What was left of the plane lay upside down. Upon impact it had flipped over, and the wings had struck the ground flat. Each wing contained a gas tank. Incredibly, they had not ruptured. Sparks were everywhere; wires entangled the aircraft like a black widow's web. Several lines had set the grass on fire.

     Grabbing a fire extinguisher, Page rushed to put out the fire before it reached the plane. Then he cut off the master switch and ignition switch to prevent any electrical current from starting another blaze or creating an explosion.

     "Help me ease him through the windshield!" Page yelled I to Ray. Together they pulled me from the wreckage, laying me on the ground.

     Page ran to call the rescue squad and a local doctor. Ray immediately began mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. I was dead upon impact, and he was trying to breathe new life into my limp body. It took a nerve-racking five to seven minutes before my body responded to his efforts. Just as Page hung up the phone, it rang.

     "What time will Morris be home for dinner?" my wife, Sandy, wanted to know. Page, a usually calm, unflappable guy, was frantic.

From page 18

     I knew that it would take time, determination, and courage to overcome the odds of survival. It would have been easy to buy a ticket for the first flight out—death. The price would have been cheap. But I'm not a buyer; I'm a seller. I kept selling myself on the fact that anybody could take that journey of escape. To hang in there, though, and make a battle of it would be a tremendous challenge. If the angel of death was coming for me, he'd better be prepared for the fight of his career.

From page  19

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