Very suddenly, the wind rose– it had been tranquil a few minutes before–and the coconut palms and pandanus trees began lashing to and fro. As we made for the tiny concrete airstrip at one end, built by the occupying Japanese a half century before, a violent tailwind seized us near the ground, and almost blew us off the side of the runway. Our pilot struggled to control the skidding plane, for now, having just missed the edge of the landing strip, we were in danger of shooting off the end. By main force, and luck, he just managed to bring the plane around–another six inches and we would have been in the lagoon. "You folks OK?" he asked us, and then, to himself, "Worst landing I ever had!"
Knut and Bob were ashen, the pilot too–they had visions of being submerged in the plane, struggling, suffocating, unable to get out; I myself felt a curious indifference, even a sense that it would be fun, romantic, to die on the reef– and then a sudden, huge wave of nausea.
Oliver Sacks
Island of the Colorblind
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