Lost at Sea

Lost at Sea -- Prologue

The year is 1979. It's 2:50 a.m. If this were the big city, the night would still be alive, filled with pulsing music and strobe lights and big hair. But this is not New York City. This is a ways to the north and west, quieter country. The night has just past its peak; the bars have closed, the late-goers have all straggled home and fallen into their beds, the roads are empty. The same cannot be said of the sky.

Thousands of feet up in the air, a commercial airplane flies overhead. It's an undersold red eye; many rows of seating remain empty, much to the relief of the stewardess, who's pulled several overnights in a row and doesn't quite have the energy to deal with a full passenger load. Fortunately, nearly all the passengers quickly fell asleep as soon as the cabin lights were shut off. All except for two.

The stewardess' eyelids begin to droop as she leans against the wall at the front of the cabin, and she quickly snaps her head up to stay alert. Needing something to keep her mind active, she turns her attention to the young couple who remain awake. The woman has long, wavy brown hair that cascades just past her shoulders. Though she isn't smiling at the moment, the beginnings of faint lines around her mouth and eyes suggest frequent laughter. The man's face is lined in a similar way, though more visible. His hair is beginning to turn prematurely grey. The stewardess is certain he'll carry the salt-and-pepper look well. The way they comfortably lean against each other expresses intimate familiarity. This isn't some new, flighting romance filled with excitement and uncertainty; this is a tried and tested relationship built on a strong foundation of trust. Or so the stewardess would like to imagine.

Despite the obvious comfort the two take in each other's presence, the stewardess can't help but notice a certain tension. Not between the two of them, but shared. The couple whispers back and forth in rapid succession until the conversation reaches a jarring halt. The woman turns her head to stare at the empty seat to her left. Curious, the stewardess takes out her seating list. Row H. Seats D, E, and F. All reserved.

The stewardess has just enough time to begin to wonder at this when the plane suddenly pitches and she jolts forward into the passenger area.

The captain's voice chimes on over the intercom. "I'm sorry, ladies and gentleman, it looks like we just hit a bit of unexpected turbulence. I'm going to ask that all passengers remain seated at this time. All flight crew please take a seat as well. We should be clear of this soon."

The stewardess does as instructed, fastening her seat belt and leaning her head back. At least this gives her an excuse to sit. It's just a bit of turbulence; nothing she hasn't experienced a hundred times before.

She couldn't know that at exactly 3:00 a.m., precisely 150 miles south of Lake Ontario, the plane will undergo total system failure and fall out of the sky.