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“Chance Collinsworth could step in a pile of fresh cow dung and come out smelling like a rose.”  That’s what folks used to say at Jim Bowie High School when he was there.  He was the type of guy who things just seemed to work out for.

A case in point would be bringing home the first place trophy for the Fighting’ Knives in the 400 meter race, despite the fact that he was less than athletic.  A tall kid, Chance possessed less raw talent and more of a desire to participate.  He always had a toothy grin and a willingness to do whatever he was asked.  Really, he just enjoyed being outside.  He was running in the competition because the regular runner was out with a torn Achilles.

It wasn’t long after the starting pistol was fired that Chance fell behind three of the better runners, but refused to quit.  Despite knowing he’d never catch them, he gave it all he had and was able to come in 4th, midway in the pack.  After the race, however, there was a discussion among the judges.  The first three runners were all disqualified, the first for changing lanes, the second and third for other infractions.  Despite being fairly slow, he brought home the only first place finish for the Knives that whole season.

The same kind of dumb luck is what made him one of the leaders in sales for Doodie Calls, the company that manufactures and rents portable toilets to construction sites, outdoor festivals, sports venues and the like.  Nobody at Doodie Calls thought Chance had a gift for sales, but he was just so darn personable that they felt like they had to give him an opportunity.  Despite the long hair and sometimes awkward personality, Chance was a natural at portable toilet sales. A year later, he was one of their top producers in the entire Southeast Region that covered the southern states from Florida west to New Mexico.  He got a raise, a bonus, and an all expense paid trip to the Big Apple as a result.

Before booking the arrangements for the trip to NYC, Chance made a trip down to Frontier Ford, “Home of the Straight Shooting’ Deal”, and picked out a brand new 1972 Gran Torino Sport.  “This Medium Yellow Gold coupe is just about the best looking car I’ve ever seen,” he told the salesman.  “Chevrolet can keep their Monte Carlo.  Dodge can have their Charger.  This Gran Torino is one sweet little coupe.”

Chance barely got the paperwork all completed and the new Ford tucked into his parking spot over at the Alamo Arms Apartments before he had to finish packing and get to the train station to take the Lone Star Flyer to San Antonio for the flight to New York.  He took a companion, a girl named Connie Edwards.  Connie graduated the same year he had but had attended Our Lady of Immeasurable Concern.  The two of them met by sheer providence at the Lucky Lady Lounge and started dating shortly after.  Within six months they were talking about moving in together.

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Arriving in New York two days before Christmas in 1972, the couple had the time of their young lives in New York City. Neither of them had ever been north of the Mason-Dixon line before and everything they saw was exciting and fascinating.  They were talking about more than just moving in together by the end of the week.  Chance was hinting around that there may be a proposal in the offing.  Connie was thinking she may be the permanent co-pilot in his new Gran Torino before long.  The color, what she referred to a ‘mustard’, wasn’t what she’d have picked out, but she’d make her opinion known on the next one.

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In order to kill two birds with one stone, Chance had booked their return flights with a stopover in Florida.  The thought was he could visit a customer or two, push some potties in the Sunshine State, and then have another day or two on the beach with Connie before heading home to Fort Stockton, the new Gran Torino, and all that awaited him back in Texas.  They would also be able to spend New Year’s Eve, 1972 in Florida. To give them as much time on the beach as possible, not to mention the room Chance had booked overlooking the beach, they boarded the redeye out of New York, Eastern Flight #401.

The pilot in the cockpit of #401 had 30 years of experience.  Just a few minutes before midnight, as the new jet made its approach to the Miami airport, a small light was supposed to come on indicating the landing gear was fully extended in the correct position and locked in place.  The bulb in that light 2as not illuminated.

That was not really a big deal.  The landing gear could be deployed manually by use of a hand crank and verified visually to be sure it was where it was supposed to be.  But the pilot was irritated that the light didn’t come on like it was supposed to.  He delayed the landing, went up to an altitude of 2,000 feet and put the aircraft in a holding pattern to figure out what was wrong with the malfunctioning bulb.

The pilot sent the co-pilot back to eye-ball the landing gear. In their seats 14 rows back, Chance and his girlfriend were now wide awake.  Chance was whispering something to Connie about his intentions once they’d checked into their room at the hotel and watching her eyes light up and her cheeks flush as his words wafted into her ears.

In the cockpit, the pilot was manually raising and lowering the landing gear while talking to the pilot to confirm it was working.  At some point while manually working the landing gear and turning to talk to the co-pilot, he had unknowingly deactivated the autopilot function and nudged the nose of the plane slightly downward.

Connie, emboldened by Chance’s bold suggestions as to what would take place after check-in, reached down and squeezed Chance’s thigh under the blanket that was covering both their laps.  At that very moment, the altitude alarm sounded in the cockpit, indicating the plane was in a dive.  The alarm was unheard due to its location next to the co-pilot who was no longer sitting in his seat, but was up and looking at the landing gear.

The last transmission of the pilot was, “We’re still at 2,000 feet, right?”  Shortly thereafter, Eastern Flight 401 crashed into the ground, killing 112 people of the 163 on board.

After thorough investigation, the Lockheed Model L-1011 was found to be in perfect working order except for a single burnt out light bulb.

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