It was May of 1937. At the time I was working for the local news station, The New Jersey Latest, and my assignment for that day was to film a few segments for an upcoming documentary about the Hindenburg blimp. So my coworker Charlie and I packed up the large film equipment and started toward Lakehurst Maxfield Field, where the blimp would be passing over. We got there an hour early so we could have our cameras ready and working once the blimp rose above us. This was around one in the afternoon. We waited and waited, then got word that the blimp would be several hours late due to weather conditions. It would eventually arrive around seven in the evening. A small crowd had gathered at the sight as we waited for the blimp to finally make its long-awaited appearance.

“Charlie, start the camera up; I see it in the distance!” I said it cheerfully because, after it passed over, I got to head home; I had been in the field for way too long. As the floating giant made its way toward us, I heard gasps of amazement from the people that gathered around us. I heard other reporters and journalists speaking into their devices. Some people start clapping and cheering for the blimp, not knowing the fate it will soon endure.

Amongst all of the chatter, I heard someone ask, “Does anyone else see the blue light coming from the end of the ship?” I thought this was a strange sight, as no such thing should have caused a light of that color on the airship. The next thing I heard was a loud crack and the sound of an explosion. The back end of the ship was engulfed in bright orange flames. It all happened too fast; the people around us started to scream as the flames made their way through the ship until it was falling to its demise.

Once the ship touched the ground, there was only the skeleton left. “Charlie, let’s pack up our stuff and go, alright?”

He nodded in agreement. The ride home was a quiet one; we both didn’t know what to say.