There are moments in life that etch themselves so deeply into memory that no matter how much time passes, they remain as vivid as the day they happened. One such moment for me took place in the mid-70s, aboard a Sikorsky S-61 helicopter flying over the remote wilderness of Greenland.
We were returning home after spending a long summer in Denmark. My mother and two siblings had stayed behind and would follow later. Back then, travel between Greenlandic cities was often by helicopter, and this flight was no different. Departing from Kangerlussuaq (Søndre Strøm), we were set to land in several towns along the way to drop off passengers and refuel. The helicopter was packed - fifteen passengers, plus two pilots and a mechanic. The front right seats had been removed to accommodate a large amount of mail. Among the passengers was my father’s cousin.
Flying in Greenland is always unpredictable, but nothing could have prepared us for the storm we encountered that day. It struck without warning as we reached the Nuussuaq Peninsula, north of Disko Island. The Swedish pilots were known to be some of the best - hardcore professionals who had faced all manner of challenges. But even they struggled against the extreme winds. The helicopter was tossed around like a toy, fighting to maintain control. I wasn’t scared, not yet - my father sat beside me, looking completely calm despite the chaos unfolding around us. That calmness reassured me, even as we were slammed against our seatbelts.
Then came the sounds - loud bangs like metal breaking apart, followed by an eerie screaming noise, as if something was being torn open. I turned to my father, searching his face for any sign of concern. He remained composed, but around us, passengers were beginning to panic. The pilots were locked in a desperate struggle against the storm, doing everything they could to regain stability.
Suddenly, the helicopter began an unnatural slow spin. Something was terribly wrong. We descended rapidly, plummeting toward the landscape below. Then, with a bone-jarring impact, we crashed onto a sand basin nestled between towering mountains. The pilots wasted no time - engines were shut off immediately. The mechanic threw open the door and leapt out, followed by the rest of us, stumbling onto the cold, barren ground.
It was my father’s cousin who first spotted it - the reason we were still alive. He pointed to the tail rudder shaft. The metal casing had been ripped wide open. The tail rotor - critical for stability - had nearly been sheared off. Just a few more inches, and we would have been sent into an uncontrollable spin, plummeting to certain death. The realization hit everyone at once. We had come within moments of disaster.
Strangers in the Storm
But then, something even stranger happened.
We were stranded in the middle of nowhere, deep in an uninhabited stretch of Greenland. No settlements, no people - only mountains and the howling storm. And yet, someone was watching us.
Aftermath
The storm raged on. The pilots finally established radio contact, and hours later, another helicopter arrived to rescue us. We were flown to safety, but the encounter was never truly explained. Over the years, it was rarely spoken of - only mentioned in hushed conversations, with theories ranging from divine intervention to spirits of the land watching over us.
To this day, I don’t know what I saw. But I know what I experienced. And that experience shaped me - after that day, there was little left in the world that could truly scare me.
My song Crash is an instrumental piece inspired by that event. A memory of a near-fatal descent and the presence of something beyond explanation, standing in the storm, watching us from the shadows.