St. Thomas is beautiful. It really is. But for pilots in the 1970s, landing there was basically a nightmare wrapped in a tropical postcard. Harry S. Truman Airport—now Cyril E. King—had a runway that was famously short, ending abruptly at a mountain on one side and the Caribbean Sea on the other. It was tight. It was unforgiving. And on April 27, 1976, American Airlines Flight 625 showed the world just how little room for error there actually was.
Thirty-seven people died that day. It wasn't because the engines failed or because a wing fell off. The Boeing 727-95 was a workhorse. It was healthy. Instead, a series of split-second decisions in the cockpit turned a routine Caribbean hop into one of the most studied tragedies in aviation history.
When you look at the NTSB reports, it’s not just about a crash; it’s about the psychology of a "go-around" and the terrifying moment a pilot realizes they’ve run out of asphalt.
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The Approach into St. Thomas: A Recipe for Disaster
The flight started in Providence, hit JFK, and was supposed to be a breezy run to the U.S. Virgin Islands. Captain David J. Psaki was experienced. He had thousands of hours. But the 727 is a heavy bird, and Runway 9 at St. Thomas was only 4,658 feet long. To put that in perspective, most modern commercial runways are 8,000 to 10,000 feet. You had to hit your mark perfectly. If you didn't, you were in big trouble.
The weather was clear. No storms. No visibility issues. But there was a slight breeze—a tailwind. In aviation, a tailwind on a short runway is a massive red flag because it pushes the plane faster across the ground, making it harder to stop.
What happened in the cockpit?
As American Airlines Flight 625 began its final descent, things started to get "sloppy." Not reckless, just... off. The plane was coming in a bit high. It was coming in a bit fast. Instead of touching down at the beginning of the runway, the aircraft floated. It sailed past the "thousand-foot markers." It kept sailing.
By the time the wheels actually hit the pavement, the plane had used up nearly 2,300 feet of that tiny runway. Half of it was gone.
The Fatal Three Seconds
This is the part that haunts safety experts. Once the plane touched down so deep into the runway, Captain Psaki had a choice. He could jam on the brakes and pray, or he could try to take off again—a "go-around."
He chose to go around. He pushed the throttles forward. The engines roared. But here’s the thing about jet engines from that era: they don't respond instantly. It takes a few seconds for them to "spool up" to full power.
Then, he changed his mind.
He realized—or felt—that the plane wasn't going to lift off in time to clear the hills at the end of the runway. So, he pulled the throttles back and slammed on the brakes.
It was too late.
The Boeing 727 tore through the perimeter fence, crossed a highway, and slammed into a shell gas station and a rum warehouse. The impact was violent. The fire was worse. Honestly, the fact that 51 people survived is a testament to the flight attendants and the sheer luck of where the fuselage broke.
Why We Still Talk About Flight 625 Today
This wasn't just another accident. It changed the way the FAA looked at airport safety. If you fly into St. Thomas today, you’ll notice the runway is much longer. They literally moved a mountain and filled in the ocean to extend it to 7,000 feet because of what happened to Flight 625.
But the real legacy is in the training.
The NTSB was blunt. They blamed the captain’s "adversely delayed" decision to initiate a go-around and his subsequent decision to cancel it. It’s a classic case of decisional paralysis. You’ve probably felt it in a car—that "do I go or do I stop?" moment at a yellow light. At 140 miles per hour in a 150,000-pound jet, that hesitation is fatal.
Common Misconceptions
- Was it a mechanical failure? No. The NTSB found the brakes, spoilers, and engines were functioning as intended.
- Was the runway too short for a 727? Technically, no. American had been flying 727s there for years. But it left zero margin for "human" moments.
- Did the tailwind cause it? It contributed, but the primary cause was the late touchdown and the aborted go-around.
Safety Lessons You Can Take Away
Even if you aren't a pilot, the mechanics of American Airlines Flight 625 offer a lot of insight into risk management and the "sunk cost" fallacy.
- Commitment is Key: In high-stakes environments, once you commit to a "go" or "no-go" decision, wavering halfway through is usually the most dangerous path.
- Respect the Environment: The pilots knew St. Thomas was tricky. They had a "special qualification" for it. Yet, familiarity can lead to a bit of complacency. Always treat "yellow flag" conditions (like that tailwind) with the respect they deserve.
- The Stabilized Approach: Modern airlines now use a "Stabilized Approach" criteria. If the plane isn't at the right speed, height, and configuration by a certain point, the pilot must go around. No questions asked. No "trying to make it work." This rule exists specifically because of crashes like Flight 625.
If you’re interested in the technical nitty-gritty, you can actually read the original 1977 NTSB report (AAR-77-01). It’s chillingly clinical. It describes the "pumping" of the brakes and the exact RPMs of the engines. It’s a reminder that aviation safety is written in blood—every rule we have now is there because someone, somewhere, didn't have that rule 50 years ago.
Next Steps for Travelers and AvGeeks:
Check the "Airport Information" section the next time you book a flight to a mountainous or island destination. Airports like St. Thomas (STT), Tegucigalpa (TGU), or even Orange County (SNA) have specific departure or arrival procedures that are way more intense than your average airport. Understanding the "envelope" of your aircraft helps you appreciate just how much work goes into keeping those landings boring and safe.