It happens many times a year: flights more resembling a roller coaster than a smooth glide at 30,000 feet. But while many like roller coasters, screaming into the wind at 500 miles an hour to combat extreme turbulence is not anyone’s idea of amusement park fun.
Last month, on my way from Charleston to Washington, DC, my heart sank when the flight attendant approached the seven of us in the back of a “puddle jumper” and said, “You might want to fasten your seat belts really tight. It’s going to get rough.”
At one point, the plane dropped so far and so fast that I looked over to see water spray up from a cup, the droplets suspend weightless for a split second, then splash on the bald guy’s head in the next seat. The woman behind me sobbed, desperately needing another vomit bag, but the violent ride allowed none of us to reach our seat pockets to hand her ours.
This was a white knuckle ride.
Finally, we pitiful seven staggered off the plane in DC. I headed for a pub and a glass of wine. The buzz of patrons receded as I thought about how much DNA I had forced into my plane seat’s armrests.
We know it might happen, some moment of terror that comes out of the blue to blindside us. What do we do? Tuck and roll? Run and hide? Hang on for dear life until it’s over? I realized the fear for me wasn’t just falling out of the sky, but the fact that I had absolutely no control. We fool ourselves into thinking we are in command so much of the time that when it’s ripped from us, panic sets in. The only thing I can control about plane rides is to not get on the plane. As a busy nation, we’ve convinced ourselves we need flights as much as we need computers, so we get on planes knowing that the likelihood of a dangerous or rough ride is possible. Then we panic when we realize we’ve given up all power.
On the way back from DC, the weather promised calm. But alas, not only was the ride nearly as rough, the turbulence lasted twice as long. Somewhere over Shenandoah Valley I looked down to see the crinkled mountains that announced my beloved land was approaching. I swallowed and thought hard: I may have no control over my physical body at times, but I do have control of my thoughts, my feelings, my fear.
The plane stabilized for a few seconds. I thought of the beauty of my state. I imagined my family and friends’ welcome home. Taking a deep breath and in the middle of a bottomless fall, I let go the armrests and rested my hands in my lap. Here it comes: we’re climbing another steep hill and the ride down the other side, I guarantee, will be a thrill.
Cat Pleska is a sixth generation West Virginian who is the Director of West Virginia State University's Writing Center and an essayist for West Virginia Public Radio.