Clouds hover above the sea like tufts of wool caught in the wind. The sun casts sharply defined shadows of these, like cut outs on the flat sea, which from up here shines like a vast stretch of slivery leather. The higher we fly, the vaster it becomes, the cotton wool clouds stretching endlessly, scattered across the surface in wide waves of varying density. Now they are like soldiers in a vast army, or a like a cultivated crop. The key element that transforms all this and makes in incredible is the light, catching the edges of the clouds, reflecting of the surface of the sea and plane and casting shadows.
Up here it is warm. I am cocooned by thick plastic walls and seats, Marit to my left and the sound of the engines humming through everything. But the compact comfort of my little pod here is punctured with a window – my plastic wall has been sliced open, a hole carved out to allow my spirit to be sucked out and to soar across the wide earth below. I feel powerful and transcendent looking down over the towns and fields below.