Spiralling downwards towards the dark abyss,
The overthink alarm was chirping in my cockpit:
Too low, terrain,
Pull up, pull up,
Too low,
Sink rate,
Sink rate,
Overthink,
Pull up!!
I called in a mayday,
And do you know what they said?
There’s ah a runway available hundreds of miles away,
With an ocean and ah a storm in-between,
Outside of your uhβ¦fuel limit,
And you’ll have to land ahβ¦downwind, over.
But, butβ¦there’s one closerβ¦
Nope, I repeatβ RS 1987 you are not cleared to land!
Over!
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π πΆπ πͺππππ πͺ 