Two plane crashes into DC's icy Potomac River remind me how lucky I am… to grow old

Sometimes I need the unimaginable, the horrific, to jolt my perspective on [b]old age.

I had a different post queued up for today, but I can’t leave unsaid the significance, for me, of this week’s fatal air collision over Washington DC’s Potomac River. - Debbie

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Almost exactly 43 years ago¹, in January of 1982, an Air Florida flight crashed² into the Potomac River shortly after take off. The plane hit the 14th Street Bridge, a few miles from the White House, before sinking into the icy river, taking the lives of 74 of the 79 passengers, as well as killing four motorists on the bridge.

This was just a few months before my husband and I moved with our two young children to DC (the third was born later that year). The image of the crash (the pilots had failed to de-ice properly) stayed with me for years. When we drove over that bridge, I recalled the frantic scene, from news photos, of bystanders and emergency workers attempting rescues in the frigid waters.

Even more horrific was imagining the final moments on the plane. One of the few survivors, a passenger who was a pilot himself, said he knew before take-off that the plane “was not going to make it” because it wasn’t accelerating properly down the runway.

Then, two days ago, there was another fatal plane crash into the icy Potomac, this time a result of the collision between an American Airlines regional jet and an Army Black Hawk helicopter, as the aircraft was making a Wednesday night approach to Reagan National Airport (DCA). All aboard the plane and the helicopter, 67 in total, were killed. (Investigations of the tragedy have just begun but it’s worth noting how complex and restricted the airspace is over DCA.³) How many times, during the three decades we lived in DC, did I peer out the window as my flight descended, following the Potomac River in the strictly required path to land at DCA. From my vantage point, the river flowed frighteningly close beneath us; the Washington Monument, the Jefferson Memorial, the Kennedy Center, our familiar landmarks⁴, loomed too close.

My mind would spin disaster… then we’d land safely.

But what if…

The top story in the digital New York Times on Thursday morning, Jan. 30, 2025

WHAT IF one of my flights home to DC had crashed into the Potomac? What if I hadn’t made it to age 73? Why am I dissecting, delineating, and sometimes bemoaning the “bullshit” associated with [b]old age? After this week’s crash, cutting short so many lives⁵, some of my writing on this topic seems silly, boring, and self-involved. Why does it take something horrific to remind me how lucky I am to grow old with my husband, our children, and our six grandchildren? I’m ashamed to admit I need this haunting reminder for clarity.

Questions for readers

• How do you think about the statistical probability (or improbability) of being in a plane crash?

• What’s your take on the privilege of growing old?

1. 43 Years Ago, a Plane Crash on the Potomac… (New York Times, Jan. 30, 2025)

2. Crash of Air Florida Flight 90 in 1982.

3. DCA is considered among the most complex airports to fly into, with its restricted airspace shared by domestic, government, VIP, and military aircraft, and its proximity to the White House and high-security federal buildings, including the Pentagon.

4. The view from the window depended on whether the plane was approaching Reagan airport from the south or the north, flying upriver or down.

5. Among those killed were promising young competitive skaters, accompanied by a parent, who were attending a U.S. Figure Skating National Development camp in Wichita, Kansas.