Today, I was looked at sort of oddly. Because of my fear of flying.

No, I do longer like to fly in a jet. Or anything.

Flying nowadays fucking petrifies me. But it wasn't always like that.

So am not a wuss.

When I was young, I LOVED flying. Which is why I joined the Civil Air Patrol. Twice a year, they took you flying. In C-42's if I remember correctly. A cargo plane with two doors in the back near the tail, and stretchers to sit on on the sides. And you got a parachute. And a lecture.

'That THING on your pack is a parachute. If anything should happen, one bell will ring, and you WILL bend over and put your head between your legs. (yawn) If TWO bells ring, you will proceed to the doors in back, which will be open, and WAIT for your commanding officer to count to three. Whereupon you will STEP off the plane like stepping off a step. Got it? NOW, when you step off, you will count to three. Not onetwothree. Slowly. Otherwise it will open too soon and you will get caught in the tail of the plane, and go down with it. SLOWLY. And THEN you will pull the handle on the left side of you and the parachute will open. GOT it? If it doesn't open, not to worry, we will give you a new one when you hit the ground. As to landing: you let yourself go limp, and roll. If you do not, you will ram your leg bones right through your head. So let's get on with it.'

Man, I wanted to jump. And my best friend at that time wanted to try it too. And we figured out that those planes were such turkeys, the SECOND flight was the one where we might be able to have our chance. Mostly one of the engines caught fire, and we had to assume the position and land with the fire engines chasing us down the runway.

But ONE day, another engine caught fire... we got two bells. Oh joy. I was first at the door. It was open, and we were over Massachusetts, somewhere. It was so surreal looking at all the tiny boxes down there. I was so READY and overjoyed, and the count started, 'One... Two...' And then the fucking bell rang again and we were forced to go back to the benches and put our heads between our legs, with the fire engines chasing us down the run-way. Man, was I pissed off.

So no, am not a wuss.

My fear of flying came from a charter flight that was from Austria to New York, and then Delta to Manchester in 1973. Teh horror.... It was one of the newer planes with the jet engines near the tail. The pilot made everyone come up front before take off. For balance, he said, because the plane wasn't full. And that we would crash otherwise. And then there was a long time circling over Switzerland, because he said we would otherwise collide with another plane. And after ten hours of having to take that sadistic asshole's comments, we had to circle New York with the same threats. And I would have chalked it up to the sadistic asshole flying the plane, and not thought much about it.

Other than to remind myself never to fly charter again.

But then came DELTA. To NH. With a stop in the middle. When it took off, one of the engines backfired, and I knew from my time in CAP that we were in trouble. The weather had been calm, but we were bouncing around like waste on the seaside. THAT was when I learned to be afraid of flying. We landed very roughly somewhere in Massachusetts. I wanted to get off, but hadn't any money to even take a bus left. So I stayed on. The second leg was so bad... well, I never saw stewardesses turn a peculiar shade of green before. But we got to the destination, obviously, and I wanted to kiss the ground. After the plane having hop-scotched across the runway three times in landing.

Next day I saw that that same plane crashed in Boston, killing eighty-some-odd people.

And SINCE then, Preciousses... flying frightens me to death.

Oh, I have flown, several trans-atlantic flights. But I hardly think I would do it again. The last one was the pits. Even on Lufthansa, and they used to be wonderful. And even let myself be talked into flying Alitalia to Sicily via Rome. The cockpit had just a curtain between the first class and the pilot. ooo. That was before 9/11, but way after terrorist things were happening there.

So, 'wha HAPPENED?, huh?'

No, I don't think I'm a wuss.

But it got so bad, that I grab the arm-rests and am fully of the belief that my will is the only thing holding it up in the air.

And YES, I know better....

What happened to the kid who would have been HAPPY to jump out a plane with a parachute, hey?

I guess we just get old and skeered.