no fatalities, no major injuries, but for the first time in about 20 years of flying, I did not want to get on my plane.
It had been a hectic trip, with mid-air rerouting and unplanned overnights, one of those trips that deliver stories which most everyone who flies in a Canadian winter eventually collect, to share after vacations with friends who feign sympathy but are waiting to tell their one-upped versions. I’ve had my share of the usual bumps and scrapes, jet lag waking me at 3 a.m., things nicked from my bag, suitcases lost. But packing up and clutching my passport always soothed my ardent need for forward motion and progress. For change.
But on that snowy morning, when I peeled back the curtains and looked out the window to the Christmas-card perfect scene, it became my reality that a trip wasn’t always forward movement. I simply didn’t want to go. I couched my hesitation in a fear of flying that, actually, was nonexistent: I wasn’t afraid of flying, I was afraid of landing and deplaning into a country where virtually no one, save a few dear friends and coworkers, had a stake in my wellbeing, or I in theirs. That this finally bothered me was no small thing. After a decade and a half of going further away, I had, in South Africa, it seemed, gone far enough.
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On last year’s snowy trip I happened to troll online to the right website at the right time, and find the right job that allowed me to reel myself in and tether between the poles of Canada and Ghana, the only ones I needed on my axis. I’ve taken a number of flights since that nervous morning, crossed through a few countries, bumped through a few hundred kilometres of turbulence. I’ve gone far enough to realize that I was right. I wasn’t afraid of flying at all. I just knew when it was time to come in for a landing.