From 2014 to 2021, I had one of the most exhilarating jobs imaginable: I was an aerial photographer for energy companies. Every week, I’d soar through the skies, capturing stunning photos and collecting critical data. The pay was great, but there was a reason for that—the job came with significant risks. Over the years, I faced my fair share of close calls: a window blowing out on a freezing 20-degree day, the oil light flickering on mid-flight, forcing us to abort missions and rush back to safety. But nothing could have prepared me for February 27, 2020—the day that changed everything.
It started like any other workday. My pilot, Jake, was at the helm, calm and focused as always. I was in the back, setting up my gear, mentally preparing for the shoot. Then, the unthinkable happened. A loud, insistent beep pierced the air: “Beep, Beep, Beep.” Suddenly, the rotors fell silent. The once-familiar hum of the helicopter was gone, replaced by an eerie quiet. If you’ve ever spent time around pilots, you know they’re masters of composure. But even Jake’s stoic demeanor couldn’t mask the gravity of the situation. As the helicopter began to plummet from 1,500 feet, I panicked. Jake’s response was blunt but understandable: “Shut up.”
We were falling fast, and I was certain we were about to crash into a dense forest below. Miraculously, Jake managed to steer us away from the trees. But our relief was short-lived. On the other side of the forest was a frozen retention pond. I can’t swim, and my mind raced with the horrifying thought of plunging into icy water. As the ground rushed toward us, I closed my eyes. I didn’t want to witness my own death.
The impact was brutal. My body clenched so tightly that the force of the landing sent shockwaves of pain through me. When I opened my eyes, everything was white. For five agonizing seconds, I couldn’t see anything but that blinding whiteness. It wasn’t until later that I realized why: a blizzard had swept through the area earlier that week, leaving the field covered in a pristine, untouched blanket of snow. As my vision cleared, I saw it: a scoreboard. We had landed in a little league baseball field in Stickney, Illinois. Jake and I locked eyes, and in that moment, we both screamed, “We’re alive!” We high-fived, laughed, and celebrated like we’d just won the World Series. Against all odds, we had survived.
That day didn’t just change my life—it transformed my entire perspective. I learned that not all money is worth the risk, especially when it comes at the expense of time—the most precious resource we have. Time with my family—my wife, kids, parents, siblings, cousins, aunts, uncles, friends, and even my dog—has become my greatest joy. None of them know it, but every moment I spend with them fills me with gratitude.
One month before my crash, Kobe Bryant tragically lost his life in a helicopter accident. His death was a stark reminder of how fragile life is, and it brought unexpected media attention to my own crash. That attention, oddly enough, opened a door for me to reconnect with loved ones I hadn’t spoken to in years. It was a silver lining in an otherwise harrowing experience.
So, here’s what I’ve learned: Life is unpredictable, and time is the one thing we can never get back. I’m grateful for every second I have, for the people who fill my life with love, and for the experiences—both good and bad—that have shaped me. If there’s one thing, I hope you take away from my story, it’s this: Cherish your time. It’s the only currency that truly matters.