On a Tuesday afternoon that started like any other, Rep. Tom Tiffany (R-Wis.) found himself strapped into a small plane, watching the engine quit and the sparkling surface of a Wisconsin lake rush upward. The pilot pulled off a textbook emergency landing, and the congressman emerged damp, shaken, and—by his own account—grateful to God, the pilot, and the Wisconsin DNR. In tearful interviews, Tiffany described the moment he thought he might die, the calm voice of the pilot, and the cold water seeping through the cabin. It was a human story, a survival story, a story that seemed to need nothing else. But then the cabin door opened, and a critical doubt waded in: Why was a sitting congressman in a small plane over a lake at all? Was this a routine district visit, a campaign strategy session, or a taxpayer-subsidized flying fish expedition? And more importantly, where was the black box? Because surely a man who nearly meets his maker at 2,000 feet has recorded quite a few thoughts about the federal budget, and data brokers in Arlington are already licking their lips. If flight-tracking apps can show a congressman circling the lake, imagine what a seat-back sensor could reveal about his heart rate during a stall. If that doubt has legs, the consequences float pretty fast. Within weeks, the Capitol could be flooded with "landing-on-water" legislation: mandatory inflatable congressional flotation devices, "Tiffany Life Preserver" earmarks, and a new bipartisan Caucus of the Damp. Lobbyists would pivot from oil to oars. Fundraising emails would feature the congressman standing ankle-deep in a pond, asking donors to help him "drain the swamp before it drains him." The CBO would score the cost of a federal aquatic evacuation plan, and opponents would demand to know whether his tearful testimony was recycled from a Hallmark movie. All of this—the hero's welcome, the aquatic caucus, the sudden interest in lakefront properties—stems from a single terrifying minute. It would be easy to mock, except that the man did survive, and survival in Washington has always been its own qualification. But as the water drains from the buoyant narrative, one question remains: If a congressman lands in a lake and nobody is there to see it, does he still get a committee hearing?