A Day Someone Died in My Place

On a fall afternoon in 1976, residents of a downtown Charlotte, N.C., neighborhood and students at a nearby school watched a 10-story hot-air balloon float above. The occupants waved at them and used a bullhorn to promote rides at a charity fair.

Suddenly, the balloon spiraled into a steep descent, crashing into 100,000-volt electricity lines. “A firebomb,” onlookers described the explosion. Three charred bodies fell to the ground.

One of those bodies was supposed to be me.

That reality added an undertone of blessing, guilt, and some foreboding to my life. Close calls and “what if” experiences happen to many people. Mine came with the haunting death of a man I did not even know.

Just five months into my first journalism job, I was assigned to write a story about riding in that balloon, which had appeared in the 1969 Western, “The Great Bank Robbery.” I wanted to know how it felt to float above the ground. Also, I was curious how a balloonist managed air currents, the ropes, and propane heater to make the magic work.

But there was no balloon at the fairgrounds that morning. Only closed-down campers, vans and trucks dotted the field. One worker, using as few gruff words as possible, told me the owner had moved the balloon the night before because it was too windy there.

Using a payphone standing at the edge of the field, I updated my editor. His response: Find that balloon. When I called the hotel where the owner was staying, the receptionist said he and his son had left to get the balloon ready.

Chances of catching them before liftoff appeared slim. What if I ended up without a story? Editors insisted on an upbeat feature with a nice photo each day.

Following the editor’s order, I headed to my car but was startled when a sandy-haired man carrying a knapsack suddenly appeared a few feet away. For some reason, I asked him if he had any suggestions about a fair-related story. Maybe his “aw-shucks, Andy of Mayberry” vibe made him approachable. He told me about an older woman seen as the mother of the carnival, always providing workers with a hot breakfast.

Never had I thought of carnival workers as a family nor that an older woman would travel with them. So I decided to spend the next hour or so in her trailer, interviewing her and those who stopped by.

I’ll catch up with the balloon the next day, I figured.

A few hours later, I pulled into the newspaper’s parking deck. A reporter heading out rolled down her window and yelled, “The hot-air balloon crashed. Three dead.”

Following her to the scene, I was anxious and intrigued. The bodies had been removed by the time we got there. Twisted metal and strips of colorful vinyl littered the ground; the air smelled burnt.

While interviewing traumatized witnesses, I fought against imagining my own fiery death. I worried about the pain my family would have felt and the burden of guilt on my editors.

Anxiety had filled the newsroom when the first bulletin reported three deaths. Updates soon clarified that they were all men. Still, when I made it back into the office, I was surrounded by at least three levels of editors quizzing me. “How close did you come?” the assignment editor asked. “Good, write 12 inches.”

Stripped across the top of the front-page, the story introduced me to readers as “the girl who missed the balloon ride.”

So because of a communication snafu, I escaped a tragedy while someone else paid a terrible price for a last-minute decision. Was I somehow special? Or just lucky? Should I expect a karmic reckoning?

News reports revealed more facts: Sidney Gibson, 53, and son Patrick, 28, from Levittown, Pa., were “barnstormers” who loved ballooning even if it didn’t generate much profit. They had recently patched a foot-long tear in the balloon, but insisted it would hold.

James E. Vogan of Towson, Md., a helicopter pilot, went along for the ride since there was room. At 29, he worked for a company giving $6 rides during the fair. The three lifted off from a college football field. Two aerial photographers estimated the balloon reached 2,500 feet.

So because of a communication snafu, I escaped a tragedy while someone else paid a terrible price for a last-minute decision. Was I somehow special? Or just lucky? Should I expect a karmic reckoning?

The possibility of a flying-related death nagged at anxious moments: during turbulent plane rides, when I was strapped into a military copter viewing Hurricane Katrina damage, and while on the top floor of a Pittsburgh high rise when a 9/11 plane appeared headed that way.

But now, as my days approach sunset, I have risen above such worries. Instead, I feel blessed that an angel of a man pointed me in another direction that day. The story on the carnival mom — with a nice picture — was published the next day. I considered it a triumph, a sign that I could trust my own instincts.

I haven’t taken a hot-air balloon ride — yet. But the possibility no longer hexes me. I accept that the universe has its own flow, for good or ill.

It helps to approach life with a balloonist’s skill: being aware of the currents around you, finding the courage to change direction when needed, and approaching with care when and how to get fired up.

I am not special. My obligation is the same as everyone else’s — to live a worthy life. So far, it’s been a great ride.