Thank You, Steven Spielberg

Brody: I used to hate the water.

Hooper: I can't imagine why.

At the very end of the movie Jaws, this snippet of a longer conversation between police chief Martin Brody and marine biologist Matt Hooper takes place as they are paddling back to shore after the spectacular demise of the good ship Orca. Land doesn't begin to be in view, around them is only water. They are surrounded by a gentle blue ocean. Earlier in the movie, Brody is reluctant to go out on a boat, citing his dislike, nay fear, of the water. He doesn't seem worried about the possibility of doing battle with a great white shark on the shark's home, well, turf. His big concern is the water. I can identify. For a number of years, I've been pretty much convinced that I harbor a fear of flying. Until last week, I hadn't flown since February of 1987. You do the math. For reasons I can't recall, I needed two very large margaritas to get on that plane. In the years since then, there was no pressing need to hop on an airplane. We did road trips. Which I love. And most recently, I have greatly enjoyed putting nearly 30,000 miles on the Subaru in the three years since I bought her. But last week, barely ten days ago, the tears in my dear sister's voice as she described our Mother's most recent health setback said very clearly that I may not have time to drive. Just hours later I had purchased an airline ticket. I was at my mother's bedside the next evening. Mom pulled through. Now that I'm home, I am so happy that I spent more of the time with Mom and Martine than I spent on the road. I still love road trips. In fact, I'm planning a drive to Atlanta in June with the younger son. I used to hate the thought of flying. And now, I can't imagine why.