No one screamed when the oxygen masks dropped. We inhaled and reached for the yellow life vests beneath our seats. The passengers near the emergency exits cranked the red handles open, without error, and we single-filed out onto the wings that now bobbed. We stretched our legs like sleepy cats and some decided that yes, they did want to go for a dip—so we dunked into the clear body of water and sky. No one bothered with overhead luggage or said the word crash or worried about car rentals, resort reservations, etc. In the spirit of sun and leisure we held hands in the sea to form pamphlet- perfect orbits—and we pointed our legs in likeness of cranes and flamingos. The captain then hollered bingo and cannonballed into the center of our bullseye and splashed big-time. The children clapped and cheered, and the adults voted ten-out-of-ten on his form like a pool party jury. The flight attendants brought out all the orange juice and apple juice and sprite, etc.—ice cold and free, and we toasted to new friendships. No one feared the refracted pillars of silence beneath our kicking feet. The infants under sixteen kilograms floated like chosen offerings in an ocean that could once again be trusted. None of us cared, as it turned out, about the plane (the only victim), and we all forgot our destinations. As though we’d each been waiting since the moment we tilted skyward for the sudden relief of a nosedive.