Lady Lives to Tell It

A week before we left for Namibia I asked my boyfriend to remind me of our itinerary. He rattled off the locations of our trip, talked about driving from our safari in Etosha National Park back to Windhoek, then casually mentioned the bush plane that would fly us to Sossusvlei—

“Wait. Bush plane?” I asked.

“Yeah. I asked you about it months ago. You were fine with it.”

“Um, no. I’m petrified of heights. There’s no way I would have ever agreed to fly in a bush plane,” I told him. “Ever.”

“Oh, hmmm. I thought we talked about it.”

“Well it’s already booked so there’s nothing I can do about it now, but if I die it’s all your fault,” I said. He wasn’t too worried. I was.

My fiery death was foreshadowed by the sermon we heard over the radio at the restaurant where we ate lunch on the way to Windhoek. The pastor introduced the day’s lesson with an anecdote about the death of JFK Junior in a small plane.

He followed it by admonishing small plane pilots and mechanics who don’t take proper safety precautions. Not what I needed to hear right before getting on a bush plane.

We got back in the car and drove to Eros Airport in Windhoek in the stifling afternoon heat. After trying to figure out where to check in for our flight, we were informed that the pilot would come into the waiting area to get us.

After a few minutes a boy of no more than 18 years came into the room where we were sitting and called our names. He was wearing a bright yellow jersey, so I figured he was some sort of airport security worker.

He wasn’t. He was our pilot. I started sweating.

It wasn’t so bad that the pilot was so young. It was so bad that the plane was so old. As we climbed into the cabin of the tiny Cessna, the first thing I noticed was that the ceiling was held together with duct tape.

The second thing I noticed was that it was smaller than my old car. Claustrophobia set in. Hyperventilation followed shortly thereafter.

As the pilot taxied down the runway, I had a sudden urge to tap him on the shoulder and ask if he wouldn’t mind just driving us to Sossusvlei. I thought better of it, though, figuring he might be offended and crash the plane on purpose instead of just letting it malfunction on its own.

We came to a stop at the end of the runway and the pilot turned on the propeller (yes, singular). He then closed the windows (who’s ever heard of a plane with windows that open?).

We were about to start down the runway when suddenly he turned some dials, re-opened the windows and got a concerned look on his face.

This is the part where the pilot puts his own safety and that of his passengers aside in order to make his flight on time, I thought. Should I say something? I didn’t.

A minute later we were tearing down the runway. As the plane lifted off, my hyperventilation (not to mention my endocrine system) went into overdrive.

In order to calm down, I tried to distract myself with a little mental game of Name All the Celebrities You Can Think of That Have Died in Plane Crashes. It didn’t help.

As we ascended higher and higher above Windhoek, I consoled myself with the thought that from 10,000 feet we would at least die on impact instead of getting paralyzed for life or burning to death in a fiery crash. Again, it didn’t help.

I finally shut my eyes. I forced myself to take deep breaths. I can tell you’re expecting my next action to be something rational like praying to a god I don’t believe in to make peace with it before I died. I didn’t.

Instead I thought about something far more important: on the outside chance we actually did make it to Sossusvlei alive, what if I’d sweated through my shirt? Ironically, this was the one coping mechanism that was marginally effective. Ah, vanity.

At some point over the mountains I suddenly felt a rush of calm over my body. Rather than a supernatural experience, I chalked it up to either my adrenal glands burning out or my brain finally getting the endorphins into gear. Maybe both.

Eyes closed and brain free to worry about endocrine system, I spent the rest of the flight clutching my boyfriend’s arm. Only when he leaned over and said “we’re landing” did I manage to take a peek at what was below.

My eyes rested on a gorgeous yellow desert that stretched as far as I could see. Beneath the brightest of blue skies, little brown mountains were strewn about like a bunch of lazy caterpillars. It was gorgeous.

The plane landed on a gravelly stretch of desert. As we taxied to the end of the runway my boyfriend turned to me with an abundantly guilty face and said “I am so sorry.” I smiled. “Am I all sweaty?” I asked.

I shouldn’t have worried. When I got out of the plane, I realized that my T-shirt was the least of my worries. My entire body was soaked in sweat. Not embarrassing at all.

So what did I learn from this harrowing near-death experience? No, I did not decide to give all my earthly possessions to charity and spend the rest of my life as a stoic hermit in the mountains. In fact, I did not decide to drastically alter the course of my life in any way.

All I did was make one simple resolution: to get over my fear of flying in small planes. I had to. I was making the return trip 48 hours later.