Are you scared of flying?

[daft twat]

I feel like turbulence is way more common than it used to be, and I put that down to global warming. I don’t do well with turbulence at all.

That panel coming off the Alaska Airlines plane mid-flight in the spring fucked me up.

Today, as I was flying, I heard a flight attendant talking about a plane that went down today in Brazil. I saw the video. Horrifying.

I love traveling, but my fear of flying is getting pretty serious. Might need a sedative next time.

[Ello Sailor]

Not even a little bit. That said I've never flown in a third world shitbox. That might feel a little sketch.

[Jorge]

Went through a period of it at around ages 27-29. Later I read this is a common age to develop a fear of flying as it's around when one starts to become more conscious of one's mortality. I've always had to travel fairly often for work so I kind of powered through it. These days I don't give it a second thought.

[ABNorman]

Same vibes as when I used to do a lot of caving - I'm aware in the background that there's millions of tonnes of rocks all around me and no way to move quickly to escape, but largely it's background noise and when I start to think too hard about it, I can push it down pretty easily.

[epilogue]

I don't love flying. I used to have zero issues with it. Now, I find it very uncomfortable. Sometimes I'm totally fine, other times I'm a wreck. I'm never sure when the fear will hit.

I usually take an edible before flying anymore, unless I know I have to drive a rental car when I land.

[Ello Sailor]

I usually take an edible before flying anymore

This sounds like a great move.

[tragabigzanda]

There is a wolf in me . . . fangs pointed for tearing gashes . . . a red tongue for raw meat . . . and the hot lapping of blood—I keep this wolf because the wilderness gave it to me and the wilderness will not let it go.

There is a fox in me . . . a silver-gray fox . . . I sniff and guess . . . I pick things out of the wind and air . . . I nose in the dark night and take sleepers and eat them and hide the feathers . . . I circle and loop and double-cross.

There is a hog in me . . . a snout and a belly . . . a machinery for eating and grunting . . . a machinery for sleeping satisfied in the sun—I got this too from the wilderness and the wilderness will not let it go.

There is a fish in me . . . I know I came from salt-blue water-gates . . . I scurried with shoals of herring . . . I blew waterspouts with porpoises . . . before land was . . . before the water went down . . . before Noah . . . before the first chapter of Genesis.

There is a baboon in me . . . clambering-clawed . . . dog-faced . . . yawping a galoot's hunger . . . hairy under the armpits . . . here are the hawk-eyed hankering men . . . here are the blonde and blue-eyed women . . . here they hide curled asleep waiting . . . ready to snarl and kill . . . ready to sing and give milk . . . waiting—I keep the baboon because the wilderness says so.

There is an eagle in me and a mockingbird . . . and the eagle flies among the Rocky Mountains of my dreams and fights among the Sierra crags of what I want . . . and the mockingbird warbles in the early forenoon before the dew is gone, warbles in the underbrush of my Chattanoogas of hope, gushes over the blue Ozark foothills of my wishes—And I got the eagle and the mockingbird from the wilderness.

O, I got a zoo, I got a menagerie, inside my ribs, under my bony head, under my red-valve heart—and I got something else: it is a man-child heart, a woman-child heart: it is a father and mother and lover: it came from God-Knows-Where: it is going to God-Knows-Where—For I am the keeper of the zoo: I say yes and no: I sing and kill and work: I am a pal of the world: I came from the wilderness.

[Jorge]

Terrified. Part of my pre-flight ritual is looking up the safety record of the aircraft model.

Have you ever canceled or otherwise modified a trip because you didn't like what you found?

[tragabigzanda]

There is a wolf in me . . . fangs pointed for tearing gashes . . . a red tongue for raw meat . . . and the hot lapping of blood—I keep this wolf because the wilderness gave it to me and the wilderness will not let it go.

There is a fox in me . . . a silver-gray fox . . . I sniff and guess . . . I pick things out of the wind and air . . . I nose in the dark night and take sleepers and eat them and hide the feathers . . . I circle and loop and double-cross.

There is a hog in me . . . a snout and a belly . . . a machinery for eating and grunting . . . a machinery for sleeping satisfied in the sun—I got this too from the wilderness and the wilderness will not let it go.

There is a fish in me . . . I know I came from salt-blue water-gates . . . I scurried with shoals of herring . . . I blew waterspouts with porpoises . . . before land was . . . before the water went down . . . before Noah . . . before the first chapter of Genesis.

There is a baboon in me . . . clambering-clawed . . . dog-faced . . . yawping a galoot's hunger . . . hairy under the armpits . . . here are the hawk-eyed hankering men . . . here are the blonde and blue-eyed women . . . here they hide curled asleep waiting . . . ready to snarl and kill . . . ready to sing and give milk . . . waiting—I keep the baboon because the wilderness says so.

There is an eagle in me and a mockingbird . . . and the eagle flies among the Rocky Mountains of my dreams and fights among the Sierra crags of what I want . . . and the mockingbird warbles in the early forenoon before the dew is gone, warbles in the underbrush of my Chattanoogas of hope, gushes over the blue Ozark foothills of my wishes—And I got the eagle and the mockingbird from the wilderness.

O, I got a zoo, I got a menagerie, inside my ribs, under my bony head, under my red-valve heart—and I got something else: it is a man-child heart, a woman-child heart: it is a father and mother and lover: it came from God-Knows-Where: it is going to God-Knows-Where—For I am the keeper of the zoo: I say yes and no: I sing and kill and work: I am a pal of the world: I came from the wilderness.

[lennytheweedwhacker]

Not even a little bit. That said I've never flown in a third world shitbox. That might feel a little sketch.

I did once. It was a pretty short flight, but I was sick so I fell asleep. Right as I woke I see nothing but clouds as the plane is going downward. Like ten seconds later we see the ground. Can’t remember exactly how close we were but it wasn’t far. Apparently even the pilot was a little concerned. That was actually only the second plane ride of my life. The first was the day before…

[tragabigzanda]

There is a wolf in me . . . fangs pointed for tearing gashes . . . a red tongue for raw meat . . . and the hot lapping of blood—I keep this wolf because the wilderness gave it to me and the wilderness will not let it go.

There is a fox in me . . . a silver-gray fox . . . I sniff and guess . . . I pick things out of the wind and air . . . I nose in the dark night and take sleepers and eat them and hide the feathers . . . I circle and loop and double-cross.

There is a hog in me . . . a snout and a belly . . . a machinery for eating and grunting . . . a machinery for sleeping satisfied in the sun—I got this too from the wilderness and the wilderness will not let it go.

There is a fish in me . . . I know I came from salt-blue water-gates . . . I scurried with shoals of herring . . . I blew waterspouts with porpoises . . . before land was . . . before the water went down . . . before Noah . . . before the first chapter of Genesis.

There is a baboon in me . . . clambering-clawed . . . dog-faced . . . yawping a galoot's hunger . . . hairy under the armpits . . . here are the hawk-eyed hankering men . . . here are the blonde and blue-eyed women . . . here they hide curled asleep waiting . . . ready to snarl and kill . . . ready to sing and give milk . . . waiting—I keep the baboon because the wilderness says so.

There is an eagle in me and a mockingbird . . . and the eagle flies among the Rocky Mountains of my dreams and fights among the Sierra crags of what I want . . . and the mockingbird warbles in the early forenoon before the dew is gone, warbles in the underbrush of my Chattanoogas of hope, gushes over the blue Ozark foothills of my wishes—And I got the eagle and the mockingbird from the wilderness.

O, I got a zoo, I got a menagerie, inside my ribs, under my bony head, under my red-valve heart—and I got something else: it is a man-child heart, a woman-child heart: it is a father and mother and lover: it came from God-Knows-Where: it is going to God-Knows-Where—For I am the keeper of the zoo: I say yes and no: I sing and kill and work: I am a pal of the world: I came from the wilderness.

[pepperwhiteMFC]

A few years ago on a flight from Amsterdam to Atlanta the plane lost altitude to the point that overhead bins were knocked open, and many passengers screamed. It was unsettling but now I sort of know what it would feel like to fall out of the sky.

In May this year on a flight to Denver from Newark, some of the worst turbulence I had felt since that flight to Atlanta. It felt more like we went up and down over some hellish speed bumps.

I’ve experienced some pretty crazy landings, which are fine. I would rather be involved in a runway crash than anything else.

On a flight last year I was seated in the middle, with a helicopter mechanic on my left, and an AA mechanic on my right. Both were discussing their jobs. That’s when I learned about the “Jesus nut” regarding helicopter rotaries and that commercial jet take offs are typically the most dangerous times of the flight because the potential for something to go wrong is greater.

[BurtReynolds]

Flying in a propeller plane in a storm was terrifying.

I get nervous about it sometimes. Other times, not at all. Mostly I worry about the pressure change fucking up my sinuses. Or getting sick in general.

[BurtReynolds]

Have you guys ever been on a helicopter?

[pepperwhiteMFC]

I’ve never flown in a helicopter or prop plane let alone in a storm, but it’s still probably safer than driving 470 in CO.

[tragabigzanda]

There is a wolf in me . . . fangs pointed for tearing gashes . . . a red tongue for raw meat . . . and the hot lapping of blood—I keep this wolf because the wilderness gave it to me and the wilderness will not let it go.

There is a fox in me . . . a silver-gray fox . . . I sniff and guess . . . I pick things out of the wind and air . . . I nose in the dark night and take sleepers and eat them and hide the feathers . . . I circle and loop and double-cross.

There is a hog in me . . . a snout and a belly . . . a machinery for eating and grunting . . . a machinery for sleeping satisfied in the sun—I got this too from the wilderness and the wilderness will not let it go.

There is a fish in me . . . I know I came from salt-blue water-gates . . . I scurried with shoals of herring . . . I blew waterspouts with porpoises . . . before land was . . . before the water went down . . . before Noah . . . before the first chapter of Genesis.

There is a baboon in me . . . clambering-clawed . . . dog-faced . . . yawping a galoot's hunger . . . hairy under the armpits . . . here are the hawk-eyed hankering men . . . here are the blonde and blue-eyed women . . . here they hide curled asleep waiting . . . ready to snarl and kill . . . ready to sing and give milk . . . waiting—I keep the baboon because the wilderness says so.

There is an eagle in me and a mockingbird . . . and the eagle flies among the Rocky Mountains of my dreams and fights among the Sierra crags of what I want . . . and the mockingbird warbles in the early forenoon before the dew is gone, warbles in the underbrush of my Chattanoogas of hope, gushes over the blue Ozark foothills of my wishes—And I got the eagle and the mockingbird from the wilderness.

O, I got a zoo, I got a menagerie, inside my ribs, under my bony head, under my red-valve heart—and I got something else: it is a man-child heart, a woman-child heart: it is a father and mother and lover: it came from God-Knows-Where: it is going to God-Knows-Where—For I am the keeper of the zoo: I say yes and no: I sing and kill and work: I am a pal of the world: I came from the wilderness.

[BurtReynolds]

I've been on a helicopter a few times, and didn't feel nervous about it despite them being more dangerous.

I used to pray for a thirty minute helicopter trip to and from the oil rig. The alternative was spending 4 hours on a supply boat ramping waves. That was one of the worst experiences ever.

[Ello Sailor]

The couple times I’ve been on a prop plane I’ve actually felt safer. I have this notion they can glide better if there’s a malfunction.

That's an interesting theory. I think turbulence would be worse though. I also associate prop planes with more primitive tech, so Burt flying through a storm in one is some bunhole-puckering nonsense as far as I'm concerned. No thanks.

[daft twat]

The only movie I watched on the plane this trip was There Will Be Blood. I’d never seen it (sorry, Verb). It only fueled my anxiety.

[lennytheweedwhacker]

Not even a little bit. That said I've never flown in a third world shitbox. That might feel a little sketch.

I did once. It was a pretty short flight, but I was sick so I fell asleep. Right as I woke I see nothing but clouds as the plane is going downward. Like ten seconds later we see the ground. Can’t remember exactly how close we were but it wasn’t far. Apparently even the pilot was a little concerned. That was actually only the second plane ride of my life. The first was the day before…

I should add to this that I have no fear of flying and wasn’t anxious about my first trip