Like a lot of people, I’m a little afraid to fly. I hate the idea of hurtling through the sky in a metal tube. I love the idea of hurtling toward, say, Cancun. So I try to be brave.

A few weeks ago, I had to make an unexpected trip to Arkansas, where my mom lives. I wasn’t crazy about flying alone, but I was looking forward to the visit. So, I made my reservation and sent the itinerary to my husband.

That evening, he glanced over his laptop and said, “The second leg of that trip will be the smallest plane you’ve ever flown on.”

I checked it out. After my layover, I’d travel the rest of the way to Arkansas on a small commuter plane.

My fear of flying, usually a manageable nuisance, flowered into something irrational and unwieldy.

Tiny little plane. Tiny little plane.

The words played on a loop in my brain.

Tiny little plane. Tiny little plane.

I walked around wearing a terrified expression.

“How are you?” the Panera cashier would ask, and I’d say, like Eeyore, “I have to fly on Thursday.”

“Any bottle returns?” the Meijer checkout lady would say, and I’d mumble, “Tiny little plane…”

When I checked in at the airport, I got a surprise upgrade to first class.

"For my second flight too?" I asked hopefully.

The ticket agent clicked her keyboard and shook her head. “That’s a small plane. It’s kind of no-frills.”

I wondered what else small planes didn't have. Peanuts? Overhead compartments?

Functioning gears and steering mechanisms?

Was “no-frills” code for “no way you’re getting to Arkansas?”

I couldn’t stop wringing my hands.

The first flight - on a reassuringly large jet - was fine until the guy next to me asked, “Making a connection?”

I couldn’t help myself. I launched into a monologue about tiny little planes, and I finished with, “Maybe lighter planes are easier to keep up. You know? In the air?”

He laughed and said, “I hope it’s not one of those prop jobs.”

In the back of my mind, Don McLean began a chorus of “American Pie.”

Would the small plane have a propeller?

The suspense lasted and lasted. By boarding time, I was a mess. As I passed the agents’ desk, I choked out the words, “Prop job?” A uniformed woman said no.

I was about to sigh with relief when I realized that I was on a tarmac, and that my aircraft was way, way out there. A staircase stretched from the ground to the hatch. The plane was so tiny that I expected to see a guy with a remote control.

I dove into my wallet to check for small bills. The beverage I’d be ordering on this flight would not be the complimentary kind.

When I reached the top of the stairs, a lone flight attendant beamed at me and said, “No worries!”

She seemed to understand how I was feeling. I appreciated that.

But, as other passengers came aboard, I heard her greeting them in exactly the same way. “No worries!” she said, over and over, even to people who didn’t look worried. “No worries!”

The phrase lost its meaning. I slumped in my seat.

The passenger next to me was a suit-and-tie guy. He offered a tight smile and then pulled out the contents of his seatback pocket. He sifted through the catalogs until he found what he was looking for, which turned out to be the vomit bag. Then he tucked it between his knees, and said, “There.”

When we took off, he said, “Taking off.”

When we leveled out, he said, “Leveling out.”

When he took out a book, I expected him to say, “Taking out a book.” But, he just placed it on his tray table and stared at it miserably.

He was even more nervous than I was.

Empathy prompted me put him at ease. I gestured to my magazine and said, “Final season of Lost, right? Wonder what will happen with the island.”

As his eyes narrowed to slits, I remembered that Lost was a show about a plane crash, and I sunk deeper into my seat.

Later, I tried again. “Have you seen the flushing icon on the plane’s toilet?” I asked. “A picture of water falling from the plane! I thought that was an urban legend.”

But the nervous guy didn't respond--probably because I'd just said, "falling from the plane."

I was silent while I waited for my beverage.

I was hoping Nervous Guy would order a scotch, but he only asked for water, “with lots of ice.” Later, when we hit a pocket of turbulence, he gargled a word that sounded like, “Flurgh,” and his arm jerked reflexively.

An arc of icy water flew in my direction, dousing me from forehead to lap.

That’s how I ended up more wet than worried. Nervous Guy was doing a fine job of carrying the fear torch. I decided to let him take it from there.

Once we landed, his whole body relaxed. He smiled as he turned on his cell phone, and he called someone to say triumphantly, “I made it!”

I knew just how he felt.