January 13, 1982. Washington, D.C. was basically paralyzed. A brutal blizzard had dumped half a foot of snow on the capital, and the air was a bone-chilling mix of slush and ice. It was the kind of day where you just want to stay inside with a hot coffee. But for 79 people on Air Florida Flight 90, it was the start of a journey to Florida that would never reach its destination.
Among them was Arland D. Williams Jr. He was a 46-year-old bank examiner for the Federal Reserve. Just a regular guy, really. Divorced, two kids, and—ironically—had a lifelong fear of open water.
The plane barely made it off the runway at National Airport. It struggled for altitude, clipped the 14th Street Bridge, and slammed into the frozen Potomac River. Most of the people on board died instantly. Only six people made it out of the fuselage and into the water, clinging to the tail section of the Boeing 737.
The Mystery Hero of Flight 90
For weeks after the crash, the media was obsessed with "the man in the water." Nobody knew his name at first. Television crews on the shore captured grainy, haunting footage of a man who kept doing the unthinkable.
The U.S. Park Police helicopter, Eagle 1, was hovering over the wreckage. The pilots, Donald Usher and Gene Windsor, were dropping a life ring to the survivors. The water was about $30^\circ\text{F}$. You don't last long in that.
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When the line reached Arland D. Williams Jr., he didn't wrap it around himself. He passed it to Bert Hamilton.
The helicopter came back. Again, Williams got the rope. Again, he passed it off—this time to flight attendant Kelly Duncan. He did this three more times. He was the one in the most danger, pinned by wreckage and losing strength, yet he kept prioritizing everyone else.
By the time the chopper returned for the sixth person—him—he was gone. He’d slipped under the ice.
Why Arland D. Williams Jr. Stayed Behind
Honestly, it's hard to wrap your head around that kind of selflessness. Investigators later found that Williams was actually trapped. His seatbelt or some part of the floorboard had snagged him. He knew he couldn't get out easily.
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Instead of wasting precious minutes trying to disentangle himself while others froze to death, he made a choice. He used his remaining life force to ensure the others got out first.
- Survivors saved by his actions: Bert Hamilton, Kelly Duncan, Joe Stiley, Nikki Felch, and Priscilla Tirado.
- The outcome: Williams was the only victim of the 78 who died by drowning rather than impact.
A Legacy Beyond the Ice
It took a while to identify him. Because he was a bank examiner from Atlanta and not a local "VIP," he remained the "Unknown Hero" for some time. Eventually, the Coast Guard and the FBI used fingerprints and dental records to confirm it was Arland.
President Ronald Reagan eventually awarded his family the Coast Guard's Gold Lifesaving Medal. It’s a big deal—only a few hundred have ever been given out.
Today, if you drive across the 14th Street Bridge in D.C., you're actually on the Arland D. Williams Jr. Memorial Bridge. Most people commuting to work probably don't realize the history under their tires.
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His hometown of Mattoon, Illinois, named an elementary school after him. They have an "Arland D. Williams Jr. Day" every year on the anniversary of the crash. It's kinda beautiful how a guy who was scared of water became the ultimate symbol of bravery in it.
Lessons We Can Actually Use
We aren't all going to be in a plane crash (thankfully), but the story of Arland D. Williams Jr. hits on something deeper about "ordinary" heroism.
- Character isn't what you say, it's what you do when things go south. Williams didn't have "hero" on his resume. He was a numbers guy. But when the moment came, his instinct was to help.
- Panic is the enemy. Witnesses said he was calm. That calmness likely kept the other five survivors from losing hope in that 20-minute window before they were pulled out.
- Small choices have massive ripples. Because he gave up his spot on that rope, five families still have their loved ones today.
If you want to dive deeper into this, the NTSB reports on Flight 90 are a masterclass in why de-icing protocols changed forever. But if you're looking for the human side, check out the displays at the Federal Reserve Bank of Atlanta or The Citadel, his alma mater. They keep his memory alive, not as a tragic victim, but as the man who proved that even in the darkest, coldest moments, humans can be pretty incredible.
Go visit the memorial bridge if you're ever in D.C. Take a second to look at the water. It’s a quiet place for a very loud lesson in courage.