A Deceiving Passion

The Crash

The plane had gone down.

Coming from Paris, the couple were clutched to each other as they were getting ready to hit the ocean.

They had landed on the beach of Greenland, Nuuk, Greenland; Denmark's official territory just to make it easier for the pilot, so nobody would get too much damage---that being the softest way he could land, but of course not the most ideal.

It was foggy that early morning on the beach; it looked like a sandstorm, but it was fog veiling the ground and ocean.

The man was in the sand, his body face down as he tried to regain the strength to push himself up. Noticing there was something wrong with his arm, he clutched it close to himself, keeping it in place. Groaning low at the pain, his right arm made him realize it was his playing arm. As he roamed around---looking for anybody familiar, "Stevie?!" he yelled---his voice echoing off the mountain, not loud enough to even withstand the crashing waves. "Stevie?!"

The beach was empty, not a soul unless above the mountains.

From the distance he stood, he could see the pieces of the plane in the water, a large chunk in the muddy sand, with the water pulling it in each time it washed over.

Making his way closer, he attempted to look inside, still his mind only focused on finding his wife. "Stevie?" his voice was starting to fade because he was tired and exasperated from the adrenaline of it all.

The plane was empty, not even the pilot there; their belongings gone.

Sighing to himself, he became a little apprehensive because the fact that he couldn't find his wife was unnerving to him.

...

It was hours of him staying on the beach, that people finally made their way; ambulances, police and all sorts of people to report who was on the beach.

Mostly, people were speaking Danish, Greenlandic, there were a couple British people who were able to understand what had gone on and they summoned for American doctors, cops and such people to help the man out.

He was taken straight to the nearest emergency and there, they would ask him questions since he was conscious and they would tend to his wounds.

"Look, my name is Lindsey Buckingham," he stated as a doctor binded his arm. "My wife's missing---I have to find her," he added.

"They'll find her, sir---just stay calm," the doctor injected a steroid shot into his bone. "Where do you live?"

"Ugh, God!" he groaned out at how the injected medication burned going in. "My wife and I live in California," he stated. "In the U.S., we were traveling from Paris, on our way home."

"Alright and your wife is Stephanie Buckingham?" he asked.

"Yeah and if it makes it easier, Stevie Nicks. She's known everywhere," he had to mention. "We're in a band, Fleetwood Mac---maybe you've heard of it," he told the detective.

"I have---I know who you are," the doctor stated. "I'll handle it---" he assured with a nod. "The best thing for you to do is head home."

"After what I just went through?" he scoffed, jumping off the examine table. "I have to find my wife and I'm not going home without her."

"Alright, sir---just relax," the doctor advised. "You went through a very traumatic event---you need to stay calm."

Lindsey sighed to himself and the only thing he could think of was calling his sister in-law and possibly his children.

He was sure they would find her soon and he didn't want to worry his children since they were all abroad and doing their own thing at school. Their youngest child was in high school, though staying with her uncle and aunt; Chris and Lori since Stevie and Lindsey had been gone for the couple weeks. They were celebrating their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, but as well as preparing things with Margi Kent for an upcoming Fleetwood Mac tour.