One Mistake Cost 16 Skydivers their Lives | Disaster in Ohio

Part 1: The Dream Flight

On a calm Sunday, August 27, 1967, around thirty thrill-seekers gathered at Ortner Airport near Wakeman, Ohio. Many had traveled across the state, drawn not by competition or a national skydiving event—but by a gesture of gratitude.

Bob Karns, a private aircraft owner, had promised a free skydiving ride aboard his World War II-era B-25 Mitchell bomber. Having just concluded a successful air show, Karns extended the offer to the local skydiving community as a goodwill gesture.

Due to the aircraft’s size and center-of-gravity limitations, not everyone could board. Eventually, eighteen of the most experienced divers were selected. Most were members of the United States Parachute Association (USPA) and had logged dozens—some hundreds—of jumps. Among them was Patricia Lowensbury, the only woman in the group.

The plan was ambitious: sixteen skydivers would leap from 20,000 feet, while two—Larry Hartman and Maj. Allan Homestead (an Air Force officer)—would perform a 30,000-foot high-altitude jump requiring oxygen masks.

In the sky above, another plane was ready: a Cessna 180 Skywagon, piloted by Ted Murphy, who hoped to capture the daring descent on camera.

Part 2: A Deadly Miscalculation

Shortly after 3 p.m., the B-25 roared into the sky, climbing in wide circles to its target altitude. But there was a problem. Heavy cloud cover obscured the ground completely, and visibility was virtually zero.

Karns, relying on radar guidance, was in radio contact with the Cleveland Air Route Traffic Control Center. However, a critical detail changed the course of events: during the climb, a controller shift change occurred at the radar station.

The new controller, Engel Smit, made a fateful error. On the radar screen, he mistook the Cessna—the photo plane—as the B-25. Believing Karns was over Ortner Airport, Smit relayed positional data accordingly. In reality, the B-25 had drifted out over Lake Erie, more than 11 miles away from the drop zone.

Unaware of the radar blunder, Karns prepared for the jump. The bomb bay doors opened. Light flooded the dark fuselage. The engines slowed. And then, eighteen skydivers stepped into what they thought was Ohio farmland—but was in fact open water.

Part 3: Falling Through Fog

From the moment the jumpers exited the plane, they were surrounded by clouds. The visibility was nil. Some managed to link hands briefly, but mostly they were scattered, each thinking they'd fall into a familiar drop zone.

Only when they broke through the low cloud base at around 4,000 feet did the horrifying truth become clear: they were above water—a vast, cold expanse of Lake Erie.

Several attempted emergency corrections mid-air. Robert Coy, one of two survivors, said he pulled his parachute early in an attempt to drift back to shore. Some tried to shed weight—boots, helmets, gear—as they plummeted.

Many, however, had no flotation devices. Even one who did, found it failed to activate. The water was cold. The wind strong. The chutes had scattered them far apart. And many were simply not prepared for a water landing.

Part 4: Rescue and Recovery

Coast Guard Lieutenant Paul Potter, relaxing at the beach in Lorain, noticed the parachutes descending into the lake and sounded the alarm. Civilians joined the Coast Guard within minutes, launching boats from Huron to Vermilion in a desperate search.

Only two jumpers survived—Coy and Bernard Johnson—pulled from the icy lake by two brothers-in-law on a pleasure boat. A third diver, Dorsie Kitchen, was found but could not be resuscitated.

The final body wasn’t recovered until September 4. In total, sixteen skydivers perished, making it the deadliest incident in U.S. recreational skydiving history at the time.

Part 5: Accountability and Aftermath

Initial speculation suggested wind had blown the jumpers off course. But both survivors and pilots quickly stated: the aircraft was not where it was supposed to be.

Investigators from the National Transportation Safety Board (NTSB) launched a full inquiry. Using radar data and pilot testimony, they confirmed the grim mistake: the B-25 was 11–13 miles off-course, directly above Lake Erie when the jump was ordered.

The final NTSB report spread blame across multiple parties:

Pilot Bob Karns was criticized for authorizing a jump without confirming ground visibility and for not disclosing that his radio equipment couldn’t handle communication and navigation simultaneously.

Controller Engel Smit was faulted for misidentifying the aircraft.

The skydivers were noted to have violated FAA rules by jumping blind through clouds, but the board ultimately stated their fault was minor compared to Karns and Smit.

At the time, Karns wasn’t certified to fly the B-25 legally with passengers, and the plane itself wasn’t authorized for skydiving operations.

Senator Mike Monroney introduced a bill to tighten skydiving regulations under the Federal Aviation Administration. But despite hearings and emotional testimonies, the legislation never became law. FAA officials claimed existing rules—if followed—were sufficient.

Part 6: The Legal Battle — Freeman v. United States

The survivors and families of the victims sued the federal government. Their claim: the tragedy occurred because of government error.

In a pivotal ruling, the courts found the United States liable, stating that the controller’s radar mistake directly led to the deaths. The case, known as Freeman v. United States (1975), became a landmark in aviation law.

Crucially, the court ruled that the skydivers were not contributorily negligent, because the FAA’s rules against jumping through clouds were intended to protect people on the ground—not the parachutists themselves.

This legal nuance meant the victims’ estates could recover damages.

Legacy

This tragedy changed how skydiving events were viewed, conducted, and regulated. It exposed weaknesses in pilot certification, radar management, and the informal nature of recreational jumps in the 1960s.

But perhaps most haunting is the human factor—a group of skilled jumpers who trusted the skies, only to be betrayed by clouds, communication failure, and a single wrong blip on a radar screen.

Eighteen jumped. Only two returned. And in their wake, a chapter of aviation history was rewritten—with sorrow, accountability, and lasting legal impact.