“Shit,” she breathes and quick-steps her way through the almost empty station. She shuffles her feet as she negotiates the corner to go down the stairs, but her wet shoes slip on the grime-slicked floors anyway, and she grabs the handrail just in time, barely avoiding tumbling to the ground. Still, one nylon-covered knee licks the filthy floor which she tries not to think about.“Fuck,” she curses again, berating herself through gritted teeth. After that momentary pause, she pulls herself up and resumes her brisk descent.Just as she makes it to the bottom, she hears the chime and the announcement: “The doors are now closing. Please stand back.”Shoes skittering on the wet floor once more --damn soleless flats; damn rain-- she rushes the doors, striding through them just as they slide shut. Suddenly, she lurches backwards as if grabbed from behind. She gasps and looks back wide-eyed. Her backpack is caught in between the doors.No time to even swear aloud, she immediately pitches herself. He could not. He thought Grenada was somewhere nearby but not closer than Saint Lucia. The plane continued to lose altitude and John knew they were in big trouble. He could hear the pilot again over the loudspeaker but the words were strained, frantic, and mostly drowned out by the noise. He imagined he heard them say something about looking for a place to land. He looked out the window again and the water was coming up fast. He tried to recall the brief safety talk before takeoff about what to do in a water landing. Life jackets were in the overhead compartments he remembered. The mother and daughter were crying beside him and looking occasionally at him for any sign of hope. He knew his face was probably telling them all they needed to know. He decided to try to help. ‘Remember the life jackets are in the overhead bins,’ he yelled out for all to hear. ‘Before we hit lean down into a crouch position.’ He glanced back down and the water was maybe 150 feet below them now. There was.
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