Twenty years ago, I was flying from Denver to Telluride, Colorado. 

It was a small plane. Buddy Holly planes, I call them. I could see straight into the cockpit. 

Flight attendants and beverage service would have been laughable on such a minuscule plane. Instead, the pilots conducted the safety briefing. 

“If you see us screaming,” one of the pilots quipped, “run for the nearest exit. Then prepare to freeze because there’s nothing but mountains.”  

Then the pilots laughed. 

I — I didn’t laugh. I watched those pilots during the entire flight. 

The entire flight. 

Despite what I may have told you, I don’t consider myself as someone afraid to fly. 

It’s more crashing I’m afraid of.  

The open mic night that was my Denver-to-Telluride flight was probably the genesis of my personal policy on flying. 

I’m calm about flying. I am. But if the flight attendants can’t offer beverage service, I have license to not be calm. 

You know Roadhouse? Be nice until it’s time to not be nice? Yeah. That’s my policy when it comes to mid-flight calm. 

To my mind, if the flight attendants can’t flight attend, we’re probably in trouble.  

Even though it was raining during my flight from Tampa to Atlanta last week — and I had just watched Society of the Snow — I was calm.  

Calm. Calm, calm, calm, calm. 

Calm. 

And when the pilot told us at the outset to stay buckled because he was forecasting turbulence, I stayed calm. 

I know turbulence can’t crash the plane. I know that. 

But how do I know what I’m feeling is turbulence and not the plane tumbling apart? 

Because the flight attendants are serving drinks. That’s how. 

I waited for the in-flight service, eager for my usual club soda.  

I waited. 

And I waited. 

That was when the pilot announced he had asked the flight attendants to put a cork in the drink service. 

The turbulence made it too unsafe. 

Personal policy, executed. 

It was time to not be calm. 

Except, well, I was flying with my kid. As a parent, you can’t freak out whenever the occasion suits you. 

And the rugby team in Society of the Snow never freaked out. It was always just, “Oh no! Our plane is breaking apart!” Or “Oh no! We’ve crashed!” Or “Oh no! We literally have to walk to Chile and rescue ourselves!” 

I tried to find my inner Uruguayan rugby team.  

I watched my movie, pressing my palms into the seat. I worried the hangnail that’s been on my right middle finger since January. I kneaded my forehead. 

And because I’m an utter failure as a parent, my kid noticed. 

Come on, inner Uruguayan rugby team! Come on! 

I tried to focus on my movie. Anatomy of a Fall. I practiced my French during the Francophonic moments of the film. I —

Wait. No. Oh no. 

The protagonist is accused of a murder she claims she didn’t commit. 

I don’t want to say I’m afraid of getting accused of a murder I didn’t commit. 

It’s jail I’m afraid of. 

Well. At least I wasn’t worried about the turbulence anymore. 

We landed safely in a rather rainy Atlanta, booking it to our connecting flight to Philadelphia. As we buckled our seat belts, I eagerly anticipated my club soda. 

And finishing Anatomy of a Fall. I had to know if Sandra gets convicted. I mean, she has a son! A vision-impaired son! It had to be suicide, right? Right? 

I don’t know why I thought rain pounding the eastern United States from Georgia to New York equaled an in-flight club soda. 

Because it didn’t. 

Once again, the pilots asked the flight attendants to stay seated.  

I focused on my movie as the fuselage — such a scary word, fuselage — shook and rattled. I didn’t grip my seat. Didn’t worry that hangnail. Didn’t knead my forehead. 

My inner Uruguayan rugby team had rallied. For my kid.  

You know, that same kid has been reading this column. 

Upon reading of my — concern. Yeah. Let’s call it concern — my concern over her attending college in an alligator mecca, she sent me an article about how few people are actually killed by alligators. 

I imagine this column might generate a few articles on how innocuous turbulence really is. 

I’ve got you covered, kid. Here. Or how about this one? Or this one? It’s about a pilot who crashed in the alligator-infested Everglades. 

Soon, I’ll fly home from Florida without her. I can panic all I want. 

Somehow, I’d rather have her and hide the panic than not have her and panic at will. 

I also want a club soda. 

And to never go to jail.