The Dominican Republic and aviophobia
It's funny how you change so many times in life but rarely get the chance to stop and notice it happening. I, for one, can attest to never having had problems flying. I've been on transatlantic and transpacific flights and for those of you who can empathize, it can be a boring few hours. Not that we want our flights to be un-boring in a crash-and-burn way. It's just easier when the time passes quicker.
I'd never imagined to be trotting here and there in my new position. Fuck, while I'm being honest I might as well admit that no one could've predicted I'd be doing this without finishing university. Everytime I get my flight pass from corporate affairs, I sometimes hear the WKRP in Cincinnati theme music, "...town to town, up and down the dial..." It's all true except for the part about being a jock or living on the air in Cincinnati. However, all else is true.
Shit. I forgot where I was going with this. Right. So, I got back from Texas about two weeks before my much-deserved vacation and was relishing the fact that I didn't have to live out of a suitcase for at least four weeks when Rejean calls from Montreal to tell me that her guy (David) couldn't do the Calgary workshop and that they need a backup for the Atlanta one (which shouldn't matter because in the US, John Hancock does a lot of video feeding from office to office). Once again, I got my marching orders from the Powers That Be and I was given an itinerary. Sunday morning leave Halifax for Calgary. Tuesday night, Calgary to Ottawa. Wednesday morning, small chartered from Ottawa to Montreal. Saturday morning, Montreal to Halifax. And the kicker is that I would have part of Saturday to pack for vacation and be leaving Halifax for Puerto Plata at 6:00am the following day. Prayers for flights being on-time were muttered.
All went according to plan until I was leaving for vacation. That's when I lost my fucking mind at thirty-thousand feet. It all started with ME and I being assigned to seats at the very front of the plane. I didn't mind except for the fact that you can't stow your carry-on under the seat in front of you. The flight attendants actually take your stuff and stow it overhead a few rows back. And my carry-on is like my safety blanket of sorts.
So we took off at 6:00am on Easter Sunday morning. I was deep into a mindfuck of a Sudoku puzzle when I started feeling kinda claustrophobic. This led to tightness in the chest which led to breathing difficulties which led to uncontrollable shaking and doomsday thoughts. I completely lost my head and bolted for the lavatory. I sat down on top of the toilet with my head on my hands, hyperventilating. Then, I was interrupted by one of the flight attendants inquiring as to my welfare. I told her I was just sick. I came out of the lavatory minutes later to be greeted by a half-dozen passengers with bursting bladders.
ME asked me how I was. I said I would be fine and popped a couple of sleeping pills. Within moments, I was out. I woke up during a bit of turbulence but dozed off again. By the time we would land in Puerto Plata and go through immigration, my nerves were shot and I was such a wreck that I was almost positive I wouldn't be able to get on an airplane ever again. I would likely have to remain in the Dominican and never leave unless it was by boat.
Air craziness aside, we had a good trip and the five-star resort was fabulous. The trip back was much the same except I did a better job of getting myself under control before it got out of hand. Cognitive therapy can be such an important tool in life.
I ended up getting an ear infection (probably from the diving) and ME broke her toe windsurfing. She was warned about going too close to the coral but she thought she was a pro.
I left the resort a few times to do some shopping in nearby Sosua and Cabarete. The locals are good people. They love Canadians. I would have to say that about 20% of the guests were Canadian, 50% German or Dutch, 20% Brits, 5% Russian and 5% American.
Have a look at our trip here.
I'd never imagined to be trotting here and there in my new position. Fuck, while I'm being honest I might as well admit that no one could've predicted I'd be doing this without finishing university. Everytime I get my flight pass from corporate affairs, I sometimes hear the WKRP in Cincinnati theme music, "...town to town, up and down the dial..." It's all true except for the part about being a jock or living on the air in Cincinnati. However, all else is true.
Shit. I forgot where I was going with this. Right. So, I got back from Texas about two weeks before my much-deserved vacation and was relishing the fact that I didn't have to live out of a suitcase for at least four weeks when Rejean calls from Montreal to tell me that her guy (David) couldn't do the Calgary workshop and that they need a backup for the Atlanta one (which shouldn't matter because in the US, John Hancock does a lot of video feeding from office to office). Once again, I got my marching orders from the Powers That Be and I was given an itinerary. Sunday morning leave Halifax for Calgary. Tuesday night, Calgary to Ottawa. Wednesday morning, small chartered from Ottawa to Montreal. Saturday morning, Montreal to Halifax. And the kicker is that I would have part of Saturday to pack for vacation and be leaving Halifax for Puerto Plata at 6:00am the following day. Prayers for flights being on-time were muttered.
All went according to plan until I was leaving for vacation. That's when I lost my fucking mind at thirty-thousand feet. It all started with ME and I being assigned to seats at the very front of the plane. I didn't mind except for the fact that you can't stow your carry-on under the seat in front of you. The flight attendants actually take your stuff and stow it overhead a few rows back. And my carry-on is like my safety blanket of sorts.
So we took off at 6:00am on Easter Sunday morning. I was deep into a mindfuck of a Sudoku puzzle when I started feeling kinda claustrophobic. This led to tightness in the chest which led to breathing difficulties which led to uncontrollable shaking and doomsday thoughts. I completely lost my head and bolted for the lavatory. I sat down on top of the toilet with my head on my hands, hyperventilating. Then, I was interrupted by one of the flight attendants inquiring as to my welfare. I told her I was just sick. I came out of the lavatory minutes later to be greeted by a half-dozen passengers with bursting bladders.
ME asked me how I was. I said I would be fine and popped a couple of sleeping pills. Within moments, I was out. I woke up during a bit of turbulence but dozed off again. By the time we would land in Puerto Plata and go through immigration, my nerves were shot and I was such a wreck that I was almost positive I wouldn't be able to get on an airplane ever again. I would likely have to remain in the Dominican and never leave unless it was by boat.
Air craziness aside, we had a good trip and the five-star resort was fabulous. The trip back was much the same except I did a better job of getting myself under control before it got out of hand. Cognitive therapy can be such an important tool in life.
I ended up getting an ear infection (probably from the diving) and ME broke her toe windsurfing. She was warned about going too close to the coral but she thought she was a pro.
I left the resort a few times to do some shopping in nearby Sosua and Cabarete. The locals are good people. They love Canadians. I would have to say that about 20% of the guests were Canadian, 50% German or Dutch, 20% Brits, 5% Russian and 5% American.
Have a look at our trip here.