Ninety-nine percent of pilots that go up never have engine

Host: The airfield stretched out beneath the dying sun, its runway lines gleaming like silver scars across the asphalt. The wind carried the faint smell of jet fuel and grass, the kind of scent that held both freedom and fear. A small hangar stood open, its corrugated metal walls reflecting the last orange light of the day.

Host: Inside, Jack sat on the wing of a tiny Cessna, a wrench in his hand, a half-empty thermos beside him. His face was streaked with a light sheen of grease, but his eyes, gray and distant, were fixed on the open sky above—vast, indifferent, and waiting.

Host: Jeeny stood nearby, her hands in the pockets of her jacket, watching him with that calm, steady gaze she always had—half concern, half awe. A book was tucked under her arm. She read something aloud, her voice carrying through the still hangar air like a kind of soft turbulence.

Jeeny: reading softly “‘Ninety-nine percent of pilots that go up never have engine failure, and the 1 percent that do usually land it. But if you're up in the air and something goes wrong, you pull that parachute, and the whole plane goes down slowly.’ —Cory Lidle.”

Jack: grinning faintly “A baseball player turned pilot talking about crashes. There’s poetry in that.”

Jeeny: “There’s faith in that. Faith that when something goes wrong, there’s still a way down that doesn’t end in fire.”

Jack: “You call that faith? I call it statistics dressed as comfort. The math doesn’t care about how gracefully you fall.”

Jeeny: smiling gently “Maybe not. But people do.”

Host: The wind pushed softly at the hangar doors, causing them to creak. The light had shifted, long shadows spilling across the floor, catching the metal gleam of tools, the curve of the plane’s wing.

Jack: “You ever been up in one of these, Jeeny?”

Jeeny: “Once. It terrified me. The height, the hum, the silence between clouds—it felt like being inside a heartbeat.”

Jack: “Then you know. Up there, every sound matters. A vibration, a cough in the engine—it’s like the universe whispering, not today.”

Jeeny: “And yet, people keep flying.”

Jack: “Because they trust what they built.”

Jeeny: “Or because they trust they can survive it if it breaks.”

Host: A faint hum of a distant jet rolled across the horizon. The sky, now bruised purple, seemed endless—both shelter and threat.

Jack: “You know what I like about that quote? It’s honest. It doesn’t pretend safety’s guaranteed. It says things will fail—eventually. But you prepare anyway. You build a parachute before the fall.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s not a metaphor for flying—it’s a metaphor for living.”

Jack: “You sound like one of those inspirational posters people put in offices.”

Jeeny: laughs softly “No, I mean it. Everyone thinks life’s about avoiding the fall. But it’s really about designing your own parachute—something that slows the descent when it happens.”

Jack: “So what’s yours?”

Jeeny: “Listening. And maybe faith. Even when I crash, I try to land gently.”

Jack: “And mine?”

Jeeny: “Control. You’d rather fight the engine than trust the air.”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened slightly. He didn’t answer. His eyes traced the clouds instead—how they moved, how they seemed both weightless and immovable.

Jack: “You know, when I was a kid, I thought pilots were gods. They controlled the impossible. But the older I got, the more I realized—they just learned to make peace with failure.”

Jeeny: “That’s what courage really is, isn’t it? Not the absence of fear, but the mastery of descent.”

Jack: “Courage is pretending you can land it even when you can’t.”

Jeeny: “No. Courage is pulling the parachute anyway.”

Host: The wind outside shifted again, carrying with it the faint rattle of rain in the distance. Jack set the wrench down, his hand trembling slightly, though whether from exhaustion or emotion, it was hard to tell.

Jack: “You know, Lidle died in a crash. Into a building. He didn’t pull a parachute.”

Jeeny: “I know. And maybe that’s the saddest truth—sometimes the lesson arrives too late. But his words still teach. Because for every one who falls, there’s another who learns to slow it down.”

Jack: “You really believe we can slow it down? That life’s falls can be… softened?”

Jeeny: “If we choose to learn how. That’s the difference between fear and wisdom. Fear freezes you midair. Wisdom reminds you the ground is part of the journey.”

Host: The sky outside was dark now, a deep indigo stitched with faint stars. A single airplane light blinked in the distance, a lonely red pulse against the black.

Jack: “Funny, isn’t it? People trust planes more than they trust themselves.”

Jeeny: “Maybe because planes are predictable. People aren’t. That’s why we build systems, routines, relationships—to hold us steady when our own engines fail.”

Jack: “You mean, like parachutes disguised as people?”

Jeeny: smiles softly “Exactly. Every friend, every lover, every mentor—they’re the cords you pull when life spins out.”

Jack: quietly “And when they’re gone?”

Jeeny: “Then you become your own parachute.”

Host: For a long moment, the only sound was the steady hum of wind across the hangar. The plane beside them gleamed faintly, half in shadow, half in reflected starlight.

Jack: “You know, there’s something beautiful in that. The idea that descent doesn’t have to mean disaster. Maybe falling’s just a different kind of flying.”

Jeeny: “It is. Falling’s just motion with surrender.”

Jack: “And surrender isn’t failure.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s trust.”

Host: The words hung in the air—soft, deliberate, like the moment right before the landing gear touches ground.

Jack: “So life’s about being both the pilot and the parachute.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Steering when you can, surrendering when you must.”

Host: Outside, the rain began, steady and light. The drops drummed gently against the metal roof, the rhythm steady as a heartbeat. Jack closed his eyes, breathing deeply, as if the sound itself carried something healing.

Jack: “You know what scares me most about flying?”

Jeeny: “The height?”

Jack: “No. The silence before the fall.”

Jeeny: “Then fill it with something worth hearing. That’s what the parachute’s for.”

Host: Her voice was warm, quiet, certain—the kind that could steady even a trembling sky. Jack opened his eyes, looked at her, and for a fleeting moment, he smiled. Not the cynical kind. The real one—the kind that acknowledged the crash but trusted the descent.

Host: Beyond the hangar, the lights on the runway flickered, stretching into infinity like a promise of direction. The plane’s silver body glowed faintly, reflecting both their faces—one defined by control, the other by faith—two halves of the same equation.

Host: And somewhere far above them, through the veil of clouds, a distant plane crossed the night sky. Not in triumph, not in fear—but in quiet defiance of gravity.

Host: For in the end, it wasn’t about never falling. It was about learning, each time the engine coughed, that the descent could still be beautiful—if you had the courage to pull the cord and trust the air.