Seventeen years. A lifetime, yet the memories are clear, etched into my memory like the graffiti on a monument. Cameron Hall, Ryan Betton, and Jerry Smith. It’s hard to imagine it has been so many years since that day, yet some wounds never close. They might scar over, allow us to live, to exist, but every anniversary acts as a reminder of just how deep those wounds really were.
When I first heard news of the crash, I was punched in the gut in a way I still feel today. 620 had gone down into the icy Atlantic waters, claiming three lives. I remember thinking at the time that I could handle it. We all accept the risks of this work. Planes are replaceable, and I’ve experienced my losses through the years to learn that life continues. But this was different. This was not just about a plane; this was personal.
Cameron was not merely a name on a manifest. He was a person, a fellow mariner, someone with whom I had laughed and had a drink. Someone who had pulled strings for me more times than I could remember. He was a fine son of a gun, the type of fellow who could walk into a room and light it up. I can still see him, grinning despite a hangover in Key West, sunglasses over the red-rimmed eyes that bore witness to a well-spent night. That is how I want to recall him—alive and kicking, and not as a name on a mournful roll.”.
For days and weeks following the crash, I simply couldn’t get rid of the horrific sense of guilt. I couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps I’d done something wrong, if perhaps I’d done something different and it wouldn’t have happened. Even after I had read the report on the crash, even after I knew that the crash was not my fault, the thoughts persisted. That’s the horrible thing about guilt—it doesn’t always listen to reason. It seeps in, and you can’t help but drag it along as part of your baggage. It sucks.
I went on leave shortly after what had occurred, trying to establish some separation between myself and the crushing loss. I stood back from Connecticut, feeling a jumble of emotions—partly grateful that I wasn’t there to experience the raw sadness of it all—but deeply bereaved that I wasn’t with my sailors to honor Cameron and the others. The isolation at the time was heartbreaking. When work resumed after leave, the burden of it all was too heavy and, in desperation, I tried to kill myself.
I don’t mention it much, but that terrible moment occurred in my story, a harsh reminder of how far down I fell into the sorrow and the guilt. It was the worst day of my existence, and it was some time before I had the strength to continue. The road to recovery has been long and there are still days when I feel as though I am beginning again.
I haunted for years by visions of the crash, of being on the plane with them when it crashed. PTSD, they tell me. One of the professional terms for what, to me, has been a constant re-experiencing of the most terrible day of my life. No matter how many years pass, no matter how many times I’ve convinced myself it was not my fault, the recollection remains with me in living color. It is as if my head refuses to release, holding the pain fresh, the trauma alive.
And yet, I am still here, 17 years on. I’ve learned to carry the burden of these memories with me, though they still make me cry when I don’t expect them to. Healing is a strange thing. It isn’t forgetting—how could I possibly forget? It’s learning how to live through the loss, how to honor those we lost by living, by finding moments of peace in the midst of the storm.
I take a moment each year on this date to remember Cameron and his men. I remember the jokes we shared, the vows we exchanged that we would never live long enough to keep. I remember the feeling of desperation, the anger, the sorrow. But I also remember the bravery to keep going, for the crews to come out again from behind the cockpit, for all of us to believe in what we do even when we understand so well how fast everything can go wrong. Seventeen years on, the hurt still lingers, but differently now.
It’s quieter now, a whisper rather than a scream. The anniversaries are always hard, but they’ve also become a time for reflection, a chance to honor their memory by living a life that would make them proud. I’ll always carry that day with me, but I’ve also learned that it’s okay to keep living, to find joy and purpose even after such a loss.
Three flight helmets were recovered in the water; the men were never found.
Here’s to you, Cameron. Fair winds and following seas, my friend. You are missed, but never forgotten.
