Feature writer Sarah Feeley had always been petrified of heights, but after 28 years of being scared she decided to confront her fears by flying in a hot air balloon.
The Bristol Evening Post reporter told her story as part of the city’s balloon fiesta.

It’s 3am and I can’t sleep. I’ve hardly slept a wink. But I’ve got to be up in an hour to get to Ashton Court for my first hot air balloon flight.

I’m 28 and in seven years of journalism I’ve survived some pretty frightening experiences. But in terms of fear, I’m eight years old and halfway up those playpark slide steps again, terrified.

Nobody forced me to take a balloon flight. I could have backed out any time, no pressure, no shame. It bugged me that a childhood fright had scarred me into adulthood. I wanted to confront it, to conquer it. But what if I embarrassed myself by bursting into tears, peeing my pants or vomiting, cowering knees-to-nose on the floor of the basket? What if I changed my mind halfway up – there’s no ‘reverse’ on a balloon, is there?

When you’re scared of something, you subconsciously construct your whole life around avoiding it. I don’t go on rollercoasters, I’ve never dived off a high board, I’ve haven’t been to the top of Cabot Tower and on a plane I never ever look out the window, so I rarely have to confront my fear.

But in the days before my first balloon flight, I could think of nothing else. I sought reassurance from everybody, including puzzled strangers. Countless male colleagues folded their arms and said “ooooh no, you wouldn’t catch me up there” and so many people somehow thought it helpful to remind me of TV reporter Gill Impey who was seriously injured on a fiesta press balloon flight landing. Thanks.

But everyone I spoke to who had been up in a balloon said I’d love it.

Frantically I researched the science of ballooning on the internet – how does it work? How safe is it? How high do you go? Can the balloon go ‘pop’?

At 5.15am I arrived at Ashton Court. Half an hour early. It was raining, not a good sign. After 40 minutes of trying to make small-talk and fake-smiling to hide my fear, the flight was called off due to the weather. I shuffled home, exhausted, partly relieved, but also annoyed because I’d keyed myself up for it. “Tomorrow”, the fiesta staff told me. “We’ll try again tomorrow”.

It was all I could think about all day. I could see the headline – ‘Fiesta fiasco – balloon disaster kills reporter’. Or even ‘Reporter ruins balloon basket with urine and vomit explosion’.

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