Today, I am in the right seat of a Boeing 757, head pressed against the side windowpane, eyes peering downward into a cauldron of cloud and spray. Every once in a while, I catch a glimpse of the frothing North Atlantic in the morning gloom—apparently little changed from the 2,600 miles we crossed in the night. And then, miraculously: a curling breaker, a blast of spume, a gnarled extrusion of wave-battered granite, and a petulant crown of improbably verdant, windblown grass. Land. Larger breaks in the undercast reveal two of the smaller Aran Islands, followed by the cliff-pocked coastline of County Clare, Ireland. We are cleared to descend to 6,000 feet via the MOMIN3D arrival, and we soon break out of a stratus layer to find the gently rolling hills and patchwork fields of Ireland spread magnificently before us. This is only a little north of where Charles Lindbergh spotted landfall on his way to Paris. If the Emerald Isle is a sight for sore eyes to us, to him it must have seemed heaven itself.