[color=khaki][h2][center][u] Martin Lowry [/u][/center][/h2][/color]

[i]The air contains water, though in small fractions, it is water nonetheless. Thusly one can consider the sky an extension of the ocean, if that brings them a certain comfort as they would have if they were on a boat for example.[/i] It certainly did for Martin. His pen danced over slightly yellow paper, leaving scrawls unreadable except by his own eyes, like those old dusty diaries used as primary sources when referencing a particular piece of writing. [i]And just as each depth of the ocean has a name, each height of the sky too has a label attached to it, Troposphere, Mesosphere, Exosphere, etc. So I can say with great certainty, and much to my own comfort, that the sky is the ocean and I am safe to enjoy this flight.[/i] Closing the book with the pen stuck between the pages and dropping it into his lap, Martin looked out of the plane and felt the knot in his stomach loosen a little. But not disappear. [i]Some things do not change so easily I suppose.[/i]

The spritzer tinkled on one hand and the tip of his cigarette glowed in the other hand, in recent years airlines had been curbing the amount of planes they allowed smoking on, a practice that Martin considered bothersome and thusly he was doubtful of its longevity. Still however he found his transatlantic options dwindling with every cigarette. He crushed the glowing head of the burned away stick into the metal ashtray in his arm rest, twisting it one way and then the other, like turning a knife in his heart as he grieved for the negligible amount of tobacco yet unburnt at the end of the smoke. As he tipped the glass towards his mouth to take a sip a shiver ran through the spine of the plane, making his drink jump and slosh in its glass vessel. For a few moments Martin observed it, and once the plane stilled brought the glass yet even closer to his mouth, cautiously eyeing it and feeling the motion of the plane around him. 

Sailing a ship had taught him that the vessel itself spoke more than the sky and even the sea. The waves and the wind could only speak the blatantly obvious, but the labored groans of a mast and the invisible tensions in ropes and boards spoke more deeply of what was to come. The plane spoke in foreshadowing tones of things to come, every thread of its being was being pulled tight in all directions outwards, Martin felt it in  chilling clarity before every sudden jerk. Like watching a crack wind it's way randomly through a plane of glass. The fuselage of the plane shrieked as a sudden amber flash consumed the evening outside the window, and the plane lurched to the right as a shred rippled through the plane. A wing torn off. The plane began to nose down and lose altitude quickly. [i]The Sky is not like The Ocean. The Sky is not like The Ocean[/i] Martin shrieked in his head as he gripped his hand rests, fighting the weightlessness as the clouds zoomed past in a brief instant. 

As the ocean drew near the front of the fuselage tore open, the smell of sea water and smoke flooding the cabin. Martin propped his legs up on the seat in front of him and leaned his head forwards, adopting a bizarre version of the brace position. Before the airplane struck water Martin muttered to himself, "Well isn't this pleasant."