Jet Missing Since 1971 Found Submerged in Vermont Lake

In this May 2024 image provided by Garry Kozak, remains of what experts believe to be is a 10-seat Jet Commander aircraft, rest on the floor of Lake Champlain off Juniper Island, Vt. (Garry Kozak via AP)
In this May 2024 image provided by Garry Kozak, remains of what experts believe to be is a 10-seat Jet Commander aircraft, rest on the floor of Lake Champlain off Juniper Island, Vt. (Garry Kozak via AP)
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Jet Missing Since 1971 Found Submerged in Vermont Lake

In this May 2024 image provided by Garry Kozak, remains of what experts believe to be is a 10-seat Jet Commander aircraft, rest on the floor of Lake Champlain off Juniper Island, Vt. (Garry Kozak via AP)
In this May 2024 image provided by Garry Kozak, remains of what experts believe to be is a 10-seat Jet Commander aircraft, rest on the floor of Lake Champlain off Juniper Island, Vt. (Garry Kozak via AP)

Fifty-three years after a private plane carrying five men disappeared on a snowy Vermont night, experts believe they have found the wreckage of the long lost jet in Lake Champlain in the US, The Associated Press reported.
The corporate jet disappeared shortly after departing the Burlington airport for Providence, Rhode Island, on Jan. 27, 1971. Those aboard included two crew members and three employees of a Georgia development company Cousins Properties, who were working on a development project in Burlington.
Initial searches for the 10-seat Jet Commander turned up no wreckage and the lake froze over four days after the plane was lost. At least 17 other searches happened, until underwater searcher Garry Kozak and a team using a remotely operated vehicle last month found wreckage of a jet with the same custom paint scheme in the lake close to where the radio control tower had last tracked the plane before it disappeared. Sonar images were taken of the wreck found in 200 feet (60 meters) of water near Juniper Island.
“With all those pieces of evidence, we're 99% absolutely sure,” Kozak said Monday.
The discovery of the wreckage gives the families of the victims “some closure and answers a lot of the questions they had,” AP quoted him as saying.
When the ice melted in the spring of 1971, debris from the plane was found on Shelburne Point, according to Kozak. An underwater search in May of 1971 was unable to find the wreckage. At least 17 other searches happened, including in 2014, according to Kozak. At that time, authorities were spurred by curiosity after the Malaysia Airlines plane disappearance that year with the hope that new technology would find the wreck but it did not.
Barbara Nikitas, who lives in southern California and her cousin Kristina Nikita Coffey, who lives in Tennessee and is the daughter of George Nikita, spearheaded recent search efforts and contacted other victims' relatives.
What was fascinating in reconnecting with the group was “everybody had pieces of the pie and the puzzle that when we started sharing information and sharing documents what we got was a much greater both understanding and perspective of the information, how we were all impacted by this,” said Charles Williams, whose father, Robert Ransom Williams III, an employee of Cousins Properties, was on the plane.
He called Kozak a hero for his dedication to finding the plane. After the 2014 search was unsuccessful, Kozak became intrigued and searched a sonar survey of the lake taken by the Lake Champlain Maritime Museum and Middlebury College. He found four anomalies on the lake floor. Then in 2022, a colleague, Hans Hug of Sonar Search and Recovery in Exeter, New Hampshire, and his friend who has an ROV, said they wanted to look for the plane, Kozak said. The team found a plane but it turned out to be a military aircraft. Last winter Kozak searched the sonar survey again and found another anomaly, which the team discovered last month was likely the plane wreckage.
The National Transportation Safety Board is investigating to verify if it is the plane, Williams said. The NTSB doesn't do salvage operations, which would be expensive, Williams said.



In Beirut, a Photographer's Frozen Moments Slow Down Time and Allow the Contemplation of Destruction

A bomb dropped from an Israeli jet hits a building in Ghobeiri, Beirut, Lebanon, Tuesday, October 22, 2024. (AP Photo/ Bilal Hussein)
A bomb dropped from an Israeli jet hits a building in Ghobeiri, Beirut, Lebanon, Tuesday, October 22, 2024. (AP Photo/ Bilal Hussein)
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In Beirut, a Photographer's Frozen Moments Slow Down Time and Allow the Contemplation of Destruction

A bomb dropped from an Israeli jet hits a building in Ghobeiri, Beirut, Lebanon, Tuesday, October 22, 2024. (AP Photo/ Bilal Hussein)
A bomb dropped from an Israeli jet hits a building in Ghobeiri, Beirut, Lebanon, Tuesday, October 22, 2024. (AP Photo/ Bilal Hussein)

We watch video after video, consuming the world on our handheld devices in bites of two minutes, one minute, 30 seconds, 15. We turn to moving pictures — “film” — because it comes the closest to approximating the world that we see and experience. This is, after all, 2024, and video in our pocket — ours, others', everyone's — has become our birthright.
But sometimes — even in this era of live video always rolling, always recording, always capturing — sometimes the frozen moment can enter the eye like nothing else. And in the process, it can tell a larger story that echoes long after the moment was captured. That's what happened this past week in Beirut, through the camera lens of Associated Press photographer Bilal Hussein and the photographs he captured.
When Hussein set up his camera outside an evacuated Beirut apartment building Tuesday after Israel announced it would be targeted as part of military operations against Hezbollah, he had one goal in mind — only one. "All I thought of," he says, “was photographing the missile while it was coming down.”
He found a safe spot. He ensured a good angle. He wasn't stressed, he said; like many photographers who work in such environments, he had been in situations like this one before. He was ready.
When the attack came — a bomb, not a missile in the end — Hussein swung into action. And, unsurprisingly for a professional who has been doing this work for two decades, he did exactly what he set out to do.
Time slowed down
The sequence of images he made bursts with the explosive energy of its subject matter.
In one frame, the bomb hangs there, a weird and obtrusive interloper in the scene. It is not yet noticed by anyone around it, ready to bring its destruction to a building that, in moments, will no longer exist. The building's balconies, a split-second from nonexistence, are devoid of people as the bomb finds its mark.
These are the kind of moments that video, rolling at the speed of life or even in slow motion, cannot capture in the same way. A photo holds us in the scene, stops time, invites a viewer to take the most chaotic of events and break it down, looking around and noticing things in a strangely silent way that actual life could not.
In another frame, one that happened micro moments after the first, the building is in the process of exploding. Let's repeat that for effect, since even as recently as a couple generations ago photographs like this were rare: in the process of exploding.
Pieces of building are shooting out in all directions, in high velocity — in real life. But in the image they are frozen, outward bound, hanging in space awaiting the next seconds of their dissolution — just like the bomb that displaced them was doing milliseconds before. And in that, a contemplation of the destruction — and the people it was visited upon — becomes possible.
Tech gives us new prisms to see the world
The technology to grab so many images in the course of little more than one second — and do it in such clarity and high resolution — is barely a generation old.
So to see these “stills,” as journalists call them, come together to paint a picture of an event is a combination of artistry, intrepidity and technology — an exercise in freezing time, and in giving people the opportunity to contemplate for minutes, even hours, what took place in mere seconds. This holds true for positive things that the camera captures — and for visitations of violence like this one as well.
Photography is random access. We, the viewers of it, choose how to see it, process it, digest it. We go backward and forward in time, at will. We control the pace and the speed at which dizzying images hurtle at us. And in that process, something unusual for this era emerges: a bit of time to think.
That, among many other things, is the enduring power of the still image in a moving-picture world — and the power of what Bilal Hussein captured on that clear, sunny day in Beirut.