My Father Survived a Plane Crash

On March 3, 1972, Mohawk Airlines Flight 405 crashed into a house just a few miles short of its destination at Albany County Airport. A mechanical failure in one of the propellers wasn’t catastrophic on its own, but it drew the full attention of both pilot and copilot—leaving no one watching the plane’s sudden, silent drop in altitude.

Against all expectations, most of the passengers survived, and many later described the flight’s terrifying final moments. But my father couldn’t. His last memory—before waking up in the hospital—captures a quiet act of compassion that now feels all the more poignant.

My father was seated next to his friend and business partner, who had the aisle seat. Across the aisle, a mother was struggling to soothe her daughter, who was terrified of flying. My father's final memory is of his friend, leaning across the aisle to help comfort the young girl—a small act of kindness from a man who would not survive the crash.

Headlines and the evening news gravitate towards catastrophe, but they often miss the quiet, human moments that surround it. My father could not remember anything that would have interested a local newspaper. All he had was a small recollection of his friend, reaching out to comfort a stranger. And yet, these small moments are what truly define a human life. 

How many times a day do we pass someone who could use a hand—only to convince ourselves they’ll be fine, or we’re in a hurry, or it isn’t really our place? In an age when air travel has lost its luster and feels more like a hassle than a miracle, we’re more likely to glare at the crying child than offer a kind word. But we never know how much that word might mean—to the child, to the parent, or to anyone who witnesses the moment and carries its memory, long after we're gone.

My father was rushed to a local hospital along with the other survivors. Concussion, compound fractures, internal bleeding—he certainly looked like someone who had fallen out of the sky. Once the immediate danger had passed, the long process of recovery began. He spent weeks in a hospital bed and months in and out of surgery.

I once asked him how he passed all that time. Wasn’t he bored? His room didn’t even have a television. To my surprise, he didn’t remember feeling particularly bored or restless. Doctors and nurses were constantly in and out, and he took an active role in his own recovery. Even today, more than fifty years later, he can still list the operations he underwent, repeat his doctors’ instructions, and recall the interesting facts he learned about the human body along the way. When he wasn’t turning his recovery into a hands-on science lesson, he was talking with visitors or with his roommate, another survivor of the crash. He describes that stretch of time as one of focused healing, quiet reflection, and simple appreciation for the people around him.

That attitude feels radically foreign in our modern attention economy, where our free moments are aggressively pursued by addictive apps and handheld entertainment. The idea of simply sitting and reflecting—or striking up a conversation with a stranger—can feel almost anxiety-inducing. And yet, I’ve watched how this very quality has carried my father cheerfully through life.

My father has more interests and hobbies than anyone I've ever met. Throughout my childhood, it wasn’t unusual to see him tinkering with an antique camera one day and watching a course on ancient Egypt the next. His fascination with the varied wonders of the world has always acted like a vaccine against boredom—and it gave him the resilience he needed to recover from unimaginable trauma.

At the time of the crash, my father was a young engineer with a bright future at his company, and flying was simply part of the job. I once asked him what it was like to board a plane again after the accident. Did it take time to work up the courage? Was he afraid?

His answer, true to form, was a mix of honesty and humor. On his first flight after the crash, he was still wrapped in casts and bandages.

“What happened to you?” a flight attendant asked.

“Plane crash,” my father said with a smile, before hobbling to his seat.

Sometimes, in our efforts to move past the traumas of our past, we make the mistake of repressing them. But that only stops us from ever truly accepting them. My father modeled a better approach: the art of playfully embracing the past while looking resolutely forward towards the future. 

Even after the crash had knocked out most of his front teeth, he kept smiling. “I look at every day after the crash as a bonus,” he once told me. From that perspective, it’s hard not to smile with him.

We don’t need to survive a plane crash to start seeing every day as a bonus. None of us are promised a certain amount of time in this world, and with that awareness, even ordinary moments become a gift. My father’s recovery—and the humility, curiosity, and playfulness that carried him through it—offers a glimpse of how we might choose to use that gift.