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This Sunday John Heckathorn |
Reasonable odds,
fashionable terrorsTonight I get on a plane to the mainland.
Every time I fly somewhere, I worry myself half to death, sure I'll miss my connections, lose something crucial. (Where's my boarding pass?) I fret every step of the way.
I even worry when I pack. I always end up forgetting something I need. (Note to self: Remember cell phone charger this trip.)
Here's what I don't worry about: SARS. Terrorists. Plane crashes. All the big anxieties that people have suggested to me over the last week or two.
The risk of these things is miniscule. They are just fashionable terrors, the ones that rule the moment. They change, of course. Remember when Oprah was going to swear off hamburgers because of mad cow disease?
I'll skip fretting about SARS because instead of Beijing, I'm off to Philadelphia. I do remember, however, that 30 years ago people panicked at the thought of going to Philly because of Legionnaire's Disease.
Terrorists? I'm more worried United will misdirect my luggage than that al-Qaida is under the illusion it can repeat 9/11. (Note to self: Get new nail scissors. Ones in travel kit confiscated last trip.)
I think we focus on these fashionable terrors because in general our lives have gotten remarkably safe. During the last century, the life expectancy in America increased 30 years, from 47.3 to 78.1 years. Accidental deaths declined 52 percent, deaths from workplace injuries 90 percent.
Our odds are pretty good. If you're interested in knowing your real risks, you can read Larry Laudan's "Book of Risks: Fascinating Facts About the Chances We Take Everyday."
Laudan, a brilliant man who taught virtually unheralded at University of Hawaii-Manoa for a decade, gives you the data to un-scare yourself about stuff that probably won't happen to you -- and scare the bejeezus out of yourself about the risks you run every day. For instance, did you know that 100,000 Americans every year are injured seriously enough by their own clothing to require medical treatment? (Note to self: Forget terrorists, watch zipper.)
Take plane crashes. According to Laudan, you could take an airliner from here to the East Coast more than 100 times and still have only a one in 1,000 chance of dying -- about the same risk of death that a skier faces every 340 hours on the slopes, that a motorcyclist faces every 55 hours on his bike, and -- my favorite -- that a 65-year-old man faces simply by waking up every day for two weeks.
I don't like airliners much, but I always doubt they'll crash. I've been flying in planes since I was a little kid, and none of them, with one notable exception, ever crashed.
When I was 12, my father flew us all in his Twin Beechcraft from California to Montana. We stopped for fuel in Elko, Nev. When he set down on the runway, the landing gear under the tail collapsed. The tail slammed into the runway with the shriek of grinding metal. The plane bounced and skidded. Inside, everything shook. The Thermos of water jumped out of its rack on the wall. My mother, sitting in the copilot's seat, said, indignantly, "Gene, stop it."
We were OK. The ground agent fetched us off the runway in a Jeep. My father yelled into a pay phone, and someone came with another plane and took us to Montana. It was miserably hot in Elko, and I was distressed to find that 12-year-olds couldn't play the slots.
In later years, my mother loved to tell that story on herself: "Gene, stop it."
Still, I'd forgotten it. Until one vacation when I decided to drive my whole family from San Francisco to Carmel. Of course, Avis didn't have the van I'd reserved. As a make-good, they gave me a luxury sedan, one so new that no one had yet discovered the alternator was faulty.
I discovered it the next night on Highway 1 near Pacific Grove. The lights dimmed, the car lost power and we ended up on a median between the highway and a busy on-ramp. Car lights out, the highway unlit, no moon, cars speeding by on both sides, kids in the back seat. Damn.
My wife had remembered to pack her cell phone. After a long 10 minutes, the California Highway Patrol pulled up behind us, flashers going. A tow truck arrived. The cops chauffeured us to the motel.
In the moment the car was dying, lights flickering, me looking for a place to get off the highway, my wife said, in exactly my mother's tone of voice: "John, stop it."
Much as we hate to realize it, every day we're just coasting on good luck. Fortunately, most of the time the odds run in our favor. (Note to self: stay lucky.)
John Heckathorn is the editor of Honolulu Magazine. He is one of four columnists who take turns writing "This Sunday."