No fear of flying here; not until the last few feet before touchdown

I was talking with my buddy Jim this past weekend. Jim’s the one friend I have with real money, but he’s such a nice guy it’s hard to hate him on that account. Also, he’s a “self-made” man who worked hard to get to the place he’s at today.

Because of his financial means, Jim has done a few things in his life—extended trips to exotic locales, dramatic liaisons with mysterious foreign women, stuff like that—that schmucks like me just dream about. The life he’s lead makes him interesting to talk with and I do so whenever circumstances permit.

At any rate, the other night we were having a couple drinks at a Lakeshore club with Jim’s new girlfriend, who, by the way, is a total hottie. But I still don’t hate him. Really. Okay, maybe a little.

The conversation flowed from the weather to travel to work to planes, trains and automobiles. At some point I mentioned how much I love to fly; not as a passenger, but as a pilot.

I’m not a pilot, but I’ve taken flight school twice and soloed out both times. This means I’ve actually conned some instructor into repeatedly letting me take his $20,000 Tomahawk 3,000 feet up, by myself.

It’s an exhilarating experience, and one I drop into conversation whenever I can because I think it makes me sound cooler than I really am. But like I said, I’m not a licensed pilot; I’ve never had the discipline (or math skills, probably) to complete ground school. Still, all things considered, I have logged a lot of flight hours.

Now, unlike most people, my buddy Jim reads this column and so is aware of my well-documented fear of heights. How can I fly a plane, Jim asked, if I’m afraid to climb above the fourth rung of a step ladder?

I had to admit I didn’t know. I hadn’t really thought about it much before, and on the surface, the dichotomy does seem illogical. I get light-headed if I so much as stand on a second-story balcony and look down. Or up, for that matter. Yet I can climb into a fragile little two-seater and fly low-level banks around corn silos without batting an eye.

It doesn’t make sense, Jim said.

I agreed, and the conversation moved on.

But later, his comments got me thinking (which I do, from time to time, despite all evidence to the contrary). And after much mental wheel spinning, I think I’ve found the answer: I’m not afraid of flying, but I am afraid of landing. As soon as that ground gets within 100 feet or so from the plane’s landing gear, I start feeling faint. My palms sweat, my heart beats double, then triple-time, my vision blurs … trust me, there’s a reason my instructors have wanted to solo me out—they didn't want to die with me during the landing.

So it’s not heights I’m afraid of, I’ve concluded; it’s heights that aren’t high enough. As usual, I blame my Catholic upbringing.

Let me explain. As a Catholic, I was raised to believe that if I perform an “act of contrition”—basically, ‘fessing up for my evil deeds and asking God’s forgiveness in the moments before I die—I’ll go straight to Heaven. Otherwise, I get what’s coming to me, and that ain’t good.

Unfortunately, my list of evil deeds has grown somewhat extensive over the years and a fall of less than 1,000 feet would never give me time enough to run through them all before entering the afterlife. So, ladders, rooftops, balconies; they’ll all continue to make me nervous.

If I do one day die in a fall, I just hope it will be from a high enough vantage point. A low-Earth orbit would be good.

To contact Mike Taylor with your questions, comments, or ground school “cheat sheet” sources, e-mail mtaylor325@gmail.com or write via snail mail to: Mike Taylor, c/o Valley Media, Inc., PO Box 9, Jenison, MI 49429. Miss a week? More Reality Check online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.mlive.com/advancenewspapers.