Note: Paul once talked about being on this plane.
In October (1973), a month after Dad's death, my band and I were heading home to California from Philadelphia on a leased private jet when the plane hit a storm cloud, known as a thunderhead. A few minutes before, I had been playing Scrabble with some of the musicians when my husband, who had an uneasy feeling, suddenly told everyone to put the game away and tighten their seat belts. It was said with such authority that we all instantly obeyed; only moments later, it felt as if we had hit a brick wall. With a high-pitched whining noise, the plane started going down.
Everyone's faces were becoming distorted with the G-force. Cabin baggage was floating, and interior paneling started to snap out of its moorings. One of the musicians began screaming, another was praying; my husband and I declared our love and said good-bye to each other. This was the first time our son, who was now crawling, had not come on the road with us. I was grateful that my children would survive me. I affirmed my faith in the Almighty and then I started to lose consciousness.
The two pilots were able to pull out of the downdraft and regain control of the airplane, and we made an emergency landing at a little airfield in Moline, Illinois. They told us later that the jet would not have crashed. We had been within second of reaching a G-force level that would have caused the small plane to implode. We wouldn't have made it all the way down in one piece.