Knowing we had no food left, we began discussing the unthinkable – eating the frozen flesh of our dead friends
As I walked to the plane, I could see my fiancee, Soledad, waving from the airport balcony. It was 12 October 1972 and I was flying from our home in Uruguay to Chile for four days, where some of my friends were playing rugby against an old boys’ school team. I had been invited along by my best friend, Gastón, to make up numbers.
There was a party atmosphere on board. I went to sit next to Gastón, but someone beat me to it so I took a seat further forward. About 90 minutes into the flight, we hit an air pocket. I heard the pilot shouting, “Give me power!” The plane was heading straight towards a mountain. There was a huge crash as the wing hit the rocks. I put my head between my legs and closed my eyes. I was convinced I was going to die at 24.
