When I got home I saw live photos of the jet crash; it was taking off during a bad snowstorm and went right into the 14th Street Bridge, killing motorists before it fell into the icy Potomac. It was Air Florida flight #90 en route to Tampa and Fort Lauderdale – the exact flight I took last summer.
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While the disappearance of Flight 370 is shattering enough for the families of those that are lost and incredibly eerie to the rest of us, it’s terrible to consider that the family members may never know what happened or how or why.
I even attended Space Camp in Titusville, Florida and Huntsville, Alabama once at the age of ten and again at twelve using money from my bat mitzvah. I knew how intense the training was and the kind of rigorous physical demands it made on one’s body to be able to be an astronaut. I was weak, with tiny spaghetti arms and a peanut-sized frame. Still, I dreamt of going into space.