This is the End

I am afraid of heights, which—unfortunately—makes my pursuit of aviation about as logical as a fish enrolling in a marathon or a claustrophobe taking up cave spelunking. A truly courageous endeavour, much like a vegan training to become a butcher or an arachnophobe opening a pet tarantula store. You’re absolutely correct—most people with a healthy aversion to plummeting from great heights would sidestep the whole “becoming a pilot” business altogether. After all, learning to fly does, regrettably, involve taking to the skies, which are, by definition, not the reassuring embrace of solid ground. And yet, here I was, determined to tackle my fears head-on, proving that absolutely nothing could keep me down... well, except for gravity, poor decision-making, and, possibly, catastrophic mechanical failure.

Flensburg, Germany, January 2011.

So, there I was, crouched in the pilot seat of a pocket-sized aircraft—a Cessna 152—seriously sweating, thoroughly terrified, and painfully aware of the imminent destruction that was surely about to descend upon me.

And so far, we hadn’t even fired up the engine.

Assuming, of course, that this dwarfish contraption actually possessed a power source capable of propelling us forward, instead of, say, merely sputtering out one final, wheezing cough before dropping us like a rock. It was less “state-of-the-art flying machine” and more “retired lawnmower with wings.”

How, exactly, had I managed to land myself in this particularly regrettable predicament?

I frantically clawed through the archives of my memory, searching for any moment in my life that even came close to inspiring this level of sheer, gut-wrenching terror. A near-death experience? A brush with an apex predator? Anything?

The best I could come up with was a mildly unsettling encounter with a great white shark—though, in fairness, it was very much dead and had been pickled in formaldehyde for decades inside a giant glass refrigerator in Airlie Beach, Australia. Hardly the stuff of nightmares. More of a museum exhibit with teeth.

No, this? This was true horror.

The instructor seated next to me radiated the kind of unshakable calm that, in my current state, felt deeply offensive. A modicum of reassurance would have been welcome, but of course, my brain—now officially in full fight-or-flight mode (and leaning heavily toward flight… ironically)—was having none of it.

His name was Enrique.

A promising start. A name like Enrique conjured images of an effortlessly suave, possibly rogue pilot with an exotic, devil-may-care attitude. Someone who would light a cigarette mid-barrel roll, wink at danger, and casually reference past careers as a stunt pilot and an international smuggler. I would have quite enjoyed taking flying lessons from someone with a similarly twisted frame of mind as mine. Of course, this would have likely resulted in a global-scale disaster, but at least it would’ve been an entertaining one.

Enrique, however, was none of those things.

In fact, he was the exact opposite of what I wanted in an instructor. Every inch the strict, no-nonsense German ex-Navy pilot, he had all the warmth of an overachieving refrigerator and the enthusiasm of a tax accountant at gunpoint. The man had posture. He spoke in clipped, efficient sentences. His presence alone made me feel as though I had already failed several tests I hadn't even taken yet.

Wasting no time, he launched into what I could only describe as pre-flight purgatory—a soul-crushing monotony of procedures, checklists, and technical jargon, all delivered with the fineness of a sledgehammer to the frontal lobe.

It was devastatingly dull.

Within minutes, I was bored stiff. My mind started desperately searching for an escape hatch. Since there were none on this particular brand of winged coffin, I opted for the next best thing: completely detaching from reality.

I made a silent vow: Once I get my license, I will never, under any circumstances, do another pre-flight briefing again.

A noble goal, I think we can all agree. And I am proud to report that to this day, I have remained resolutely faithful to that promise.

Has this choice led to occasional bouts of mild chaos and avoidable panic? Yes.
Would I change my ways if given the chance? Absolutely not.

By the time Enrique’s droning had carried on for what felt like several lifetimes, my mind had wandered far, far away—specifically to the sprawling savannahs of Tanzania, where I had once spent an equally terrifying night in uncomfortably close proximity to some large, murder-capable wildlife—when suddenly, his voice yanked me back to reality.

And just like that, I was officially about to attempt flight.

God help us all.

An opening excerpt from What Could Possibly Go Wrong? Chronicles of Chaos and Courage remains available here. The full book can be ordered here.