craziness.

I consider myself to be a good flyer. I don't throw up, I don't get claustrophobic, and I don't start screaming "We're all gonna die!" as soon as we hit an air pocket or whatever it is that planes hit to make them bounce in the air. I'm content to sit quietly by the window and look down at all the people below, who look like ants. Granted, I get a little tense during takeoff and landing. And of course, I don't particularly care for turbulence, though in that case, I use the stewardesses as my guide. If they're looking shaky, then I go ahead and just wet my pants. But if they're serving drinks and gossiping about the lady in 12C, then I figure I just might not die this time.

So when Simon, a coworker, asked if I'd like to accompany him on a flight in his plane, I accepted. After all, other people from my office had gone up with him, and they all seemed to still have their cognitive abilities.

"Oh, there is one thing I should tell you. If your door should fly open while we're in the air, don't lean out and try to close it. Just let me know and I'll take care of it."

I stare at him in reply, wide-eyed and terrified.

"Not that that's ever happened."

Simon's a quiet guy, shy and mild-mannered. Why, yes, he is a computer programmer, how did you know? However, when you get him talking about his passions, flying being one of them, he becomes downright chatty. As we drive to the airport, he tells me about flying and about his plane and how he bought it. I'm not bored, because it's an interesting topic, and I like people who have passions. Simon told me that he started flying a few years ago because it was something he'd always wanted to do. More people should follow their childhood dreams.

We arrive in a parking lot with rows of small planes. Simon's plane is tiny. I've never been in a cockpit before, but this plane is the cockpit. He goes through the routine of pre-flight preparation, explaining all the steps. Not all of the information sticks, but there won't be a quiz or anything. I ask if I can take my camera on board. He acquieses, then laughingly remarks that another coworker of ours went up for a fifty minute flight and took fifty-two pictures. Simon thinks this is pure craziness. I guess photography is not one of his passions.

We climb aboard, close the doors (very, very tightly), start her up, and off we go. I get my own headset, though I use the earphones much more than the microphone. Simon's busy talking whiskey-tango-foxtrot with air traffic control, and I'm glad that I'm not expected to keep up any conversation, because I'm all eyes. We fly around Raleigh and out to Jordan lake, my camera going snap snap snap. It's a beautiful day (Simon calls it a "Simpsons sky"), but even the gentle breeze tosses the tiny Cessna around. But my pilot doesn't seem to notice it, and I decide I'm probably not going to die this time.

We head back to the airport and make a smooth landing. As we taxi back to the parking lot, we hear another pilot on the headphones requesting permission to retry his takeoff, because one of his doors came open while he was on the runway. We laugh, though mine is a little forced. We get out and Simon parks the plane by pushing it backwards with a big bar. I take a look at my camera. We were up for forty-five minutes, and I took fifty-five pictures. Simon would think that was pure craziness.