Aisle Seat. Window Seat. Judgement Seat.

The guy next to me on the plane didn’t put his phone into flight mode.

British. Wearing a suit. Scrolling social media like someone who had absolutely no concerns about meeting his ancestors.

Before take-off, he’d told his wife he was on the plane to Christchurch and couldn’t talk for a while. Apparently he could still maintain a very committed relationship with the internet.

Then came the approach. One of the roughest, scariest landings I’ve experienced in forever.

Was his phone connecting to cell towers responsible? Scientifically, no. In the entirely rational courtroom operating inside my head, he was already facing charges.

We were flying through cloud with no visible horizon, swooping around while my internal organs explored alternative seating arrangements. At one point, I’m fairly sure I tasted my heart.

I hoped the pilots weren’t on their L plates. Or a couple of Zephyr sailors, although according to a statistic I have just made up, 73.4% of Zephyr sailors are pilots or retired pilots. There was every chance someone up front was mentally rounding a bottom mark.

The ears were popping from row one to whatever row an A320 runs out of passengers. I was gripping the seat and hoping whoever was flying had eaten their Weet-Bix and passed their final exam with something more reassuring than “yeah, close enough”.

Then the wheels came down. Relief. Wheels are useful. Followed immediately by panic. Because now someone actually had to land this wild tin bird.

I’d already mentally written the NZ Herald breaking news alert. Auckland to Christchurch flight. Sailing photographer aboard. Last seen silently prosecuting a British man for scrolling.

Eventually, we made contact with the tarmac. I’d describe it as a landing, although my nervous system has requested time to review the footage.

Did I survive?

Physically, yes.

My soul is still circling Christchurch, waiting for clearance.