You read the title correctly.
I really don't like to be in a plane. It's a control thing. I'm not behind the "wheel"; therefore, I'm, um, uncomfortable. If I were, I wouldn't know what to do.
And, no, knowing more doesn't help. It's one of the rare situations in my life where having more information doesn't help me. Flying: the less I know.
People have tried. Hubby and a colleague tried to convince me to watch May Day, a show about plane crashes. (Who's gonna watch this!?) Colour me confused. I can't see how watching this show would help.
Now, my love for travel is bigger than my fear. (Love trumps fear! Well... Some times.)
So, I cope.
When travelling solo, my coping mechanism: sleep. 1) I have no control, might as well rest. 2) Death will surprise me. Yes, every time I hop on a plane I believe I may die. Dramatic. I know. (Fear is stronger than reason.)
I've been known to fall asleep before take off. I literally sit, get comfy and fall asleep. I slept on the flight from Ottawa to Montreal (about 30-40 minutes). I'm a lost cause.
When travelling with someone, I'll be polite. I'll stay awake to chat, read or watch a film. The key is to keep my mind busy enough to sorta forget that I am not on land.
"When was the last time you saw a fish on the 417*?" I'm quoting a very wise friend. His fear: boats (water in general, actually). And he's right. Being in the air puts me out of my element. I'm a virgo; earth is my element. I don't even believe in the Zodiac. But to justify this fear... anything goes!
*Highway in Ottawa.
I can deal with a bumpy flight. But when the plane ride turns into a rollercoaster. *Sigh* Apparently, I only have Hubby's word for this, I scream.
See, I involuntarily let out screams twice. The first time: when I slipped and fell last winter (breaking a 10-year streak). I was surprised when Hubby ran to help me up. He was over 50 m away and had his back turned to me. Apparently, I yelled while going down the stairs on my bum. I have no recollection of this.
The second time. On our way to Vegas (2015), the plane momentarily turned into Goliath--the ride at La Ronde. And, according to Hubs, I howled. And I was the only one.
Peeps, there isn't really a moral to this story. I'm a chicken when it comes to flying (and heights), and I own it.