Each day, as we were flying over the Atlantic,
there inevitably came that wonderful moment: "Engine failure!" I'd shout into the microphone, "We'll have to jump out." "A-a-a-a-a-!" Donald made sounds like a failing engine. Glancing at me, he'd say, "I can't swim!" "Fear not! I'll drag you to shore, I'd bravely reply. And, with that, we'd both spill out of the truck onto the dusty street. I swam through the dust. Donald drowned in the dust, coughing, "Sharks!" he cried. But I always saved him. The next day, changing roles, the elaborate drama would repeat. "I can't swim!" I'd say and Donald would save me. We saved each other from certain death hundreds of times, until finally a day came when my family really did leave for America.