I’m terrified of flying over the ocean. This is an unfortunate neurosis, considering my constant trans-Atlantic travel. My husband tries to assuage my fear of the dark ocean and its creatures engulfing me: He assures me I’d be dead on impact. Somehow this fails to comfort me.

While writing this article, a search for the remains of Air France Flight 447 is under way. I want the black boxes (or the range cylinders) to tell us what happened. I want the people touched by this tragedy to have a mall degree of peace. For myself, I want to be able to ask the pilot on my next flight, “Excuse me, have the Pitot sensors been replaced?”