Flying Is Less Terrifying With My Son

His presence comforts me because I can’t imagine his end.

Photo by Eva Darron on Unsplash

I haven’t flown in eighteen months. This weekend, my wife and I took my son to New York City to celebrate his thirteenth birthday. Last year, he spent a big chunk of his puberty locked down in the house with us so we’d promised him we’d go big this year.

And what’s bigger than the Big Apple? I’m sitting in Times Square as I’m writing this, and we’ve been having a great time.

A few weeks ago, my wife asked how I felt about flying again after such a long layoff, well aware that I don’t handle air travel well under the best of circumstances.

Meanwhile, my son had been giddy at the prospect of watching his Dad sweat out the flight.

For someone that loves to travel, I sure hate to fly. Sometimes I’m simply nervous. Other times, I’m terrified. I’ve thought a lot over the years about why flying causes me so much trouble.

I’ve been flying commercially since I was a teenager. I jumped out of airplanes in Airborne school training in the Army. And while I hadn’t liked flying even then, I was fine. The tipping point for me was nearly twenty-five years ago, on a short commuter flight between Chicago and Detroit, when our plane suddenly dropped. Not enough to activate the…