by Steve Harrison

I’m not an adventurous or comfortable traveler, and that I lament. When I was younger, I dreamed of faraway travel. I never envisioned myself a jetsetter, but I certainly thought I would get out of California.

I haven’t always been quite so afraid to leave home, though I have always been quite controlling. We’ve made it to Europe, New York City, Washington, D.C., and 30 some states. John and I got married in Vancouver, BC and honeymooned in Banff, Lake Louise, and Glacier National Park. We’ve been to Quebec, the coast of Maine, Boston, and visited relatives in Minnesota many times. We’ve cruised to Mexico and Alaska.

Many of these trips were taken aboard Amtrak or a boat staying on the Earth’s surface. So we’ve been places, but I really thought we would make Broadway plays a fairly regular event, and there are many more places in France that I would like to see, and we’ve never been to Italy, a major regret.

My fear of flying started when we had just bought our first house in Claremont and I was taking a group of eighth graders to Sacramento and San Francisco for five days. My very active imagination could see the headlines of the fiery crash, losing some of Chino’s finest scholars and my not being able to enjoy the ultimate sign of adulthood. I’ve flown since that trip in 1988 but not much. Then after 9/11 I hung up my wings.

Of course, I daydream about trips. I’ve fantasized about surprising John with a weeklong getaway to points unknown, but then I imagine myself in that little tube 30,000 feet high above the clouds, surrounded by strangers, and the fantasy is enough to trigger a cold sweat. I’ve tried to address my concern. I’ve talked to therapists about it. I went to a hypnotist who said I was a very poor candidate for his cure. Friends always say take a pill or drink, but I tell them I would have to start now. I am very accomplished at anticipatory anxiety.

I can blame my phobia realistically on not having anyone with whom we can leave Max, the dachshund. Or the fact that my elderly mother might have a crisis that would need my immediate attention. These, of course, are considerations many, well, most people who travel have to consider, and somehow they manage to do it. My real problem is loss of control. I do have a fear of heights, but, ironically, I must have a window seat so that I can help the pilot scan the horizon for other planes he might not have seen, and I keep the engines in sight in case one would burst into flames. I’m helping, don’t you see.

But really it is control. The heights are an issue, claustrophobia is more to the point. Being cheek by jowl with strangers is not my idea of a good time. As a gay man, I always have an eye on the exit, an escape hatch to get out of an uncomfortable situation or away from an unpleasant or equally phobic fellow traveler. There aren’t many ways to escape at 30,000 feet. Takeoffs and landings are not my problem; I even find them a bit exciting.

For the most part I have not had any trouble while in the air. We had a very nervous and unpleasant seat mate going to Minnesota one time. Apparently, getting up to go the bathroom once in five hours was a grave sin. And on our one trip to Europe a woman behind us kept moaning, “I want it to be over.” John is blissfully unaware of most of these things, sound asleep soon after takeoff.

I guess I have to be satisfied to rent a Vrbo or Airbnb in Palm Springs or Santa Barbara so that Max and my fears can be accommodated. I am happy to hear about our friends’ trips to Spain and Norway. My fears outweigh my envy … for now.