He didn’t let fear get in his way of leading a fulfilling life.
—
Monday is Memorial Day, which marks the unofficial start of summer.
To help summer feel welcome, large quantities of barbecued meat will be consumed, parades will be held, and students across this great nation will dream of the last day of school.
Summer brings hope, warmth, sunburns, swimsuits, and exciting plans for a much-needed vacation.
When I was a boy, I constantly fantasized about the amazing adventures I would embark upon once I was finally old enough to go off on my own. Of course, my ultimate dream was to see the universe as a member of the Rebel Alliance battling the Galactic Empire, but after the second Death Star was destroyed, I set my sights on tantalizing destinations that could be found on my home planet.
I took my first big trip in the third grade when I went to Walt Disney World.
The Magic Kingdom was as exotic as it gets for a nine-year-old. Florida, with its orange trees, meandering gators, and constant threat of hurricanes, was an entirely different world from New York, and my first time on a plane was quite a thrill. I wore the junior pilot wings the Captain gave me for far longer than I ever should have, and I could not wait to get on a plane again.
Now that I’d stormed Cinderella’s castle, I was ready to peacefully invade whatever other wonders the world had waiting for me.
Unfortunately, we weren’t made of money, as my stepmother constantly pointed out, so that next plane ride did not come until I was in college. As a result, this peewee’s subsequent big adventures were limited to long car rides to destinations so dull that the Empire would never bother invading them.
Sure, Hershey Park was fun at first, but then the free chocolate bars ran out, the sugar high ended, and I realized I was just trapped in a dreadful brown hotel room with my family.
Perhaps the snooze-inducing family vacations were to blame, but my desire to see the world slowly began to fade. I stopped keeping a list of potential destinations in that tattered notebook by the globe in my room, I no longer spent hours reading about new countries in the Encyclopedia Britannica, and I gave up on memorizing the flags of the world because I was so sure that the only one I’d ever see flying proudly again was Old Glory.
◊♦◊
I have never been one to seek out adventure on my own. I like to tell myself it’s because I’m a hopeless romantic, and the best way to explore the world is hand in hand with someone I love. However, I know that it has more to do with the fact that I’m not comfortable being alone.
My aversion to doing things by myself has affected more than my travel plans. I stopped going to the movies, which is utterly ridiculous seeing as how I’m a screenwriter and an avowed movie geek, because I developed a complex about what total strangers probably thought when they saw me sitting all alone in a movie theater.
I refuse to go solo to a restaurant, even when I’m absolutely craving food from a certain establishment, because I’ve made up my mind that it is pathetic to go out to eat alone.
I understand now that these are ridiculous theories that really limited my personal growth, but the longer they seemed credible to me, the more I stopped doing things that had once been an everyday part of my life.
If I can’t grab a burger at my favorite restaurant and then go to see a movie I’ve been anticipating for months, then how in the world could I ever get on an airplane and explore the world?
◊♦◊
There was more to the quashing of my adventurous spirit than some peculiar hang-ups about being alone, though. After 9/11, my moderate fear of air travel, which had manifested after a somewhat turbulent cross-country flight home to New York from California, became an outright phobia.
I was petrified to get onto a plane because of the fear of terrorism. My overactive imagination came up with numerous nightmare scenarios about what would happen should I ever decide to fly. As a result, anytime a plane went missing or there was a terrorist attack, the chances of my ever again booking a flight became more and more remote.
You would be horribly wrong if you described me as a “face your fears” kind of guy, so any destination that was not accessible by car, bus, or train suddenly vanished from my bucket list.
When I moved to Maine, I did so via a grueling cross-country drive from Southern California that included having three anxious cats along for the ride. Crossing a trip to the home state of Stephen King off my ultimate travel list was a major personal accomplishment, and I was banking on the fact that the journey would forever scratch my itch to boldly go where Austin had never gone before.
I reluctantly accepted that I’d never visit anywhere outside of my new home state again.
Luckily for me, however, I eventually figured out how to embrace change.
◊♦◊
When I returned home from work tonight, there was a special package waiting in my mailbox.
My eyes lit up with excitement and my stomach did a couple of flips because I knew exactly what was inside the small, thin envelope from the US Government.
My passport had finally arrived.
Fifteen years after events beyond my control had planted a seed of fear that blossomed into a petrified forest of travel phobias, I finally applied for the travel documents that would allow me to go full Magellan and circumnavigate the globe if that urge suddenly hit.
No, I didn’t magically overcome my hang-ups about air travel. I just came to the realization that living in fear was preventing me from leading a fulfilling life.
I love Maine, but an entire planet exists beyond the state line, and most of it has been off limits to me for no other reason than my being afraid to venture outside of my ever shrinking comfort zone.
I’m not sure what the first stamp in my new passport will be, or when its ink will actually decorate the pristine pages of my little blue book, but I cannot wait to find out.
Life is far more exciting when I think outside the borders, and in this case, the first borders that have to be crossed are the ones of my own making.
With my passport in hand, I can go pretty much anywhere, which is a major improvement considering I felt like my life was going absolutely nowhere for the longest time.
Sure, I wish my passport was zipped up in the pocket of my flight suit as I piloted my X-Wing Fighter across the galaxy, but I’ll happily let someone else do the flying as I cross the Atlantic for the first time.
Happy Memorial Day! May your unbridled sense of adventure never be quelled by the siren call of reality, the nagging voice of reason, or your inner hall monitor’s irrational fears!
If you could travel anywhere in the world, where would you go? Any suggestions for where I should visit the first time I use my shiny new passport?
◊♦◊
Photo: Ian Mackenzie/Flickr
Read Austin Hodgens’ Whoopie Pies & Yankees column every week here on The Good Men Project!
And thank you for sharing this!