When I think about death, here’s how it goes: I look out the window of the A320 on takeoff. The view is familiar to millions - Grass, runway, wing, engine. As the engine spools up, we start rolling down the runway. The pilot (I can’t see him, but I feel the effects) pushes the throttles all the way forward. The turbofans (Seattle alloy grey) start straining against the airframe. The engine pylons - one on each side - carry the full force of the engines, and drag 138 passengers, their luggage and tea, coffee, heated meals and perfume along the runway.
As we rotate (when the plane leans back on its wheels, the nose pointed towards the sky), one of the pylons starts to shear. Alloys aren’t perfect - thousands of take-offs and landings have taken their toll - an imperfect alignment of microscopic defects are a losing lottery ticket. There’s a lurch - kicking awake from a half-sleep - and I look out the window. The right (starboard?) engine has sheared loose from the wing. The nacelle is spinning back, over the wing, towards the grass, The fan is slicing through the thin aluminium skin. The wing, now free of both the weight and the thrust of the engine, starts to lift.
I know we’re going to smash into the ground - the same movement as flipping a pancake. No oxygen masks descend, no one looks at the flight attendants. Everyone is riding a rollercoaster, rattling around a barrel roll after a slow climb. There’s a clear instinct to this movement, the wing lifts, we flip over, and out the window, after a brief flash, the overcast sky is suddenly underneath the green grass.
I’m conscious for the entire rotation. I don’t have time to think of my wife, or the problems i’ve left behind. All I can think of is dove grey alloys, clear, well maintained green grass and perfect, bright overcast skies. I have irrelevant thoughts - overcast skies are perfect for photographers; how do they maintain the grass in airports - and then we’re falling.
In imagination, planes crash in slow motion, gracefully stepping out of the sky- picturesque, slow motion fireballs. In reality, you miss a step, trip, and fall down a flight of stairs. Gravity is a constant - 9.81m/s squared.
Four forces act on an aircraft; lift, gravity, thrust and drag. Wings are designed in such a way as that a certain amount of thrust (enough to overcome drag, and then some) will provide enough lift to overcome gravity. Once the mechanics of thrust (engines) and lift (wings) are taken out of this mathematical equation, the result shifts towards drag and gravity.
At the apex of the loop, 95 metres above the ground, the Airbus A320 has lost all lift.
Seen from a distance, the colours are complimentary - silvery gray skies, green fuselage, mist coloured wings, and emerald grass - an orange bloom of flame, and black smoke, after the impact.
I’m gone. I don’t see the Sky news reports, the terrible phone calls, and the frantic drives to airports and hospitals.
I saw an upside-down wing strike the ground, and felt the man next to me grab my arm. I heard screaming, and wasn’t sure if it was me.
I was alive for longer than I thought - I felt the crash, then it was darker than I thought it would be, for longer than I thought.
