I remember well that night on July 17, 1996, when TWA Flight 800 exploded and crashed off the coast of Long Island, killing all aboard. I was settling down with some friends at my brother’s Manhattan apartment to watch a game between the Red Sox and their arch-rival Yankees when the game broadcast was interrupted by news that an airliner had crashed soon after takeoff from JFK International. Given the proximity of the disaster, the New York-based channel went to live coverage, pre-empting the remainder of the game.
A week later, I found myself visiting my girlfriend (now wife) out on Long Island. At the time, she lived near the beach from which you could see the U.S. Navy recovery vessels in the distance, working to raise the wreckage of the Boeing 747. Out of curiosity, we went there, and as we walked along the beach, we could see small chunks of some honeycombed insulation material that had washed up along the tide line. I then noticed a piece of green plastic sticking up out of the sand. I picked up what turned out to be a charred toothbrush, its bristles melted together, reeking of jet fuel. With a shudder, I realized it must have belonged to one of the people on board the doomed flight.