Seventeen years. It feels like a lifetime, yet the memories remain sharp, etched into my mind like the names on a monument. Cameron Hall, Ryan Betton, and Jerry Smith. It’s hard to believe that so much time has passed since that day, but some wounds never fully heal. They might scar over, allowing us to function, to move forward, but every anniversary reminds me of how deep those wounds really go.
When I first heard about the crash, I felt a punch to my gut that I still feel today. 620 had gone down into the cold waters of the Atlantic, and with it, three souls were lost. At the time, I told myself I could handle it. We all know the risks that come with this line of work. Planes can be replaced, and I’ve seen enough losses over the years to know that life goes on. But this was different. This time, it was personal.
Cameron was more than just a name on a manifest. He was a friend, a fellow sailor, someone I had shared drinks and laughs with. Someone who had bailed me out of trouble on many occasions. He was a cool motherfucker, one of those guys who could light up a room just by walking into it. I can still see him, grinning through a hangover in Key West, sunglasses hiding the bleary eyes that spoke of a night well-lived. That’s how I choose to remember him—full of life and energy, not as a name on a tragic list.
In the days and weeks following the crash, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was somehow responsible. I kept asking myself if there was something I missed, something I could have done differently. Even after reading the accident report, knowing that the crash wasn’t my fault, those thoughts persisted. That’s the insidious thing about guilt—it doesn’t always listen to reason. It burrows deep, and it becomes a part of you. It fucking sucks.
Shortly after the event, I went on leave, trying to put some distance between myself and the overwhelming grief. I watched the memorial from Connecticut, feeling a mix of emotions—partially relieved that I wasn’t there to face the raw pain of it all, but also deeply upset that I wasn’t with my fellow sailors to honor Cameron and the others. The isolation during that time was unbearable. When I returned from leave, the weight of it all became too much, and in a moment of despair, I tried to take my own life.
It’s something I haven’t shared much, but that dark moment is a part of my story, a stark reminder of how close I came to losing myself to the grief and guilt. It was the lowest point of my life, and it took a long time to find the strength to keep going. The road to healing has been long, and there are still days when it feels like I’m only just beginning.
For years, I was haunted by visions of the crash, of being on that plane with them as it went down. PTSD, they call it. A clinical term for what feels like a never-ending replay of the worst day of your life. No matter how much time passes, no matter how much I’ve tried to tell myself it wasn’t my fault, those memories remain vivid. It’s as if my mind refuses to let go, keeping the pain fresh, the trauma alive.
Yet, here I am, 17 years later. I’ve learned to carry the weight of those memories, even if they still bring tears to my eyes when I least expect it. Healing is a funny thing. It’s not about forgetting—how could I ever forget? It’s about learning to live with the loss, to honor those we’ve lost by continuing to live, by finding moments of peace amidst the chaos.
Every year on this day, I take a moment to remember Cameron and his crew. I think about the laughs we shared, the plans we made that we never got to see through. I remember the feeling of helplessness, the anger, the sorrow. But I also remember the strength it took to keep going, for the crews to climb back into the cockpit, for us all to trust in the work that we did despite knowing how easily it can all go wrong.
Seventeen years later, the pain is still there, but it’s different now. It’s quieter, more like a whisper 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.