A "chubby bee" airplane in a jelly sky. Meet 4yo Aira from MFDMalaysia. Powered by Qwen3.6-Plus and Wan2.7, we’ve turned her "Jelly Flight" sketch into a high-fidelity cinematic MV. This is AIforGood: Giving a visual engine to a child’s silent dreams.

I love the light in this photo so much. It's airplane light. You don't see it on earth. The ground is always dark when we are down here but high up in the sky, the clouds are below and they are white. And that combination of saturated blue and crystal clear white creates a very special kind of light. Pouring in through the window into the darkness, it is only really experienced on an airplane. I took this shot on a little Pentax PC35AF I keep in my sport coat pocket on trips like this. It was just me and another guy in the row. We had an open seat next to us on our flight over to Europe. We were so lucky to have that open seat. We could spread out a little. We ended up talking about all kinds of stuff all through our flight and it made the flight go much quicker than they usually do. Sometimes you are hesitant to talk to whoever you are sitting by at the beginning of the flight. God forbid you end up stuck talking forever. But it was good and we had a great series of conversations. It's encouraging when something like that happens. Instead of being let down by humanity as we often are, we are encouraged. We are all going somewhere.

Starlink is about to show just how insane inflight internet has become Tonight, ESPN host Tyler Fulghum will participate in a live two-hour fantasy-football broadcast from a United flight at 35,000 feet using Starlink Wi-Fi Live television from an airplane Connected through satellites in orbit And United already has Starlink active on 500+ aircraft Think about how far we’ve come Airplane Wi-Fi used to struggle to even load a simple webpage Now Starlink is powerful enough to put someone live on ESPN from 35,000 feet Starlink is completely changing what being connected in the sky actually means

I still remember when Elon told me: “Koreans are often a step ahead in appreciating new technology.” And it’s true. I’m Korean. 🇰🇷 Koreans love technology, and they absolutely love Tesla. Now I think they’re going to fall in love with Starlink too. Personally, I fly anywhere without Starlink anymore. Once you experience fast, reliable internet at 35,000 feet, it’s hard to go back to traditional airplane Wi-Fi. And I think airlines need to realize this quickly. As more passengers experience Starlink, having great internet in the sky is going to become something people expect, instead of something they consider as a bonus. Any airline that refuses to embrace this kind of technology is eventually going to be at a disadvantage. Koreans embraced Tesla. I have a feeling they’re going to embrace Starlink the same way. Korean Air FTW.

Starlink is taking over the skies Starlink is now active on more than 500 United Airlines aircraft On July 15, United had 450 Starlink-equipped aircraft Just over five weeks later → 500+ And Starlink is already enabling things far beyond ordinary inflight browsing On August 25, an ESPN host will participate in a live two-hour televised Fantasy Football draft from a United flight at 35,000 feet A live national TV broadcast.....from an airplane cruising tens of thousands of feet above Earth Starlink is completely changing what internet in the sky can do

Every day for 47 years, Mr. Hamano rowed a wooden ferry across a river in Japan. Back and forth. The same line across the same water. About two hundred thousand crossings. He is 81 now. Retired. This July, he boarded his first airplane, bound for America, to see one thing. A young soldier who walks back and forth. Mr. Hamano is the grandfather of Daigo, who grew up in the apartment above mine. Daigo is 26 now, an engineer in Virginia. He told me this story over a beer last month, and had to stop twice. His grandfather ran one of the last hand-rowed ferries in Japan. A flat wooden boat, one long oar, a little hut on the bank with a bell. You rang the bell, and he came. Rain, snow, typhoons. He never once left someone waiting on the other side. When he finished a crossing, he always said one word. "Yoshi." It means something like "Right. Good. Done properly." He has said it about two hundred thousand times. In 2011, Daigo's grandmother was dying in the hospital. On her last morning, it was the day of the university entrance exams. A high school girl from across the river rang the bell at 6 a.m. His grandmother told him: "Go. Somebody's waiting on the other side." He went. He rowed the girl across. Then he hurried back to the hospital and held his wife's hand until she was gone. He has never talked about that morning. Daigo heard it from his mother. In September 2003, a hurricane hit the American East Coast. Mr. Hamano saw it on the little TV in his ferry hut. A cemetery in Virginia. Wind tearing the trees sideways. Everyone told to take shelter. And one young American soldier, in full uniform, still walking. Twenty-one steps. Turn. Twenty-one seconds. Turn. Twenty-one steps. The Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, at Arlington. Guarded every minute of every day since 1937. By soldiers who volunteer for it. The news said the guards had been given permission to take shelter. They refused. Mr. Hamano watched that soldier walk through a hurricane, and he said one sentence to an empty ferry hut. "That one understands." He waited 23 years to go and see him. Daigo had a whole trip planned. New York. Washington. A ballgame. His grandfather said no. "Only the soldier." It was July. 96 degrees. Virginia humid, which Daigo says feels like being licked by a very large dog. His grandfather stood at the rope for two hours. He took out his old wristwatch and timed the steps. Twenty-one. He timed the pause. Twenty-one. And every single time the soldier turned, Mr. Hamano nodded and whispered, "Yoshi." Every turn. For two hours. Daigo says a family from Ohio started watching his grandfather instead of the soldier. Then the sky turned black. A summer storm. Thunder close enough to feel in your teeth. Rain like a waterfall. In about a minute, the crowd was gone. Running for the buses. Umbrellas everywhere. Daigo opened his umbrella over his grandfather. His grandfather closed it. Daigo opened it again. His grandfather closed it again. "Grandpa, you're 81. You're going to get sick. He's a soldier. It's his job." His grandfather didn't take his eyes off the mat. "The ferry was my job," he said. "Did I stay home when it rained?" So Daigo stood there, holding a closed umbrella, getting soaked next to his grandfather, who was wearing a canvas hat and would not move. They were not the only ones. A teenage boy, maybe fifteen, had stopped halfway to the bus. He saw the old Japanese man standing in the rain. He turned around and stood at the rope. Then his father came back with an umbrella to get him. He saw his son. He saw the old man. He closed the umbrella. By the time the guard changed, there were nine people standing in the rain. Nine closed umbrellas. Not one of them spoke. The new sentinel came down the steps, and the inspection began. The rifle. The uniform. Every crease. In pouring rain, exactly the same as on a sunny day. When it was over, and the old guard marched away, Mr. Hamano took off his canvas hat and bowed as low as his back would go. The same bow he gave the river after his last crossing, the day he retired. Then they walked to the bus, wet to the bone. About forty minutes later, at the visitor center, a young soldier in uniform walked straight up to them. "Sir. Excuse me. Were you the gentleman at the Tomb, in the rain?" Daigo said yes. "One of our sentinels just came off the walk. He asked me to find you. He saw you close the umbrella. He saw all of them close." The soldier stood up a little straighter. "He said to tell you: thank you for standing the post with him." Daigo translated it. His grandfather looked down at the floor. After a while, he asked Daigo to translate something back. Exactly. "Tell him: 47 years. A ferry. Back and forth. Every day. Somebody always waiting on the other side." He nodded and left. Ten minutes later, he came back. "Sir. He says: 'Then you know.'" Daigo had never seen his grandfather cry. Not at his grandmother's funeral. Not ever. The old man put his canvas hat over his face, right there in the visitor center, and cried like a boy. The young soldier stayed exactly where he was, at attention, until he was finished. Mr. Hamano went home to Japan. The ferry runs with a younger man at the oar. But Daigo's mother says that every morning at six, his grandfather still walks down to the river. If it's raining, he does not open his umbrella. He stands on the bank for one minute, facing east, toward the morning. Toward a soldier who is walking, right now, in Virginia. He doesn't talk about America much. When people ask what it was like, he gives them the same one-word answer he gave the river for 47 years. "Yoshi."

Twenty five years ago today, a 26 year old rookie fighter pilot took off from Andrews with no missiles, no bullets that mattered, and orders that meant she was not coming back. Heather Penney was a first lieutenant in the 121st Fighter Squadron, DC Air National Guard, the Capital Guardians. She had been flying F-16s for a short time and she was the only woman in her class. Her father, John Penney, was a retired Air Force colonel who had flown in Vietnam and was then flying airliners for United. That morning both towers were burning, the Pentagon had been hit, and there was a fourth airliner still in the sky heading for Washington. United 93. The alert jets that normally sit armed on the ramp were not available. The squadron's F-16s were loaded with roughly a hundred rounds of non explosive training ammunition, ballast used to keep the aircraft in trim. No AIM-9s. No AIM-120s. Nothing that would bring down a Boeing 757. Lieutenant Colonel Marc Sasseville looked at her and said he would take the cockpit. She said she would take the tail. That was the entire plan. Two unarmed fighters would fly into a loaded airliner, aimed like darts at a jet almost seven times their weight, because there was no other way to stop it before it reached the Capitol or the White House. Penney has said she thought about ejecting at the last second and decided against it. She did not trust herself to stay on target if part of her was thinking about getting out. They ran to the jets, skipped most of the checks, and pushed the throttles up before the engines were properly warm. She said later that she was going to be a missile with wings. What she did not know, what nobody in the cockpit knew, is that it was already over. At 10:03 United 93 went into a field near Shanksville, Pennsylvania, nose down at roughly 580 miles an hour, because forty passengers and crew had taken a vote, boiled water, grabbed a drink cart and gone up the aisle at the men who had taken their airplane. Penney and Sasseville flew for about an hour and a half looking for a plane that no longer existed, then escorted Air Force One back toward Washington. She flew two tours in Iraq and made major. For years afterward she refused to be called the hero of that story. Her line was that the real ones were already dead in a Pennsylvania field, and that they were ordinary people, mothers and fathers and schoolteachers and salesmen, who figured out what was happening and did the math faster than the United States Air Force could get a jet off the ground. They did with their bare hands what she was willing to do with a fighter.