This time, Lauren, Jon Owen and I went to Disney a few days early. Why exactly I thought that was necessary or desireable is a mystery to me now, but I suppose I thought it would be nice to have a few days without Hudson (love him, but he's at a tough age for this sort of thing), and it would be great to take them back to the Boardwalk, which is where we stayed on our first trip to Disney World and fell in love with all things DVC (that's Disney Vacation Club, for those of you not familiar with our obsession).
So we set out on a Thursday evening. The flight was a little late taking off (something that they announced they "fixed"), and while we were boarding, the kids were invited into the cockpit. They loved this and looked so cute, as you can see from the photo. The captain and his co-pilot were super nice to the kids, I was thrilled.
So the flight was uneventful, but as we're getting ready to land, the captain comes on the loudspeaker and tells us that we have a "wing problem" that they've "pretty much taken care of" and that they're "going through a checklist right now." I envision both our friendly pilots looking through their handbooks for instructions on "how to fix a wing while in the air," and I feel mildly afraid. So I pray a little bit, question my decision to break up our family onto two flights (if we go down, we should all go down together), and hug the kids tight.
We land. It's fine. No problems. But it soon becomes clear that we've landed on the furthest outskirts of the airport (I think it may have even just been a road), and there are a sea of fire trucks and ambulances waiting for us, and a few actually chasing the plane as we land.
I should have been more scared.
So we set out on a Thursday evening. The flight was a little late taking off (something that they announced they "fixed"), and while we were boarding, the kids were invited into the cockpit. They loved this and looked so cute, as you can see from the photo. The captain and his co-pilot were super nice to the kids, I was thrilled.
So the flight was uneventful, but as we're getting ready to land, the captain comes on the loudspeaker and tells us that we have a "wing problem" that they've "pretty much taken care of" and that they're "going through a checklist right now." I envision both our friendly pilots looking through their handbooks for instructions on "how to fix a wing while in the air," and I feel mildly afraid. So I pray a little bit, question my decision to break up our family onto two flights (if we go down, we should all go down together), and hug the kids tight.
We land. It's fine. No problems. But it soon becomes clear that we've landed on the furthest outskirts of the airport (I think it may have even just been a road), and there are a sea of fire trucks and ambulances waiting for us, and a few actually chasing the plane as we land.
I should have been more scared.
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