In normal circumstances, I have no time for superstitions. Wives’ tales, folklore and religions can be fascinating, and perhaps offer skewed glimpses at deeper truths buried in our animal psychés, but in my opinion, you’ve got to be a certifiable nut to believe them at face value. Enjoy them, why not? Believe them, why?
All this changes when I board aircraft. On Christmas Eve 2006, Mo and I were catching a connecting flight between Washington D.C. and Florida when I made the mistake of placing my hand on the exterior of the plane as I stepped over its threshold. It was a childish, or, rather, childlike thing to do: I had the opportunity to touch something I normally wouldn’t, and though the sensation was obviously going to be exactly as you’d expect, I took the chance. Instantly, I knew in my gut that I’d doomed us all, passengers and crew, to a fiery, aerial grave.