I Was Almost T-Boned by a Figher Jet - My Wildest Travel Story

Early in my marriage, I accompanied my husband overseas to his first duty station in Keflavik, Iceland.

It was my first time living outside of the U.S., and Iceland did not disappoint. We went whale watching in Faxaflói, dog sledding on Langjokull Glacier, and chased the waves on the black sand beach.

While living in the land of fire and ice, he served as an air traffic controller, and I worked whatever job I could while continuing my degree.

Unfortunately, the hubs often had the overnight duty and frequently forgot to take his lunch with him. This particular evening, I got home late from work and could not make dinner in time for him to head off.

Whipping up whatever sad concoction I could make on the stove since I was still learning to cook, I decided on spaghetti. I gave him a call at the desk with a full Tupperware bowl of noodles in my hands.

“Hello, hun. Is it safe to assume that you didn’t pack a lunch for yourself?” I pinch the phone between my ear and shoulder.

After a few silent seconds, I know he just realized it. “Damn it, no,” he sighs. “I forgot again.”

“I thought so. I made some dinner and am on my way to the terminal to give it to you.”

Beaming with excitement that not only am I bringing him food, but it’s also the first time in a few days that we could see each other since he usually is at work while I’m asleep and vice versa. “That’d be great! However, I’m not at the terminal today and in the tower.”

The tower? “I’ve never been that way before. How do I get there?”

After giving me some simple directions, I knew exactly how to head to my destination. Before hanging up, he re-emphasized a key point:

“Make sure to stop if you see the flashing yellow lights.”

Sounds easy enough.

Packing up his goodies, I climbed into our island beater: An old, grey Mitsubishi spotted like a dalmatian with brown rust spots. The floors had rusted out, the heater didn’t work, the headboard was held up with staples, and we could start the engine with a flat head screwdriver. She was a real piece of shit, but she got us where we needed to be. So, we called her “Old n’ Busted.”

Dodging the potholes and making sure I wouldn’t run over any arctic fox or roaming sheep, I took Old n’ Busted slow. With the sun setting earlier than I had anticipated, I crept unhurriedly toward the tower in the dark. I pulled myself close to the windshield and wiped off the condensation accumulating on the glass with a towel we kept in the door for that specific reason.

I’m almost there.

Keeping my eyes peeled for any flashing yellow lights along the way, I continued as I blasted out to the Spice Girls.

Sooooo, tell me whatcha want, whatcha really, really want…

Suddenly, the song drowned out with a roar of a jet engine. Looking up at the edge of my windshield for it — possibly doing a fly-by — I kept on going on my merry way.

Still not seeing it insight, I crossed the runway. Suddenly, I was blinded by lights!

HOLY F*CKING SH*T! IT’S THE F-15!

Slamming my foot onto the pedal, Old n’ Busted sped up about as quick as a bumper car.

I’m dead. D-E-A-D. I’m f*cking done and would never imagine this is how I’d go out. This is going to be a strange situation to explain to St. Peter when I get to the Pearly Gates, “So what had happened was….”

Barely reaching the other side of the runway in time, I saw the jet flash behind me in the rearview mirror as the car shook like it had just hit a wall of a gale-force wind.

Gripping the steering wheel, I was in a daze. Did that really just happen?

Reaching the tower, hubs and his friends come storming out.

“Why didn’t you stop at the lights! You almost got T-boned by a fighter jet!”

Slamming the car door, “Lights? Do you mean ‘flashy yellow ones’ that you told me to keep an eye out for? There weren’t any!”

Wanting to argue a bit, he continued. “Yes, they are right before you cross the runway, and they are bright yellow and cannot possibly be missed!”

Someone behind him clears his voice, “Actually…A trouble ticket has been put in to get them fixed. They actually don’t work and haven’t for a few weeks now.”

The sound of a jet engine roars in the distance breaking the awkward silence.

Shoving his lukewarm dinner into his hands, “Enjoy your shitty spaghetti that I risked my life bringing you.”

On the way back — I rolled down my windows to make sure no sounds were heard, and I gunned it across the runway again when I knew it was safe. Mr. Walker made sure to pack his own fucking lunch from that day forward, and Iceland left me with another unforgettable memory.

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This article was originally published on Medium and CrystalsWritingRoom.