Anyone who knows me halfway well knows of my two greatest fears: children and flying. Chocolate runs a close third, but it's silly to say that you're afraid of food. My fear of children, AKA Pedophobia, is something I've had all my life, but my fear of flying, AKA Pteromerhanophobia, is something that has worsened with age. I'm sure it's related to my fear of heights, AKA Hyposophobia, but the bottom line is that I hate getting on airplanes.

In the spring of 1992, I had a short vacation planned with a friend from work, Marc. We were both planning on visiting Houston and seeing friends for a few days, so we decided to carpool from Denton to save gas. The day before we were supposed to leave, I got a call that my grandfather, who had been in very pool health following a stroke, had passed away. Instead of packing to drive to Houston, I had to pack to go to the funeral. I worked out plans so that I would fly to Lubbock, attend the funeral, then fly to Houston, and spend the remainder of the week with my friends down there, catching a ride back with Marc. As it turns out, Marc also agreed to take me to the airport so that I wouldn't have to leave my car in long term parking.

We arrived at the Delta gate about an hour and a half before flight time (this was in the days before heavy airport security), so Marc sat at the gate with me for a bit chatting before he headed back to Denton. I had already acquired my boarding pass, so the gate attendants already knew who I was. I had mentioned that I was making the trip for my grandfather's funeral, and she offered her condolences. Despite that friendly chat, my flight anxiety was already starting to grow.

That's when the middle school Washington DC field trip descended on the gate. 60+ early teens, fresh off a flight from DC, were taking my flight to Lubbock as well. Anxiety turned to dread and became a boulder lodged in my stomach. After the kids and their sponsors checked in, which took some time as you might understand, I hesitantly returned to the gate attendant asking if my seat was anywhere near where the kids were sitting. As she checked the seat assignments, she gave me a sideways glance, not sure what to make of me. When she explained that my seat was smack dab in the middle of the group of students, she must have noticed all the color drain from my face, as she quickly offered to move my seat. I apparently didn't need to explain my fear of children and flying, as while I was explaining this, she just nodded her head absently and reprinted my boarding pass. Before I left the counter, I stole a quick glance at my new pass and guessed my new seat was on the last row of the plane, because I didn't know row numbers went that high.

When they called for boarding on the plane, I remained seated in the gate area. Surprisingly, it only took about 5 minutes to get the gaggle of kids checked in and on the plane. There were a few other passengers, but it looked as though the flight was not full, and given that my first seat assignment was in one of the single-digit rows, I hoped there would be a large gap of empty seats between me and the urchins. I sat through the next two boarding calls, only leaving my seat when the gate attendant informed me that they were ready to depart. Grudgingly, I stood and headed toward the gate.

I made my way past the hyperactive rugrats fairly quickly as they were already strapped into their seats when I crossed the threshold onto the plane. Sure enough, my seat was on the last row, and there were at least 15 empty rows of seats between me and the next closest passenger. I could have kissed that gate attendant if she had come on the plane. This wasn't going to be as horrible a trip as I had thought it might when I first heard the approaching din of the little ones. I leaned back in my aisle seat after closing the window screen and took a deep breath, preparing myself for takeoff.

That's when the gate attendant passed me on her way to the galley in the rear of the plane. She wasn't just the gate attendant, she was actually a flight attendant who was working this leg of the journey! I felt the strangest sensation as my heart simultaneously leapt to my throat and sank to my feet. I had revealed my two biggest fears to this woman while I begged her to change my seat location, and now she was going to be traveling with me, getting to witness first-hand what a horrible flier I am. This was made even worse since I was desperately single at the time, and she was close to my age and attractive. I somehow knew up front that she was going to try to talk with me during the flight and ease my fears or try to make my trip more comfortable, which made me feel even worse. On the other hand, she had given me a seat right next to her station when there were dozens of other seats she could have stuck me in, so maybe she was desperately single, too.

Sure enough, just after the flight took off (one of the worst feelings I know), I had to force myself to start breathing again. Moments later, there she was, standing next to me asking if I needed anything. Still shaking off the terror, I shook my head and mumbled "No, thanks." and she went on about her attendant duties. About ten minutes into the 45 minute jaunt, I was breathing normally again and I'm sure most of the color had returned to my face. There were two other attendants working the flight, and they were busy dealing with the middle schoolers who, in their defense, weren't all that bad. This being their last hour of flight in a long day of airplane trips, they were understandably tired, and had settled down quickly. My own personal flight attendant returned to the rear of the plane after confirming that her assistance was not needed with the younguns and turned her attention to her charge - me. She gave me a soft drink and then sat down and talked with me the rest of the flight. As it turns out, she didn't normally take this route - her crew was based out of Atlanta, so they flew to DFW regularly, but an extra crew was needed to take this route to Lubbock, and the captain volunteered his crew, because they all wanted the extra miles. I explained to her that she might have reconsidered if she knew what Lubbock was really liked, and she laughed, explaining that she never really got to see the places she flew to, just their airports, and only small portions of those. I had a really nice talk with her, and she made me feel very much at ease during the rest of the flight, because she was genuinely happy to have someone to talk to. Really talk to, not just the superficial nonsense that apparently made up most of her days.

As the 707 taxied to the terminal, she reasserted her condolences over the loss of my grandfather and said she hoped my flight was enjoyable. I replied, very honestly, that it was, thanks to her, and I think I saw her flush slightly under her long blonde locks. I wished her a good stay in Lubbock and advised her on places to avoid that others might tell her she needed to see. She thanked me, I thanked her, and I got the hell off the plane.

The next day was very busy, as I had to go and get a new suit to wear to the funeral. I was a starving college student at the time, and barely had enough pants and t-shirts to make it a week without having to do laundry. The funeral was at noon, and my flight out was at 2:30, so we were even rushed at the funeral. In retrospect, I wish I had made plans for a later flight out, so I could have stayed longer with family and friends whom I hadn't seen in years. But as my flight to Houston consisted of three legs (Lubbock to Amarillo, Amarillo to DFW, DFW to Houston) I had to take that flight.

I was dropped off at the airport and made my way to the gate, again getting that familiar tension in my stomach. This flight was fuller than the night before, but there were no large groups of children. As I was somewhat late getting to the terminal, my seat assignment had me on the back row of the plane, again in the aisle seat. I was surprised to see so many people on a flight to Amarillo, but I guessed that most of them would be like me, on their way to Dallas or other later destinations.

When the call for boarding came, I got in line, and was surprise to see the flight crew making their way to the plane. Not just any flight crew, either. The crew I had flown in with last night. Sure enough, my personal flight attendant was among them. My spirits lifted as I boarded the plane, took my seat, and saw the flash of recognition on her face as she made her final pass down the aisle to the rear galley. She smiled and said "Hello" as she went passed, and I hoped we would have a chance to chat a little on the flight.

Amarillo is only a two hour drive north of Lubbock, so it was no surprise that by the time we should have reached flight altitude we started our descent. None of the crew got out of their seats during the entire flight, and to my great surprise, most of the rear section of the plant left once we got to the gate in Amarillo. Just a few minutes later, my attendant sat down across the aisle from me and started talking with me again. We had about a 30-minute layover in Amarillo before they started boarding for the flight to Dallas, and we sat and talked the whole time. She asked about the funeral. I asked about her sight-seeing in Lubbock. A couple of times when other attendants passed by, she would say "This is the gentleman I told you about last night" and they would look at me with an expectation of recognition, getting none, but then expressing their sorrow at my loss. I was really beginning to feel that maybe this whole flight fear thing was horribly overrated when one of the attendants asked her if she had heard yet about the storms between Amarillo and Dallas.

At those words, my heart took the elevator ride straight down again. The worst thing that you can say to someone who hates flying is that you're about to fly through a storm. My attendant glanced at me as she was told about the inclement weather, and must have seen me looking ashen at the words. When the weather warning messenger had gone, she asked me if I was OK. I recounted my fear of flying to her, emphasizing the part where really bad weather is the worst part for me. Me and turbulence just don't get along. I saw a look of genuine concern flash over her face, and she told me not to worry, that she'd make sure I made it through the flight.

And she did. We were delayed in taking off about 25 minutes (imagine what that does to anxiety levels) and about five minutes in the air, we hit the storm. I guess it wasn't a very big storm, but there was a lot of lightning. Amazingly, the few people that did board the plane in Amarillo did not have seats in the back, so once again, I was alone on the last row. Every time we'd hit a bump in the flight, my attendant would ask me if I was all right, and I kept mumbling some sort of affirmative response. The crew did serve refreshments on this leg of the journey, and I gladly accepted my soft drink, seriously considering ordering something a little harder (I don't normally drink alcohol, so you can guess the state of mind I was in).

We bumped and jostled and bounced the entire trip to Dallas. Rain was coming down in buckets as we landed, but the pilot was amazing, as the airliner barely shuddered when he set down. We waited quite a while to get to the terminal, as a number of planes were coming in and the line to get to the terminals was quite long. When we finally stopped and everyone stood to get their luggage from the overhead bins, my attendant came up to me and asked if I had survived the flight. I replied that I probably wouldn't have any lasting nightmares, and she laughed. I thanked her for making what would have been a horrible experience more than tolerable and that I really enjoyed talking with her. She thanked me for making it a memorable trip to Lubbock for her, and just when I thought she was being sarcastic and imagined all the stories she would tell her crew about the gutless wimp she had to babysit on this trip, she hugged me. This was not just a quick, see-you-soon friendly hug, but a deep embrace, which I returned. I was still a little stunned at the gesture, so when we released, I thanked her again, gave her a small wave, and headed off the plane. I had thought that I should maybe try to get her phone number or some way of contacting her, but I never even asked her her name.

By the time we landed and everyone had deplaned, it was getting close to 6:00pm. The storm outside was intensifying, and the two hour layover I had built in to my schedule, having been shortened by the late arrival of the Amarillo flight, got longer as the flight I was supposed to take to Houston was itself delayed. Having already survived a rather turbulent flight, thanks in no small part to my nameless flight attendant, I was wary of pushing my luck on the last leg of my journey to Houston. I had half a mind to call a taxi and just head back home, making my trip to Houston some other time. The other half of my mind desperately wanted to go into one of the airport bars and get sloshed, just so I wouldn't remember the flight to Houston the next day. In the end, I did neither. I waited, sober, for the plane to arrive, passengers disembark, and prepare for boarding. By the time I was ready to board, the clock read 9:45. I called my friends in Houston again (I had already told them earlier in the day that the flight was delayed) to let them know I should be getting in around 11:00 that night. Then I boarded.

This flight, unlike the others I had endured in the previous 24 hours, was packed. I was once again at the rear of the plane, this time in the second to last row. I was not in the aisle seat. Unfortunately, I was wedged between two businessmen, the one in the aisle seat very overweight, the one in the window seat very drunk. Suddenly I was regretting my abstinence. We took off to the south, and the plane banked sharply to the west. Just when I was wondering why we were heading west to end up in a city southeast of Dallas, the pilot came on the intercom. He advised us that we were being rerouted over San Angelo to travel through a severe thunderstorm in west Texas to avoid the extremely severe thunderstorm that was waging war on the earth between Dallas and Houston. He also let us know that he would not be allowing the crew to serve refreshments and would not be turning off the seatbelt sign as they were expecting significant turbulence for the majority of the flight.

This guy had his Master's in Understatement.

As soon as he stopped speaking, we started a trackless rollercoaster ride that I'll never forget. The plane bounced so much that the guy in the row in front of me actually used the barf bag. The fat guy next to me kept spilling over the armrest into my side, and the drunk continually spouted how this was the worst flight he'd ever taken and if we didn't die in a crash he was going to sue the airline. I kept quiet, held on to the armrests for dear life, and became a very religious person.

After an hour and a half of this, we finally landed in Houston. On every other flight I've taken, as soon as the plane is on the ground, people would stand up and start collecting their items from the overhead bins and under the seats. This time, however, no one moved until the plane had come to a complete stop and the engines had powered completely down. I don't think anyone wanted to take the chance that the ground would fall out from under us until the door opened to the terminal walkway. Once they got moving, though, they moved quickly and got off the plane in a hurry. The fat guy was complaining about the bruising he must have suffered, and the drunk was still spouting off about the continued turbulence. I caught a quick glance at the flight crew in back as I stood and made my way into the aisle. They were quite disheveled and muttering about how glad they were that it was finally over.

Spent, I walked up into the terminal and started looking for my friends. I saw them a moment before they saw me. I'll never forget the looks on their faces when they saw me. The first hint of recognition and they both smiled and immediately the smiles vanished and were replaced by an expression I can't quite describe, other than their eyes were as big as saucers and their mouths basically disappeared.

I didn't care much at the time, I was just pleased to be on solid ground again, as were all of the passengers and crew from that flight. I never relished a car trip to their house more. After a good night's sleep, though, I was back to my old self and thoroughly enjoyed the time I got to spend with them.

I'm pretty sure I drove Marc nuts telling him over and over and over how glad I was that we were driving back home and not flying. And I really, really wish I had at least asked for the flight attendant's phone number. If by any miracle you happen to read this, thank you.