There Are Always Lessons

I remember hearing “not under the seat” so I knew a life jacket was somewhere else. My head is still throbbing from impact but the biggest pain I feel right now is in my throat, bloody raw from screaming. Water has arrived through the open emergency exit door and the tail end of the plane is heading toward the bottom of whatever body of water we’re temporarily floating in. I push on the square panel above my head and a folded orange vest pops into my hands.

I never pay attention to flight attendants when they’re doing their spiel. As a guy who flies constantly, what new information could I possibly glean? I do make eye contact because I feel bad that no other passengers look up during safety drills. Somewhere in my brain, I stored away the knowledge that this particular airline bucked all traditionals and stowed floatation devices in a different spot. It’s like my dad used to say, there are always lessons to be learned.

I clutch the plastic vest with my left hand as a wave of water rebounds from the back of the plane and pushes me toward the emergency exit. As I’m sucked through, I pull the string to inflate my vest.

The plane is sucked down with an eerie gurgle, silencing screams from the inside. Within seconds, there is no evidence a plane existed. I spin my head in every direction and only see water. From the corner of my eye, I see the little flashing beacon light that was automatically triggered when I inflated my life vest. The frigid water bites my legs.

The nine other people who made it out of the plane turn to me and that’s when I realize I don’t see any other beacons. “We’re going to be okay,” I say as a few of them start dog paddling toward me. A man puts his hands on my shoulder, his beard tickles the back of my neck. A woman clamors up on the bearded man’s shoulders, pushing my chin down beneath the surface of the water. Another survivor grabs the woman and a burst of salt water shoots up my nostrils. The rest of the survivors swim toward me.

“You can’t all get on, the life vest won’t hold us,” I say as two more grab at my arms. I push away and kick my legs twice to create some space. My head goes under. The man and woman on my shoulders swipe at the other survivors to establish position.

I gasp for air. “We can use the vest in shifts,” I shout. “Five people at a time while the other five tread water. We should only need a few hours.” There are yelps of panic as the treading survivors swim closer. I’m pulled under again as someone struggles to take the place of the man on my shoulders, pulling down the people attached to him. I pop back up and suck in air, free from the pack. There’s grabbing and gasping. I flap my arms a few times to gain distance. The bearded man paddles with determination. The rest follow.

I backstroke and explain again, through chattering teeth, how we can all make it through this if we remain calm. No one has to die. The nine swim toward me. I explain again that the tiny vest can’t hold us all as they reach for it. I turn and swim broad five strokes, turn back and kick my legs to gain leverage to unbuckle my vest. Their eyes grow wide. I curl my arm and fling the vest into vast blue. There are always lessons to be learned.