Wind and Water

You only really die when you give up. I don’t care if it’s true, but that’s what I live by. Thousands of feet up in the air, sitting behind a motor full of carefully-regulated explosions, surrounded by fabric and wood built to keep me aloft, it’s all I need to focus on when something goes wrong. If you let yourself give in, you won’t make it back to the ground in one piece.

Right now, I was nursing my plane in from over the sea. Fuel had been leaking for the past 30 minutes. I could smell it everywhere. The engine was still tapping away with a steady roar, but it was only a matter of time before it went silent. I could just barely see land on the horizon.

The engine sputtered and died. I ran a quick calculation as I floated along in silence, and the math assured me that I would end up many miles short of land.

The water loomed closer and closer. It had never looked less welcoming than it did right now. Grey-blue, cold, white caps whipping into foam in the stiff wind that kept me away from the shore. Everything was picture perfect for a nautical painting from 100 years ago. I felt like a sailor as the canvas-wrapped wooden wings bit into the water. Salt spray dashed against my face. Everything went cold and dark as we quickly descended below the surface, but I stayed in my seat, hands clasped tightly around the controls.