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October 7, a humid, hot morning in South Florida. I was flying solo to NYC to see my children. The plane was delayed at the gate for about an hour due to windy conditions in New York. But after an extra half an hour at the gate, we took off, and I settled in my cramped window seat near the back of the plane. A precious empty seat separated me and another lady, and we both placed our purses and magazines there. Throughout the bumpy flight I half-watched Bravo repeats on the small screen in front of me, drank  Bloody Mary mix, nibbled almonds, and dozed.

The seatbelt sign remained on, but I’ve flown lots in my life, and turbulence no longer bothers me much. I figured the pilot wouldn’t have been allowed to take off it weren’t safe.

New York’s sky was clear blue as we began our landing. But as we slowly circled La Guardia, we started bouncing and dipping like on a giant roller coaster. The man behind me started speaking fast, in Spanish, clearly agitated. Otherwise the plane was pretty quiet. The lady on the aisle seat kept reading.

We approached the airport over Long Island Sound, which churned with whitecaps like the ocean. The plane’s wings dipped steeply as we lost altitude, and I started to rue the fact that I chosen LaGuardia over JFK or Newark. LaGuardia’s runways are notoriously short, not much longer than an aircraft carrier. I’d had some hairy landings there.

As we pitched back and forth I thought of the term “wind shear.” I stared out the window, watching the ground come closer, now wishing it closer, wishing us landed already. The lady next to me kept reading.

Suddenly the engines whined, and I felt like I was lifted in the fastest elevator ever. The plane strained upward. For whatever reason, the pilot decided at the last minute that he wasn’t going to land in this wind.

I felt a sharp relief. And then I immediately realized we were going to have to land again. And I was now aware of the danger in the misleading clear air. And I got really nervous.

***

The plane now circled north over the Tappan Zee bridge to prepare for another try, flying over Westchester County where I had lived for most of my adult life. We were freefalling and then bouncing up, and at the same time pitching back and forth. Ups and downs. Ups and downs.

And then, in the seemingly endless minutes before we were going to land again, I realized I could see below me  in the toy houses and ribbons of roads among the green hills the place where many of the ups and downs of my life had unfolded.  This imminent, inevitable landing in windy conditions reminded me of the danger I felt in past years after being diagnosed with cancer, right below me in Westchester.

Like then, I felt especially vulnerable. Mortal. Fragile.  Aware of my life, played out for so long –ironically --thousands of feet below me. Even on a seemingly pretty day, a vicious wind of can whip up. There is always a possible wind to blow you back, to even sweep you away.

Staring out the window I realized that the dangers of life enhance what make it precious. Besides fear, I realized in these moments the exquisite joy of living.

***

After maybe 20 minutes of circling, the plane headed southeast to make its second approach to LaGuardia. Most passengers now stared out the windows. Some had their eyes closed. The gusts were as strong as before. The man behind me was now barfing into that bag that had always seemed so retro to me, folded in the seat pocket. The sounds and the smells and the fear  and the motion made me queasy as well. The lady next to me was now straining to look out the window.

The cabin was eerily quiet except for those throwing up. I wished the flight attendants or pilots had made an announcement, but I realized that this was a technical situation and they were strapped in their seats.

I had to pee, probably like most of the passengers. But nobody got up.

The plane passed low over the whitecaps again, in its final approach, a term that took on new meaning. The ground below shifted back and forth, the wings dipping as if touching it. I felt both frightened and calm, because I couldn’t do a damn thing but stare out the window and wish this landing over. Wish the pilot was wise and experienced and rested. Magical thinking, I know.

And in what seemed like the longest, slowest, dippiest approach ever, the wheels finally hit the runway hard. And as the brakes roared, the clapping roared even louder and longer. And then, finally, a chirpy voice over the intercom, “Wasn’t that a great landing? I think we need to give the pilots a special thank you.” More clapping.

And all of us paid our respects to the captain as we deplaned (I overstated, “Sully had nothing on you.”)

***

I met my son, for a now extremely late lunch at his favorite Greek restaurant on the West Side. I got out of the taxi feeling as if I’d just gotten off a two week cruise on rough seas. The wind was whipping scarves and flags and skirts and hair.

“Not a great day to fly,” he said. “Must have been bad up there today. The wind was up to 60 miles an hour down here!” And I told him I loved him as I sipped a few spoonfuls of lemon-chicken soup.

"Aha moments" are especially worthwhile once they are over, and you’re in a safe place, having some soup with your son.