Panic started to ripple through the cabin. Then a small voice said:
“I can help.”
Flora. Little Flora from 14C.
She stepped into the cockpit, pointed at instruments, and named them—EPR, vertical speed, attitude indicator, autopilot. Every control. Every switch. She’d trained on this exact 737 with her father, an Alaska Airlines captain. She was scared—but she knew the plane.
Seattle Center heard her call. The controller patched in her dad. “I’m right here with you,” he said. His voice steadied her; hers nearly broke him.
Step by step, Flora followed instructions. Disengage autopilot. Adjust throttle. Begin controlled descent. Maintain heading. Deploy flaps. Lower landing gear. She flared at fifty feet. Wheels hit hard. Brakes slammed. The private pilot pressed his feet on hers. The plane shuddered. Ten feet to go. Stop.
Silence. Then screaming, crying, cheering. I rushed forward. “You saved us,” I said. Her teeth chattered, but she smiled.
Her dad ran in seconds later. He pulled her into his arms. “You did it. I’m so proud of you. You did it.”
The pilots recovered. The contaminated meals were traced to a supplier error. But everyone remembers one thing: an eleven-year-old girl who refused to panic and took control of a 737.
Six months later, the FAA honored Flora—the youngest person in history to help land a commercial airliner. She became a local legend, though she hates the attention. When she flies with us now, she sits in 14C, ponytail in place, calm as ever.
Last month, she made the landing announcement herself:
“Welcome home. We’re so glad you made it safely.”
She earned it. Every word.
Because that day, our lives were saved by a little girl who believed she could fly a plane—and proved it.
Inspired by Flora’s courage? Share this story to remind someone that age doesn’t define bravery.