No Guarantees

Twenty years ago today, William Mayberry of the Dallas area was driving home from his work as an auto mechanic. The sky was cloudy, and storms were forecast. Texas has legendary summer storms that can come out of nowhere, wreak havoc for a few moments, and then be gone. But the only evidence so far were white puffy clouds. Hidden inside those benign-looking clouds, a ferocious storm was brewing, a localized weather catastrophe waiting to happen. It's called a microburst. A microburst creates tornado-like winds blowing straight down to the ground, and is not easy to predict or to even see the symptoms. This one happened to be located right in the landing path of Runway 17L at one of the busiest airports in the world, Dallas/Fort Worth International.

Delta Flight 191, a Lockheed L-1011 with 163 passengers on board was cleared for landing, and was on final approach. The pilots, seasoned professionals, saw nothing out of the ordinary. All the planes that landed ahead of them mentioned no problems. As a microburst forms and produces a downdraft of up to 160 mph, an updraft is obviously created on the perimeter. (An explanatory graphic can be viewed here.) As flight 191 entered the microburst, and updraft increased the aircraft's speed past the acceptable level for landing. To compensate, the 1st Officer pulled back the throttle. The Captain immediately recognized the first effects of wind shear and cautioned the 1st Officer that the updraft was going to go away. It did, almost as soon as he said it. The pilot started to push the throttle back up, the crew yelling "Way up! Way up!" The throttle was wide open as the plane entered the core of the microburst, but the force of the downward pointing wind kept the plane from recovering. There was not enough airspeed to push through it.

The airplane hit the ground in an empty field a half-mile short of the runway. It bounced in the air, crossing over highway 114, a six-lane freeway on the north side of the airport, and finally crashed in a field just short of the runway. It slammed into two 4-million gallon water tanks, filling the field with knee-deep water and jet fuel. 137 people were killed, one of the most deadly in US aviation history. One of the victims was William Mayberry, the auto mechanic.

He was driving in his Honda on highway 114, and never saw flight 191 dropping from the sky. The plane crushed his car, an engine cowling slicing through his body as it skimmed the surface of the highway. He was 28 and left behind a 26 year old wife and two young kids.

I'm normally a (what I believe to be) healthily cynical person, and the lessons I take from funerals about living each day to the fullest, as if it were my last, seem to be quickly forgotten, and I'm cynical because I know how easily I forget once the emotion of the moment goes away, and my perfect life resumes. William Mayberry is a constant reminder to me. I think of him every time I drive by the two 4 million gallon water tanks that still stand on highway 114, a short ten-minute drive from my house, a landmark that I pass weekly.

William Mayberry never saw it coming, he didn't see his life flash before his eyes. One moment he was here, the next he was facing his maker. His tragic ending is a tangible example that I'm not guaranteed another day to do the things that God requires, and its a reminder we need much more frequently than the rare funerals we attend of people who went too soon.