I do the actions my hands have memorized, grabbing two structures I pray are the walls to the passageway, and pull hard. Right arm across torso to bulkhead on other side. I remember the procedures for egress, an exit strategy ingrained over so many years of navy training. Only now, I have no reference point, floating free. Whack! My hand is ripped from its hold by a swift unintentional kick from my copilot, who, like me, searches in the blind for an exit to the aircraft. My arms flail as they maneuver to free themselves from the straps. I search wildly for the harness-release mechanism and pull.

With an abrupt shudder, the motion stops. I tighten my face, wincing to keep the water out, but it percolates into my sinuses anyway, stinging like a thousand pinpricks. Seconds stretch to eternity when you're strapped in and held underwater upside down against your will. But I remember the instructions from my training. My instincts scream to disconnect the harness and free myself. I grab at the seat rails, muscles rigid, holding myself in place.

I crane my helmeted head upward, stealing one last breath before I'm pulled under. I can't see the water, but I hear it, sloshing over my shoulders, licking at my neck, splashing and gurgling, inching toward my ears. I struggle against the straps that bind me to my seat, the water moving steadily upward, flowing around my waist, sliding up my torso, encircling my chest. It seeps into my boots and crawls up my flight suit, slipping through the zippers and finding every seam.

Hover by Anne A. Wilson