Departure

Stuttgart, early in the morning. The darkness clings stubbornly, as if the sun had forgotten to rise. Hanna stands beside me in the departure hall, her gaze calm — almost too calm for what is about to happen to me. A man approaches, presses a badge into my hand. "You're flying the 307." I want to protest, say: "I'm not a pilot." Instead, I nod silently. Hanna's hand rests on my shoulder, an anchor in this sea of uncertainty. "You can do this," she says, as if stating an undeniable truth. In that moment, I realize: this is about more than just a flight — this is about Flight 307.

My knees go weak, a dizzying whirl shoots through my head like a pinball machine gone wild. And yet, beneath all of it, quiet as a distant call, something whispers: there is no way back. I turn toward Hanna, want to say something — maybe a last "Stay here" or "I can't do this." But before the words find me, she has already embraced me. Firm, calm. Her presence holds me more than her arms. "You know you can do it." Then she lifts her bag, turns around, and walks away. Just like that. My eyes fill with tears. God, I love her. This kind of trust, this farewell without grand drama. It hits me harder than any pathetic gesture ever could.

What remains is a man who does not know what awaits him. And yet something stirs within me — a force that does not belong to me, but flows through me. The man with the badge stands in front of me again. His gaze calm, unshakable. "It's time. We need to go to the plane." No, I think, impossible. And yet my body already knows what my mind still denies: forward is the only direction. He walks ahead, and I follow. I feel my Nudie jeans, the old Adidas, the damp shirt on my back, the Oakleys on my nose. What an outfit, I think. And in a moment, I will be flying a plane.

The Aircraft

Then I see it: the aircraft. Massive. Still. Ready. A steel colossus that fills me with both awe and dread. I am overwhelmed, completely out of my depth. And yet no one seems to notice that I am not a pilot. Everything remains surreal. Seventy meters of metal, forty tons of weight — and me, 1.87 meters tall, 95 kilos, like a fly in a shoebox. I step inside. The door closes behind me. Silence. No voices, no flickering, no movement. Just rows of empty seats, a silence that is not calm, but boundless. It smells of steel, air conditioning, and something that is about to happen. Like a room someone left and never returned to. I walk slowly toward the front, every step echoing. I am not nervous. I am reverent. As if entering a cathedral. Or standing alone on a dune in the Sahara at first light. Through the cockpit door I see two seats, switches, levers, instruments, a narrow window. I sit down. Hanna's voice echoes within me: "You know you can do it." Something in me has already said yes. I move as if I had always known how — although I know nothing. And yet I am completely at peace with myself.

The Copilot

The cockpit door swings open. A guy walks in as if he had never been gone. How do I know his name is Raphael? I have no idea. But I know it. Deep inside. As if we have been flying together for years — Sonny and Rico, sky edition. "Hey, all good, man?" He grins broadly, slaps my hand for a high five and drops into the copilot's seat as if it were his living room. "Ready for Canada?" "Uh, yeah. Sure." And in that exact moment I let go — of everything I thought I knew about life, control, and reality. "You know this is a test flight, right? No passengers. The company just wants to see how the jet performs." "Sure. Of course." I say it as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "All good." He opens a panel. "Let's go through the checks. We'll roll as soon as the tower calls us." My eyes glide over the instruments. Something deep inside me presses buttons, flips switches, checks displays. No idea how. But it works.

Am I high? In the wrong movie? Doesn't matter. I am here. "Look," he says, "Beate made us liverwurst sandwiches and brewed coffee." He pulls a heavy steel box from his bag, along with a Stanley thermos. Raphael is a man of style — Red Wings, raw denim, flannel shirt, Ray-Ban Aviators. A hint of Issey Miyake lingers in the air. I like it. He hands me a sandwich. Sourdough. Soft inside, crispy crust. Butter, delicate liverwurst, a bit of chervil. It smells like home — at 10,000 meters. "Wow. I'm speechless. Thank you." "Here, good coffee to go with it. First we eat, then we fly."

Takeoff

The engines roar, a deep, vibrating thunder pulsing through the fuselage. I feel the tremor in the control column, a familiar tingling that travels from my fingertips deep into my core. The tower's voice sounds factual, almost indifferent: "Tower to 307. You have runway 8734. Prepare for takeoff." A few clicks — switches flipped, levers pulled. The aircraft begins to roll. Just like that. As if it were the most normal thing in the world. For me, a miracle.

"Raphi, did you check the weather?" I ask, eyes fixed on the runway. Raphi grins, that relaxed, almost cheeky grin: "Of course, brother. You think this is my first time?" I shake my head, a crooked smile on my lips. "Sorry. The sandwich relaxed me." The runway stretches ahead, an endless strip of asphalt. This is it. I could drive cars, trucks — even really big ones. But this? Lifting a multi-ton machine into the air? Oof. The headset crackles. "307, cleared for takeoff." I take a deep breath. "Okay. Let's go." Full thrust. The engines scream, a massive force presses me into the seat. I keep the aircraft on track, rudder under control — somehow it feels completely natural. The speed rises. 519 knots — breathtaking. I feel like I'm strapped to a rocket, wrapped in nothing but thin metal skin. I pull on the yoke. The nose lifts. The moment of truth. Weightlessness, my stomach turns — and then: ascent. Direct, powerful, without hesitation.

The Long Flight

The world shrinks beneath us, houses become dots, roads turn into lines. My hands rest firmly on the controls — calm, steady. A faint aftertaste of liverwurst lingers in my mouth, blending with the hint of Issey Miyake in the cockpit. "Well done, brother," Raphi murmurs. "Mother Sky has us again. Do you miss this, old friend? This is home, right, Bo?" Bo? Oh right. That's me. Bo Danski. The sky is my home. Raphi grins. "Our master pilot in action." And I smile. Because we are flying. Just like that. Sky. Sandwiches. Coffee. Two guys in the clouds.

Ten hours later, after countless miles over endless seas of clouds, Vancouver finally appears on the horizon — not as a clear city with recognizable buildings, but as a flickering sea of lights glowing against the darkness like a distant lighthouse. Despite the long journey, a quiet uncertainty remains in me, a soft but persistent whisper reminding me that I do not know what awaits us. But I trust. I trust what has carried me all along — a force greater than myself, somewhere between clouds and stars, gently guiding us.

I reach for the radio, contact the tower, while Raphi calmly checks the weather, monitors the autopilot, and runs the final checks. We move in sync, almost trance-like, smooth and coordinated, part of a larger dance in the sky that knows neither haste nor tension. Something rises within me — a quiet sense of being deeply moved. I am touched and at the same time filled with an almost supernatural calm. We activate the ILS — the instrument landing system. Course set, glide path calculated, and somewhere amid all this technology lies something that feels like magic. The city lights grow with every meter we descend. Yet the runway remains hidden, wrapped in darkness, only a faint shimmer betraying its existence. I hope everything goes well — but deep down I know: it does not matter. There is no way back.

Landing

"Ready, Bo?" Raphi leans slightly toward me, his voice a familiar anchor. "Let's give the lady a gentle landing, okay?" I smile — more confident than I feel. "Yes." I set the flaps, lower the landing gear. Everything flows, every movement a blend of routine and intuition. We touch down — rear wheels first, softly, a small jolt — then glide over the asphalt as if the sky wanted to hold us just a moment longer. The brakes engage, reverse thrust roars, we slow down meter by meter until we finally come to a stop. Silence. A moment that says everything. We made it. A smooth landing. Raphi raises his hand, I slap it. "We nailed it, brother." He smiles — that relaxed, almost tender smile I love about him. Not just his calm, but that he took this flight with me. We taxi, park, shut down the systems.

Arrival

We open the door and step out into the cool night air. Outside it smells like freedom. Like pine needles, salty air, cold wind — and a hint of bear sweat. A scent of arrival. Of adventures yet to come.