Flying Over the Deathly Oceans

Flying ain’t something I like to do. Spending time in the ocean, that ain’t something I like to do, too. I was born and raised in the desert near the Sandia Mountains in Albuquerque, New Mexico, which sits between Arizona and Texas. There are lots of rock, brown dirt, and cacti, but no oceans in New Mexico. You would be surprised to know how many people who think New Mexico is either part of Mexico or think it doesn’t exist. But it does. And it is located just down, or south, from Colorado, where I live now.

The Land of Enchantment also sits in the middle of a giant landmass, thousands and thousands of miles away from the nearest ocean. Well, maybe it’s not that dramatically far away from the oceans but it is quite a drive, and if you’re keeping track, also quite a flight.

For the last month or so, we’ve had numerous friends fly to Hawaii for vacations. At work at the bar, and especially after a drink or two after work, the discussion of flying has cropped up. I ain’t the only one who doesn’t like flying, it turns out, and neither am I the only one to feel horrified at the prospect of flying over the ocean, a logistical requirement to get relatively quickly from the American mainland to the islands in the Pacific.

When I was a kid in the mid 1970s, my family and I went to the old Highland Theater in Albuquerque and watched “Jaws” from the seats on the second floor. I can remember the vivid images of the shark as it watched its prey from the water below, usually some luckless human; the loud and rhythmic music of, BAMBABAMBABUUUUUM!, added to an already heightened state of terror, and for weeks on end after that fateful night at the Highland Theater, I had nightmares about the movie, sharks, and oceans.

Today, after more than 40 years since I saw the movie, I still don’t like sharks or oceans, and I especially loathe the idea of flying over the ocean. While I have visited the ocean, and even swam and surfed on some waves in LA, I just ain’t with the oceans. I don’t like the frothy foams. The smell. The waves. Salt. Ugh.

I know. I know. There are quite literally millions of people who love the ocean and adore all that comes with it, including frothy foam, jellyfish, and evil, fiendish fish waiting to snatch you from the surface and drag you to the deepest, darkest depths of Hades.

But I digress.

Some airlines offer small television sets built inside rear-facing seats. Watch “Tootsie” while you fly 600 MPH over frothy seas on the way to Hawaii. That sounds reasonable, although I would probably be far more agreeable if I had downed horse tranquilizers just before watching Dustin Hoffman. In any case, entertaining distractions on your flight across the Deathly Oceans are usually, and if not, should be, provided by airlines.

The other thing is the planes themselves. I mean, flying in a metal tube at 600 MPH really unsettles my stomach right now and I ain’t even going to fly for a good while. And then, like, I’m always terrifying myself with needless questions: “What if a wire shorts and the plane suddenly drops thousands of feet in just a split second?” And then, “What if that happens and my beer floats? Ohh! This could be fun!”

But seriously, the other problem with the planes are the bathrooms. I just have this weird thing that I do not want to be in the bathroom of an airplane if it were to go down. I just … I resist as much as possible any and all urges to use the bathroom while the plane is in flight.

“What if a wire shorts, and the plane drops thousands of feet in just a split second, and I’m here in the bathroom when this all happens, and … ?”

These are the things I worry about.

When I was in college, on some Saturdays in late August and September when the mercury would reach triple digit heat, my buddies and I would make the 45-minute drive from Las Cruces to the White Sands National Park near Alamogordo. There, a literal sea of white sand dunes offers some of the most amazing, scenic, and beautiful views in the world. It is a gorgeous place.

What I mean to say is that the White Sands are closest thing to an ocean that I’ll ever like. White, sandy dunes. Gorgeous blue skies. And yes, there are people who walk around in bathing suits, towels, and thongs in the summer at White Sands. Well, there use to be people like that back when I was in college in the 1990s.

There are no nasty animals at White Sands. No Great White Sharks waiting to devour you for a snack. There are no boxes of jelly fish waiting to sting you to Hell and beyond. There is a public bathroom near the entrance. But there is no water anywhere, so you will need to bring your own, along with the prerequisite tequila, beer, and hot dogs for grilling.

And the best part is you can drive. Make a road trip with your loved one. Or your friends. Or your buddies from college. Ain’t no need to worry about annoying TSA agents fondling you. No need to worry about wires shorting at 15,000 feet. Ain’t no need to worry about bathrooms, planes, and shorted wires while you’re on a commode cruising at 600 MPH over foamy seas.

You drive. Have fun. Leave. Drive again. And you’re home. Ta-daaah!

I doubt I’ll ever fly to Hawaii. I’d rather go to White Sands. You should, too.