Stop Telling Me To “Have a Safe Flight”
If flying is the safest way to travel, I don’t need to hear it.
Any time you board a flight in the U.S, your chances of being in a fatal accident is one in seven million. The number of fatalities per million flight hours is 12.25.
You are nineteen times safer in a plane than in a car. You are more likely to die from a dog, falling down the stairs, getting hit by lightning, or choking on breakfast, than you are in an airplane crash.
So why are people telling me to “have a safe flight?”
Shouldn’t you say something else? “Hope the TV works and you have an aisle seat!” would be a great start.
And everyone tells you, too: the roommate as you’re leaving the apartment, the cab driver to the airport, the guy who checks your bag, the bartender who’s pouring drinks at 8am, every.single.security guard; all you have to do it make eye contact with someone in an airport and they say it:
“Have a safe flight!”
What I really don’t understand is if I’m more likely to get killed by a bee sting (1 in 5.5 million) or a shark attack (1 in 3.7 million) why aren’t people telling me “have a safe swim” or “have a safe walk in that field”? Nobody tells me to have a safe subway ride into work or a safe dance party after work, and not once have I heard, “have a safe Ben and Jerry’s binge” even though nearly 1 in 5 deaths in America is linked to obesity.
In line for one of those horrifying wooden roller coasters that jerks you practically out of your seat? All they say is, “Enjoy the Ride!”
The airplane safety everyone preaches only heightens my acute fear of flying. I don’t care if the odds are forever in my favor; I am in a huge “Airbus” (oxymoron?) that weights 12,600 pounds and cruises at a speed of 500 mph, approximately 4,000 feet in the air.
That is heavy, fast, and high.
How that much weight can stay afloat is far beyond my comprehension. Forget physics: there are thousands of pounds (and people) floating in the air.
I panic every single time I fly. A small plane from Chicago to Milwaukee went though a severe storm and I swear I felt a nose dive — screaming so loudly if the stewardess had a tranquilizer I swear she’d use it. I flew next to a 13- year-old who had never flown before and was engrossed by the safety manual (I made him put it away). I’ve gone from New York to San Francisco on one ambien and two gin and tonics, and rightfully blacked out — having an entire conversation with the guy next to me that I didn’t remember. I’ve flown 12 hours straight to Ghana and one hour straight (though the shaky plane sure made it feel like 12) through Nepal. I have a 13-hour flight to Doha coming up, and am about to book another ticket to Peru.
Thankfully, and for some odd reason, I don’t let my fear stop me from traveling. I put myself through it all in order to feel the wheels touch down: to realize I’ve grabbed a second lease on life and there is a new adventure awaiting me outside of the airport.
And through the panic, in-flight cocktails, and death-grips on the arm rests, I somehow know deep inside me that I’ll make it through the flight, even if I can’t exactly grasp how.
So you don’t have to remind me to have a safe flight. The stats have already let me know.
