The day my plane caught fire I was sitting on the wing and could see smoke billowing out from the engine, just like a war movie–minus the popcorn, comfy seat, and the certainty I would make it out alive.

I was living in São Paulo and flying to northeastern Brazil to stand in the sand at the easternmost point in the Americas, and stay in the round hotel in Juan Pessoa that is in the ocean or out of it, depending on the tide. These curiosities dimmed as the temperature rose in the cabin of the plane. The flight attendants knew the drill and began walking up and down the aisles speaking only Portuguese, “Everything is fine, don’t worry, just take crash position.” Calm smile, measured deliberate movements, “Just take crash position.”

I prayed, of course, in such a Catholic country I suspect the whole plane was praying, but I wasn’t looking at anyone else. You really don’t, right there in the moment of maybe. You’re entirely ripped between millipedes of skittering fear, and looking inward to ask yourself the hard questions. You know what those questions are for you, so I won’t bother to list mine. In the midst of my fright I remembered I had been promised three children. I realize that sounds strange, but I knew I would have three, and I did not yet have even one. I grabbed hold of that image and decided that regardless of what came next, I would be alive. That was key, making a decision. Read More