Spiralling downwards towards the dark abyss,
The overthink alarm was chirping in my cockpit:
Too low, terrain,
Pull up, 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 uh…fuel limit,
And you’ll have to land ah…downwind, over.
But, but…there’s one closer…
Nope, I repeat— RS 1987 you are not cleared to land!