Picture this: You’re lying on your stomach, in the dark. You're cold — actually, freezing cold. You're barely breathing — you're counting your breaths because there's only so much air for only so many hours. Then, the air will be gone and you'll be gone too.
I want you to picture being those seven Russian sailors, trapped on the floor of the Pacific Ocean for three long days. They were told to conserve energy, don their wetsuits and just wait and pray and hope that help comes.
I wonder what raced through their minds. Families and friends. Wives and kids.
Deep down in that dark ocean abyss, they were clinging to what memories they could, with what air they had.
I suspect not many of them fretted over money or renewed cold war tensions. Very few thought of war games or any games — in the dark, in the cold, in the moment.
Alone.
I watched their faces as they left their rescue ship: worn, aged, but calm.
The kind of calm you get when you have seen death, but cheated it — for now.
No one wishes anyone such brushes with death. Save maybe the appreciation it gives for something called... life.
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