Friday 24 February 2023, an afternoon flight. I’m travelling from Charleston, South Carolina, to New York’s LaGuardia airport after a vacation with my kids and a friend. In the last few years, I’ve become sufficiently weird about flying to check in advance for high wind, and today, unfortunately, it’s windy. After takeoff, the captain informs us that once we get below 10,000ft, he’ll be advising the stewards to stay seated. He uses the words a “few bumps”, which I tell myself sounds almost charming – Whoops-a-daisy! Just a few bumps! – and “moderate turbulence”, which is less reassuring. In airline parlance, “moderate”, I’m aware, means extremely unfun if you happen to be frightened of flying.
About 45 minutes before we’re scheduled to land, an attendant comes over the address system. “In light of the severe turbulence we’re expecting,” he says, “we need everyone to make sure their seatbelts are securely fastened and bags are fully underneath the seats in front. If you need to use the bathroom, go now.” There is a short pause. “This is going to be rough, folks.” I twist in my seat to look back at my friend. Jesus Christ, it’s actually happening. We’re all going to die.
