That Time I Thought I'd Crash Into the Andes and Never See My Daughter

This Thanksgiving, I'm grateful for not dying on an American Airlines flight

Still waiting for my coffee

American Airlines flight 912, Santiago, Chile to Miami, USA, October 6, 2023:

When the yellow oxygen masks dropped down from the cabin ceiling, my first thought was some bumbling passenger bumped against a button somewhere and, boy, must he feel stupid. Then the flight attendants started running up and down the rows, telling everyone to put on those  yellow oxygen masks right now. I hesitantly did as told, still skeptical of the situation, since the plane was flying smoothly. I just wasn’t convinced there was any danger. I’ve been on a lot of plane rides, and everyone knows the more you ride planes, the more immune you are to crashes.

That’s when the plane shook. 

That’s when the engine whirred. 

And that’s when the pilot got on the speaker and sounded nervous as hell.

“Umm…please, everyone….ummmm…keep your masks on. Do not take your masks off under any circumstance.”

The plane shook more. The engine whirred more. The flight attendants ran up and down the aisles, grabbing the trays of half-eaten food, shoving them into the metal carts, and racing to the back of the plane to unload the carts. They were actually working - real, authentic, manual labor - as the plane appeared to be about to crash. How bad could it be if the flight attendants were cleaning up? And the rest of us were obeying our commands to remain in place with masks on. It didn’t feel like it made sense.

As I adjusted the tight-fitting mask,  I thought of the scene in Fight Club where Brad Pitt tells Ed Norton the whole purpose of the masks is to give passengers an oxygen buzz to dulcify them as they hurdle towards death at 700 miles an hour. I never looked up if that was true or not. But hey, nothing wrong with an oxygen buzz. I took a deep breath, peered out the window, and saw something I had never seen before: hundreds of stars getting yanked out of the sky, as if the stars were on fishing hooks, and somebody was pulling them all up at the same time. 

It was strange and beautiful, the streaks of white momentarily hypnotizing me. Then I realized the stars looked like that because the plane was hurling downwards.

That was the moment it became real. We were going to die in a plane crash. They’re rare, but they happen. And I would die in one. 

At first, a brief moment of shock- that wore off quickly, and gave way to a feeling of blank but complete peace, hovering distantly over me, but with an unmistakable weight. Pure and open acceptance. Then I remembered something.

To my right, in the middle seat, sat a small girl, maybe 5 or 6-years-old. To her right sat her mother, a young woman, 30 or so. The thing I remembered was that I had a wife at home who was pregnant with our first child, a girl.

The woman looked a little like my wife. Not a carbon copy, but a resemblance: similar hair and complexion, similar eyeglasses. And the little girl, well, she looked a little like how I imagine my little girl will look - similar complexion, similar hair. When we first boarded the plane, she was talkative and inquisitive, just like I imagine my daughter would be.

But I would never see my wife again. I would never meet my daughter. This plane was about to crash, I was about to die, and I’d never be a part of their lives. I felt there was a giant hole where my heart was. Immense sadness, total loss. I couldn’t help but think God was mocking me by sitting me here.

The plane continued to hurl downward. The beeping continued incessantly. Flight attendants weren’t running around anymore - the one I could see was sitting and praying. 

I wanted to do something to save myself, to make it back home, to be with my wife and to be a father. I could do nothing but sit down and breathe in oxygen from a plastic mask. I was completely helpless and hopeless. 

The little girl asked her mother what was happening.

“It’s just an exercise,” the mother said. “Don’t be scared.”

A good mom doing what she could to protect her daughter. 

I wouldn’t be there to protect my daughter. I wouldn’t be there to protect my wife. 

In my head was an image of this plane crashing into the craggy Andes mountains, but the feeling I had was anger at myself for dying and not being there. 

I glanced over at the girl and her mother. The mother held her daughter close, their heads touching. I had an urge to hug them, just to feel for a second what I would be missing. Instead, I thought about my wife and future daughter, and imagined I was with them. My last moments of life would be spent dreaming. 

Then the plane stopped hurling downward. People around me felt something had been corrected. Phones came out. Selfies were taken. One couple took a selfie with their masks on, making scared eyes for the Gram. 

The pilot got on the speaker, sounding tired but relieved, telling us there was a slight engine problem and we’d have to return to Santiago. 

The plane wouldn’t crash into the Andes. We would have to go through the hell of going through customs and getting rebooked, but our lives wouldn’t come to a violent end. 

And I’d get a chance to return home and be there for my wife and daughter. 

That night, in my Santiago airport hotel room drinking the bottle of duty free pisco I had bought before the flight, I reflected on what happened and realized that, in what I thought were my final moments, I did not think about a lot of things I consider important in my daily life. I did not think about my day job. I did not think about the novel I’m writing. I did not think about anything art, career or money-related. I only thought about my family.

Hopefully, I don’t screw up too bad.