I am attempting my first novel, feedback concerning both grammar and story would be appreciated.

Chapter 1

The sharp, screeching whine of the jet engine tore through the frigid air. My body convulsed under some kind of strap and my face pancaked across what felt to be a steering wheel.  The high pitched unending whirr muddled my ability to think.  A first thought echoed across the just dormant expanse of my conscious. Where are my feet? I realized I couldn't feel  those sacred appendages, or  the legs they were attached to. My mind skipped a beat. A perpetual variety of painful perforations littered the back of my neck, as what I assumed sparks rained down from the electronic heavens above.
 I levitated back, with a coarse audible groan to accompany it. A bruised and broken back cried out in pained protest. The unfeeling twigs I once called fingers lay motionless atop a dripping wet leather seat. Arms too tired to move bordered warmth for my increasingly cold chest. My thoroughly soaked hair matted behind my resting head, making for the timeliest of pillows. The soreness about the upper half of my body stopped for a breather, and so did I. 
Thus opened the flood gates of questions that suddenly swamped the fuzziest corners of my thought process. Where the hell was I? Why am I wet? What broke my what once was a perfectly functional system of notably vital organs and appendages? My eyelids bestirred themselves agape into the feeblest sense of awareness; exposing my surroundings visually. I was in a plane. I was in the cockpit of a plane. 
Technological madness reveled before me. Wires hung limply until they sporadically cracked like pulsing energetic whips, clogging the air with a blizzard of ivory sparks. A web of cracks crept across the entirety of the front windshield, the thinnest of barriers between myself and what seemed to be an underwater plain of illuminated blue expanses beclouded by granite nebulas of sediment thrown about by the melancholy last breaths of the submerged jet engines. I was underwater. I was in the cockpit of a plane that was submerged underwater. 
The minute those dreadful dots connected within my mind, that plethora of cracks gave a last creak and flowered open, and a numbingly cold pillar of water pounded me into the depths of my leathered pilot's seat. My body protested in response to the unnerving cold, pricks all about my back giving forth to an entirety of intense pain, momentarily disabling, though quickly flushed out by a complete numbness that succumbed my entire body. All sound was drowned out by the aqueous swill now fully brimming the cockpit. 
My survival instincts were the driving force behind what I now realized were my hands attempting to unbuckle my seat belt. My legs suddenly pressed abreast, my lungs reminded the rest of my vital organs, that they did in fact need oxygen. I couldn't distinguish one finger from another as they scrambled about the labyrinthine metal encasing at my midsection. My mind was reeling, my eyes stinging from what I realized was salt water. I subconsciously thumped my feet against the pedals at the base of the pit in anger, and with that fit of brevity, the buckle miraculously came loose. I was propelled to the roof of the cabin, and I took no time to comically throw my arms in a trivial excuse for swimming towards the gaping hole that once was the windshield.  A throwaway glance to my posterior, in response to what I surmised to be the grazing of some tangent shrapnel against my leg, exposed scythes of glass from the previously intact front pane slitting into the unbeknownst declination of hazardously impertinent swaths of arteries in my left leg. Maroon blood plumed forth, sparsely illumed in the azure cerulean caliginosity eclipsing the multifaceted myriad mosaic of flaming white iota's, the still writhing sea snakes of electrically discharging wires about the innards of the plane's cockpit infrequently igniting my most residual reaches as I wafted, like some macabre subaquatic parade of frosty fireflies in a clime that has felt no true Summer of the land. I looked skyward once more.  
A brief stint on a swim team during my sixth year of schooling made a monumental comeback as I suddenly mastered the breast stroke of a paraplegic, willing myself to a surface seemingly  miles away. I felt my lungs contract, tight with resentment and absence of air. They threw a tantrum of physically restraining pain and demanded that I satisfy their gluttonous need for oxygen. My arms suddenly grew weak, notably from the same complaint my lungs were making. 
When minutes seemed like seconds only moment ago, the tables had turned for father time, and suddenly I felt as if I had spent the better part of a decade flapping my arms wildly towards the glimmering ceiling of light above me. All other senses suddenly systematically shut down, soon all I knew was the mechanical motion of thrusting myself upward in the icy volume that was threatening to crush me in a world not suited for a man struggling to place who, how, and where he is only moments ago. 
Dark speckled circles started clothed the perimeters of my vision. A signal I had been made aware of , as memories seeped through my slowing and decaying thought process more and more frequently,  when my brother would mirthfully submerge myself underwater for several minutes during sporadic family outings challenging me to entrap him below till the loser within our sunken round of chicken would dive for the shoal. It was a signal that I was running on shockingly residual amounts of air. I suddenly missed my brother. 
He could help me in this situation. 
My arms suddenly gave out, limp from a combination of horrifying numbness and acute exhaustion. Probably from lactic acid build up, another slapdash memory from Anatomy class in college retorted back prominently amongst my increasingly scatterbrained thoughts. I simply could not move them anymore, and they gently periodically flopped uselessly against my body as my legs acted as a morbid last resort, pumping and thumping so rhythmically I could no longer distinguish one kick from the other, just one long arduous wave of pain and fatigue.  Those speckled spheres now dominated my entire field of vision, and I lost the ability to make out the muted blues of the unidentified body of water now swallowing me whole, no longer could I see how far I had to the rippling bands of honey rays that signaled the surface, that whence my vision abandoned me, seemed hopelessly distant. 
I was blind. I could not move my arms. And suddenly the gentle rush of water I felt as my legs marginally propelled me through the lightless depths left me became barely noticeable among the overwhelming sense of numbness. I realized now too my legs had failed me, any and all immediate energy I owned entirely expended. 
I hung suspended, my lungs ablaze and my thoughts blank, void of all residual hope. A  thought of my wife flickered a flashing flavescent beam across the tenebrous skyline of my mind, and I mused quietly why I hadn't kissed her upon leaving for Alaska. 
I remembered she was bitter. She had been bitter with me for a long time. 
A thick tar of black opaque absence of sense eclipsed my entire conscious, I was deaf, blind, numb and soon to be dumb as the syrupy paste began to cement the slowing gears of my psyche to a blissful point of what seemed like no return. A blip of a thought sprang upon myself as I lastly registered one final quivering kick of my legs in the deep unfathomably crepuscular nebulous I glided down in. I observed my last breaths grazing my cheek in slick rubbery droplets of air escaping to their haven, miles away from the present hell below - I was dying. I am going to die. This, is death. The thought not even enough to provoke an expected prominently empowering emotional reaction.  Anguish fluttered itself momentarily, only to dissipate into an oblivion of brevity. Soon no regret, no rue was to be felt, only the continuum of belated ignorant bliss, a passive vehicle that soon would take me to my own hindmost condemnation. I noted a sickening cliché, to feel this odd sense of peace as the last of who I was dribbled into the unforgiving brashy aqueous indifference blanketing my existence. Any coherently narrative string of thoughts ceased, and so will I.
Ankle.
My ankle.
Someone was grabbing my ankle.