On September 25, 1978 I was working a Federal Aviation Administration air traffic control coordinator position at Lindbergh Field Airport in San Diego. This was a position that tied together 'hot lines' from the five civilian airports in San Diego, the numerous military airports within the area, and the radar control facilities of San Diego and Los Angeles. Coordination between controllers at all these facilities was performed via these always-open telephone lines, as well as Teletype and several computer systems.
The console hot light from Imperial Beach Tower lit up. Imperial Beach was a small U.S. Navy helicopter field about ten miles south of Lindbergh. Imperial Beach never called Lindbergh. The voice screamed through my headset.
"Lindbergh, Imperial Beach. You have a 727 going in downtown!"
I've never known how a Navy controller ten miles away caught sight of the event so early, but it was obviously a sailor dutifully scanning the sky with binoculars. It took me a moment to digest the words, but I then spun my chair around to look out the lone window I had facing east, towards downtown San Diego. Simultaneous with its capture in the famous photograph by Hans Wendt, I saw PSA flight 182, a Boeing 727, in the seconds before it crashed into the San Diego neighborhood of North Park. The aircraft was nose down, rolling to the right, the right wing on fire. The plane quickly disappeared behind some buildings. The sight of smoke followed - and the sound of sirens, endless sirens. The 'hot lines' were quiet. Very quiet.
We all learned over the next several days that PSA 182 had collided with a Cessna 172 flying out of one of the general aviation fields surrounding San Diego. All on board both aircraft were killed, as well as seven people on the ground in North Park.
The next morning I saw Wendt's photograph on the front page of the San Diego Union Tribune. His photograph captured forever what my eyes witnessed of the fate of PSA 182 for just a few fleeting seconds. The collision had destroyed the leading and trailing edge flaps on the right wing. The aileron on the right wing was damaged. The trailing edge right wing hydraulic lines had been cut and the highly combustible hydraulic fluid was burning. The technical cause of the destruction of PSA 182 was completely captured on a single frame of film. PSA 182 crashed into North Park, an older picturesque neighborhood that retained much of the ethnic heritage of the Portuguese and Italian influence that had been so important to the San Diego of earlier generations. This first day after the accident the human toll was just beginning to be quantified. It was horrific.
My career before the Federal Aviation Administration had been as a U.S. Navy aviator. The night after PSA 182 crashed I reported to Miramar Naval Air Station to fly a night training flight in an F-4N Phantom. I still flew in the Reserves.
Any Naval Air Reserve squadron is composed of former active duty aviators who pursue other civilian careers. It's easier to leave active duty military service than it is to stop flying military aircraft. The flying is just too much fun. Reserve squadrons might include salesmen, government employees, and the self-employed. It always includes airline pilots. My Reserve Squadron was full of airline pilots, many who flew for PSA, which was a San Diego based airline. At the end of my pre-flight briefing another pilot took me aside. He flew for PSA. He spoke quietly.
"Rich Conway was on 182. He was deadheading back."
"Deadheading" is a term for an airline pilot or crewmember flying back from a workday that ends in a city that is not home. They fly back home in the passenger cabin on the next scheduled flight after their shift that has an open seat. If you've flown commercial airlines you've seen airline pilots and flight attendants in uniform board and sit with the passengers. They are deadheading. I have hated the irony of that term since that night.
Rich Conway and I attended Navy flight school together. He was born and raised in Virginia, exceptionally tall, with thick curly hair. Rich and I shared a common sense of humor and somewhat liberal political beliefs, although we came from entirely different geographic and family backgrounds. Rich could engage in conversation about almost any topic because he observed and contemplated the full richness of life, his comments and observations always framed within an endlessly entertaining wit. He was one of the smartest individuals I've ever met and was totally devoid of the often annoying ego that dominates the personality of many fighter pilots. After flight school we eventually wound up in different fleet squadrons flying F-4 Phantoms, Rich flying off the aircraft carrier America and me off the Kitty Hawk. Rich left the Navy and went to work for PSA earlier in 1978. PSA chose their employees well. On PSA 182 I believe he was deadheading home from Sacramento.
I flew my training mission that evening, not uttering an unnecessary word. I drove home after the flight and had a drink, then another. I didn't sleep that night. Rich Conway's name was listed on the PSA 182 formal passenger manifest released the next morning.
Rich has been dead now almost as long as he lived, but forgetting him would be all but impossible to anyone who was ever blessed to meet him. I suspect the same holds true for the memories of all the victims of that terrible day. May they all rest in peace, and be remembered with fondness by their friends and families.
PS/ Please see a related post for a picture of Rich Conway.
The console hot light from Imperial Beach Tower lit up. Imperial Beach was a small U.S. Navy helicopter field about ten miles south of Lindbergh. Imperial Beach never called Lindbergh. The voice screamed through my headset.
"Lindbergh, Imperial Beach. You have a 727 going in downtown!"
I've never known how a Navy controller ten miles away caught sight of the event so early, but it was obviously a sailor dutifully scanning the sky with binoculars. It took me a moment to digest the words, but I then spun my chair around to look out the lone window I had facing east, towards downtown San Diego. Simultaneous with its capture in the famous photograph by Hans Wendt, I saw PSA flight 182, a Boeing 727, in the seconds before it crashed into the San Diego neighborhood of North Park. The aircraft was nose down, rolling to the right, the right wing on fire. The plane quickly disappeared behind some buildings. The sight of smoke followed - and the sound of sirens, endless sirens. The 'hot lines' were quiet. Very quiet.
We all learned over the next several days that PSA 182 had collided with a Cessna 172 flying out of one of the general aviation fields surrounding San Diego. All on board both aircraft were killed, as well as seven people on the ground in North Park.
The next morning I saw Wendt's photograph on the front page of the San Diego Union Tribune. His photograph captured forever what my eyes witnessed of the fate of PSA 182 for just a few fleeting seconds. The collision had destroyed the leading and trailing edge flaps on the right wing. The aileron on the right wing was damaged. The trailing edge right wing hydraulic lines had been cut and the highly combustible hydraulic fluid was burning. The technical cause of the destruction of PSA 182 was completely captured on a single frame of film. PSA 182 crashed into North Park, an older picturesque neighborhood that retained much of the ethnic heritage of the Portuguese and Italian influence that had been so important to the San Diego of earlier generations. This first day after the accident the human toll was just beginning to be quantified. It was horrific.
My career before the Federal Aviation Administration had been as a U.S. Navy aviator. The night after PSA 182 crashed I reported to Miramar Naval Air Station to fly a night training flight in an F-4N Phantom. I still flew in the Reserves.
Any Naval Air Reserve squadron is composed of former active duty aviators who pursue other civilian careers. It's easier to leave active duty military service than it is to stop flying military aircraft. The flying is just too much fun. Reserve squadrons might include salesmen, government employees, and the self-employed. It always includes airline pilots. My Reserve Squadron was full of airline pilots, many who flew for PSA, which was a San Diego based airline. At the end of my pre-flight briefing another pilot took me aside. He flew for PSA. He spoke quietly.
"Rich Conway was on 182. He was deadheading back."
"Deadheading" is a term for an airline pilot or crewmember flying back from a workday that ends in a city that is not home. They fly back home in the passenger cabin on the next scheduled flight after their shift that has an open seat. If you've flown commercial airlines you've seen airline pilots and flight attendants in uniform board and sit with the passengers. They are deadheading. I have hated the irony of that term since that night.
Rich Conway and I attended Navy flight school together. He was born and raised in Virginia, exceptionally tall, with thick curly hair. Rich and I shared a common sense of humor and somewhat liberal political beliefs, although we came from entirely different geographic and family backgrounds. Rich could engage in conversation about almost any topic because he observed and contemplated the full richness of life, his comments and observations always framed within an endlessly entertaining wit. He was one of the smartest individuals I've ever met and was totally devoid of the often annoying ego that dominates the personality of many fighter pilots. After flight school we eventually wound up in different fleet squadrons flying F-4 Phantoms, Rich flying off the aircraft carrier America and me off the Kitty Hawk. Rich left the Navy and went to work for PSA earlier in 1978. PSA chose their employees well. On PSA 182 I believe he was deadheading home from Sacramento.
I flew my training mission that evening, not uttering an unnecessary word. I drove home after the flight and had a drink, then another. I didn't sleep that night. Rich Conway's name was listed on the PSA 182 formal passenger manifest released the next morning.
Rich has been dead now almost as long as he lived, but forgetting him would be all but impossible to anyone who was ever blessed to meet him. I suspect the same holds true for the memories of all the victims of that terrible day. May they all rest in peace, and be remembered with fondness by their friends and families.
PS/ Please see a related post for a picture of Rich Conway.
I attended grade school and High School in Poway from 1969 to 1978. In the summer of 1978 I worked in downtown San Diego, in an office, and watched airliners on final approach. On Septermber 25, 1978, I was attending my first day of classes at UCSD as an undergraduate. It was not the first plane crash to make news, as I remember the Miramar accident that sent one or two (can't remember now) fighter planes through a hangar. Still, it was sad. Thanks for allowing me to share this.
I have been doing a lot of research on the fatal flight of PSA 182 over the past few years.I am a native to San Diego and feel somewhat responsible to keep it's history alive- the good and the bad- for this is how we learn and teach the generations to come. There are many horrific details and I think so many get lost in the aftermath that we forget the vibrant lives that these dear victims lived. I wish I could read more testimonials of the people lost by those who knew them and experienced life along side them. This is the first detailed account of a victim I have read and I was tremendously blessed by it. I hope as we approach the 30th anniversary of this tragic event that others will tell of their fondness for the lives lost. It brings so much healing.
Sincerely,
Cindy