For one terrifying fraction of a second, just long enough to register in my brain, I found myself surrounded by sky, staring at the outside skin of the aircraft. Then, just as rapidly, everything snapped back to normal. Holding my breath, I glanced nervously to my left, but the hull seemed intact. The portly gentleman in the middle seat was still snoring. He blocked my view of the woman in the aisle seat. No joy there.
Hands shaking, I turned back to my phone. I made sure the stewardess wasn’t watching — I was in enough trouble already with her for screaming in the bathroom when a piece of the floor momentarily fell away from me. Peeing 40,000 feet over the Atlantic ocean is bad enough when I can’t see the water below me.
Nuts. The phone’s GPS was dead; no signal. Of course, the positioning wouldn’t work anyway.
The plane shuddered terrifyingly for a second, then settled down. The Captain’s voice came over the speakers, saying the “turbulence” was almost over.
I couldn’t wait to land in London.