This one got me, y'all. I'm sitting here imagining how it would feel to cram everyone you love most in the world into a poorly-provisioned plane, point its nose

This one got me, y'all. I'm sitting here imagining how it would feel to cram everyone you love most in the world into a poorly-provisioned plane, point its nose towards the ocean, and - with their lives measured by fuel in the tank - hope to find safety in time. Then, when against all odds you've found the ship, to trust their safety to the good-will of those below, and to your ability to execute a sketchy landing you've never practiced before. I'm a relatively new dad, so an increasingly large number of my brain cycles are involuntarily committed to worst-case-scenario planning. Like, my kid choked for something like four seconds, and I tipped him over and banged on his back and he was fine, but I'd already mentally moved into the rest of the checklist: start a timer; call 911; Heimlich, Heimlich, Heimlich; send my wife for peroxide, a razor blade, and a straw; Heimlich, Heimlich. At 3.5 minutes, I'm making the cut. Like I say, the kid was fine, but I was a bit of a wreck for a little while. There's one of those videos above (go watch 'em) where they're getting off the plane, and someone reaches out and pats the guy's shoulder, and his face is just numb. Like, it worked, and we're safe, and I don't believe it yet, and I'm glad they showed that shoulder pat, because I wanted to reach through the screen, and back through time, and do the same damn thing, tell him: "it worked; they're safe; welcome home."