[OOC: Not a pilot IRL, so excuse the obvious imperfections with the below post ^_^]<br/><br/>(http://i825.photobucket.com/albums/zz178/Writersblockade/chiwetelejiofor.jpg)<br/><br/><br/>The Cessna 150/150 float plane had about thirty minutes of fuel before he would have to turn back for the mainland. The mayday he received over the bulletin listed them around coordinates due east of his position, and he smoothly turned the plane to get him in line with the last crash report “Mainland, this is Goner, November, Six, Golf, Seven, Eight, One. I’m en route to the site. Will radio solid coordinates when I find them” he got acknowledged by mainland traffic control and was on his way from there.<br/><br/>Until his systems started going haywire.<br/><br/>“Awww you can’t be serious! I just had you looked at!” He was going to kill that mechanic if he ever got out of this. His navigational instruments were going bugfuck, and he couldn’t even get a true reading of what North was. He just kept going, feeling his way toward the crash site and looking for wreckage in the water. He was just about to give up hope when saw an island out of what he would call nowhere “And where the hell did you come from?” he asked as he flew over. The question took a backseat to the fact that he saw the wreckage on the fly-by. A perfect little contrast between the plane’s color and surrounding vegetation made things a little easier...that and it wasn’t under water. Always a good thing.<br/><br/>He banked the plane, keeping the island in sight as he looked for a spot to land “Mainland, this is Goner, November, Six, Golf, Seven, Eight, One. I have located crashed plane, at unknown coordinates. I have experienced navigational equipment failure, but I believe the crash is 10 minutes east of the bulletined crash site. It’s on an island, I repeat, it’s on an island.” The information would have been invaluable, had the radio not gone the way of the dodo along with his nav-gear. When he didn’t get a reply from the Mainland, he knew things were bad. When he heard a loud thump in his engine, and smoke pull from it, he knew they just got worse.<br/><br/>He now spoke for the benefit of the recorder his plane had. The least he could do was make sure they knew why he crashed. As his hands furiously worked to level the plane, he also cut the gas to the engine to limit the smoke. All the while he was talking, about the plane, the crash, any obvious vegetation he could see on the island. Anything and everything that may help in the future. He was running on pure protocol as he worked to level the plan by sight and feel.<br/><br/>The good news was that he was in line with the island on the bank he pulled before his engine when shoddy. The bad news was that he didn’t have enough “runway” and was pretty sure he was going to ground “Come on children, let’s go down, let’s go down, come on down” he sung as the plane touched the water once, then twice, then a hard third time. He adjusted the flaps to create as much drag as the plane could handle without cartwheeling,  but he was still coming in too hot. Once the boat hit the beach, all bets were off, and one pontoon stayed in the sand while the rest of the plane dragged to a semi-turned stop before what would have been an uncomfortable crash into a tight group of trees.<br/><br/>To his delight, he was still alive, but to his amazement, he was barely injured. “I could just be a black Irishman” he muttered as he took a look at his surroundings. He was essentially fucked, and was sure the Mainland didn’t receive his transmission. He had a few MREs on board for a situation like this…but nothing to last the time he was looking at potentially. After he dragged himself out of the plane, he removed his personal pack from the storage area, and then a few choice items from the plane. If he was right, the crash should be about four or five miles inland. With or without a plane, there still might be people who needed his help “Let’s go make a difference” he said, before he chuckled and walked on.<br/>