May 5. For many, it's a day of joy — Cinco de Mayo, a celebration of resilience and victory, marking the triumph of Mexican forces over the French at the Battle of Puebla in 1862.
Across the U.S., it's a time for music, food, family and pride. But if May 5 is a toast to defying the odds, May 6, just one day later, is a stark reminder of how quickly fortune can turn.
May 6, 1937. The skies over Lakehurst, New Jersey, were filled with excitement and anticipation. People gathered, eager to witness the arrival of LZ 129 Hindenburg, the largest and most luxurious airship ever constructed. Its arrival was not just another docking — it was a celebration of human progress.
This was not an ordinary aircraft. It was called “a floating palace in the sky.” At the time, it was a marvel of German engineering and art deco design, complete with elegant lounges, promenades and a grand dining room.
Journalists had dubbed it the "Queen of the Skies," and for good reason. The Hindenburg was the pride of the Zeppelin company. “A bold vision of what the future of travel could be,” Zeppelin exclaimed. It had already completed 63 successful voyages, many of them transatlantic.
People with means, e.g. wealthy passengers, paid handsomely for the opportunity to cross oceans in unprecedented comfort, cutting travel time in half. Newspapers called it the "future of aviation." Children pointed to the sky in wonder. Engineers dreamed of a world where cities might be connected by fleets of airships, drifting silently above the clouds.
But on this day, the dream would turn into a nightmare.
At 7:25 p.m., just moments from landing, as newsreel cameras rolled and families waved from the ground, a sudden flash lit up the sky. Then fire. Then screams. In just 34 seconds, the mighty Hindenburg fell to earth, engulfed in flames. Radio announcer Herbert Morrison, reporting live, let out a cry that history will never forget: "Oh, the humanity!" His voice cracked under the weight of what he saw — not just metal melting or canvas ablaze, but people leaping, running and burning. He wasn't reporting news. He was mourning it.
Survivor Werner Franz, a 14-year-old cabin boy, later recalled: "I ran like hell, jumped, and hit the ground rolling." He would survive, but many did not. Out of 97 people on board, 36 died, all passengers and crew. And with them, the era of passenger airships ended.
Still, the disaster brought forth bravery. Chief Steward Heinrich Kubis shoved a woman through a window before jumping out himself. Crewmen pulled others to safety. Captain Max Pruss, severely burned, stayed at the controls, trying to steady the ship even as it was consumed. There were many theories about what caused the disaster — a static spark, a ruptured gas cell, even sabotage.
No theory was ever conclusively proven. But the greater tragedy was not just the loss of lives; it was the shattering of hope. The Hindenburg represented a dream: a world shrunk by speed and elevated by innovation.
The great airship’s fall reminded us that every dream must be balanced by respect for risk, humility and careful planning.
So, this week in May, we remember the brightness of May 5 and the disaster of May 6. Two days in May, one of celebration and one of tragedy. Kind of like life, right? Triumph and tragedy go hand in hand with living. We can celebrate the joy of today remembering tomorrow has no guarantees. But that’s life, and it’s all OK.
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Richard Stride is the current CEO of Cascade Community Healthcare.
