#49 - 1966 Palomares B-52 Crash

Until Messinger fell from the sky, the day had not been good to Francisco. The cold and damp January wind had bullied his boat, the Augustin y Rosa, upon the surface of the water, and more than anything, he wanted to return to shore and follow the sand and gravel path that led to his picayune home overlooking the sea, where he wished to hide behind its walls and escape the chill that had settled in his body over the course of the morning. Worst of all, he was pulling in empty nets. It was as if the fish had all decided to leave the Mediterranean.

Though he doubted the fishing would improve, he was determined to stay on the water longer, until he had something to show for his efforts. At times like this, with a forceful wind blowing, Francisco would huddle low in the boat, his arms crossed, and his slicker pulled tight around his shoulders. He could stare at the sea for hours, the rhythmic slap of water against the bow, lulling him into a meditative state. Sometimes his thoughts would turn to home, his wife, his children, but more often his thoughts ceased entirely, his mind becoming as open and empty as the horizon.

It was out of this emptiness that the distant hum of jet engines emerged. The sound grew above him, but he didn’t take note of it until it was directly overhead, loud and droning. Everyone in his village was used to the sound of the American planes that cut endlessly back and forth across the sky en route to and from Morón Air Base. Initially the noise had been an annoyance. Now, no one ever mentioned it. Francisco didn’t bother to look up. Whatever was up there wasn’t worth the effort.

From the sky came a sudden sound that started sharp and small, like the cracking of a whip. A second later, it exploded across the surface of the sea, like millions of oars striking the water in unison. The boat rocked violently and Francisco grasped the sides in a startled panic. He steadied himself and fearfully looked up. Above him, something like Moses’ flaming pillar had appeared; fire and smoke suspended in the air. The black cloud flashed briefly and then dissipated into a shower of debris. In the smoke, Francisco spotted the form of a plane. It hovered, like a bird caught in a headwind, and then began to come apart, wings and fuselage torn asunder. The different pieces fell toward the earth. It occurred to Francisco that one of the burning chunks of jet might even fall on him, and he thought of moving his boat. But instead he remained transfixed on the storm of flaming airplane pieces raining down upon the earth and sea around him.

As he watched, a parachute opened, and he was startled to think that a human was up there in the sky amidst all the smoke and fire. Soon, another parachute opened, and finally a third. The initial explosion had resounded across the water briefly, but now everything was quiet. The air above him was filled with silent activity; falling people and jagged objects. He saw it all with detached curiosity, as if the sky were a giant silver screen at the cinema. The spectacle unfolding high above him seemed in no way related to his world; the village of Palomares, his humble boat, the sea.

The men will fall into the sea. This thought suddenly shook him. The men will fall into the sea. They will drown.

There was no internal deliberation. He did not make a decision to help, but rather, very suddenly, knew he would help. He watched for a moment longer, his senses heightened, carefully noting to himself the locations on the horizon where the men and objects met the water. Two of the men glided toward the shore, but the third was carried by a gust of wind in the opposite direction. Francisco followed the trajectory of the third parachute until it dipped below the horizon, splashing into the water out of view. With that, Francisco turned the Augustin y Rosa out to sea.

He spotted the parachute first, floating like a massive jellyfish on the water. Just beyond it, the bobbing head of a man. As Francisco approached, the man began weakly waving his arms. Francisco waved back, killed the boats small outboard motor, and put an oar in the water to guide the boat closer.

“Estás bien?” Francisco called out to the man.

From the water, the man said, “Thank you, thank you. Thank God.”

The man was cold. He had been in the water for nearly an hour. His skin was pale and his voice trembled as he spoke. Francisco paddled his boat close, and then reached over the side and gripped the collar of the man’s flight suit and tugged. The man tried to help, reaching out and attempting to clutch the edge of the boat, but his hands had been rendered useless by the frigid water.

“No, no. Relájese señor.” Francisco said.

He wedged a foot beneath a plank in the interior wall of the boat and using his full body-weight, pulled hard. He fell backward, dragging the man up out of the water. They both collapsed in a pile at the bottom of the boat.

“Usted va a estar bien.” Francisco said. He patted the man on the shoulder.

The man cried out with a wail that could have signaled both agony and relief. Francisco placed a hand on him, letting it rest there, and then began to rub the man’s shoulders, pressing hard against the wet clothing, the same way he rubbed the arms and legs of his children to warm them when they shivered with cold.

“Thank you. Thank you.” The man repeated.

Francisco did not understand English, but he felt the man’s gratitude. He wrapped his arms around the man and heaved his body toward the stern of the boat, where he gently propped the man’s head on a pile of empty fishing nets. He had caught only one thing that day; a man, fallen from the sky.

There was a badge on the man’s shirt. Francisco guessed that the word stitched on it might be the man’s name.

“May-seen-hair.” He said, trying to pronounce the word. He pointed at the badge and repeated the word. “May-seen-hair.”

“It’s my name.” The man managed to say. “Larry Messinger.”

Francisco nodded in acknowledgement. He moved carefully past Messinger and made his way back to the onboard motor. He yanked on the chord and very soon they were on their way back to the village. Along the way, neither man spoke. Messinger remained curled up on the fishing nets, using Francisco’s slicker and a shield from the wind.

As Francisco steered the boat, his thoughts returned to his home and family. They would have heard the explosion in the sky; possibly even seen it. He knew they would be proud of him when he returned with Messinger in his boat. He could imagine his wife’s face.

It was a good day to be a fisherman. 

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To learn more about the real Francisco Simo Orts, Larry Messinger and the 1966 Palomares B-52 crash, read the original Wikipedia article HERE