The deafening banshee wail of the engines as the plane taxied to the runway surprised me. I glanced around, wondering if the other passengers felt the same dread. I was thankful the aircraft designers chose to use metal when they made the seats. My sweaty hands held a death grip on the armrests that would have crushed anything weaker. A powerful urge to flee overcame me. I closed my eyes and tried to breathe, but my heart was pounding like a caged beast trying to escape from my chest.

With a rush of acceleration, the plane leapt into the sky. Time froze as I counted down the seconds until gravity's inescapable grip dragged the plane from the sky. A jolt ran through the cabin. I squeezed my eyes shut, convinced gravity had won and waited for the worst. But then came a ding, and a voice over the intercom, shattering the tense silence.

Here comes a tearful, but meaningless, apology for dooming us to a fiery end.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the pilot's voice crackled over the intercom, "to make up for our delay on the ground, we will take a direct route to Houston. There is a large storm system ahead. We expect moderate turbulence. The seat belt sign will remain lit until we pass through it. Thank you for flying with us today and we'll see you on the ground in two more hours."

How can it be safe to fly toward a storm? Why would anyone unfasten their seat belt? Was everyone resigned to their fate?

Another bout of turbulence rocked the plane, and a wave of nausea and panic washed over me. I was thankful I hadn't eaten since breakfast. My mind rebelled at the loss of control over my mortality. The sheer helplessness of being tossed around like a rag doll.

The most dreadful aspect was the uncertainty - not knowing when the ordeal would end, or how much worse it might get. Passengers gasped as the metal frame creaked and rattled, and morbid curiosity compelled me to open my eyes. Daylight was replaced by ominous black storm clouds. Lightning flashed, followed by a violent shaking of the plane. We were going to be electrocuted, then blown to pieces when the fuel ignited. That would take seconds. It wouldn't be an instant death, but a drawn-out, terrifying end.

My vision narrowed to a blurry tunnel, and I found myself hyperventilating, seconds away from losing consciousness. I'm going to miss the crash. The unexpected thought wasn't a comfort, but a bitter disappointment - a twisted desire to experience every last moment, even as my rational mind recoiled in horror. Some insane part of me demanded to bear witness to its own demise.

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Apparently, it took over because a calmness swept over me. Was this a stoic resignation to my fate? The jolting was continuous and rhythmic. Like the familiar sway of a Boston subway train.

It was then that I remembered the advice of the man on the train—to challenge my negative thoughts and replace them with positive ones. I must face my fear and control it, rather than let it control me.

Closing my eyes, I pictured myself back on the subway, the turbulence merely the bumps and jolts of the train. I concentrated, willing myself to transform into a time traveler, escaping into the familiarity of hundreds of past subway rides.

The fear subsided and panic faded away. Shortly afterward, so did the turbulence.

I looked around, noticing the nonchalant passengers watching movies, reading, or chatting. My fear had blinded me to the calm around me.

Checking my watch, I saw I had ninety minutes left. I took out my laptop to revise the presentation. Before I knew it, the intercom chimed, and the pilot announced we were descending to land.

The calm shattered as I recalled a former astronaut's joke about landings being controlled crashes. The recollection filled me with dread. After coming so far, were we doomed to end our journey in tragedy in the final moments?

My heart beat against my ribs in a frenzy as a suppressed childhood memory surged to the surface. It played out in my mind like a vivid movie, one I couldn't look away from.

Mother and I were on a commuter flight to visit grandma before she died. An unexpected blizzard tossed our small airplane about like a toy. Mom gripped my hand until it hurt. The co-pilot yelling, "Brace for impact!" The terror on the face of the flight attendant as our eyes locked onto each other.

A hard landing and the aircraft skidding sideways. The terrified screams and sobs of mother as we came to a sudden stop. The tearful flight attendant shakily directing us to the emergency slide.

My ears popped as the plane descended, thrusting me out of the memory. Everyone was putting away their books and electronic devices. Outside the windows there was no snow. It was a beautiful Texas spring day.

The plane glided to a landing and taxied to the arrival gate. Soon I was standing in line with the other passengers to deplane. At the front of the jet, I waited my turn to mumble a goodbye to the flight attendants and pilots and thank them for a great flight.

A wave of relief washed over me as I stepped off the plane. The terminal bridge deposited me into a world both familiar and new. I was in a bustling transportation hub, not unlike a subway station. Contrary to my apprehensive, thankful-to-be-alive self, thousands of carefree travelers appeared oblivious to the multitude of dangers we had collectively survived. Like Mr. Peepholes, their experience was no different from that of riding a subway train.

Pride puffed up my chest as I strode through the crowd to the taxi stands. I had accomplished something commonplace to them, but formerly impossible for me. My world was less fearful than when I left Boston. Now I was excited for my three days of public speaking and debate, acts that terrified most people.