On August 2, 1985, during a routine flight demonstration at the Canadian International Air Show in Toronto, tragedy struck when a de Havilland DH-100 Vampire jet aircraft known as Magic Landing crashed, resulting in the loss of two lives and numerous injuries. The Magic Landing accident occurred during a maneuver known as the "Magic Carpet." During this maneuver, the jet would fly at a low altitude, creating the illusion that it was landing vertically like a helicopter. Spectators were usually mesmerized by this unique display of aerobatics. However, during the 1985 airshow, something went tragically wrong. As the Vampire aircraft began to execute the Magic Carpet maneuver, it suddenly lost control and crashed into a nearby building.

14 Oldest Roller Coasters at Six Flags

Begun in 1961, Six Flags Over Texas became an overnight sensation, with thousands attending opening day to visit their exciting rides and rustic themes. Take a ride through the thrilling history of Six Flags roller coasters and discover how theme parks based on American history transformed into places of action-packed adventure.

14. Batman: The Ride

Year Opened: 1994
Coaster Type: Steel Inverted
Still Open?: Yes

One of several DC themed attractions at Six Flags, Batman: The Ride opened in 1994 and continues to run. The coaster’s inverted style flips the traditional train conventions, seating rides so their heads are nearest the track and their feet dangle in midair. This design mimics Batman as he glides through the air and amplifies the 360-degree loop.

Did you know?

Batman: The Ride was Six Flags’ first inverted roller coaster and has been copied multiple times across several parks.

13. Psyclone

Year Opened: 1991
Coaster Type: Wooden
Still Open?: No

Replacing Shockwave, Psyclone opened in 1991 at Six Flags Magic Mountain. Inspired by the classic Coney Island Cyclone coaster, this wooden ride expanded the original by 10 feet and featured 11 hills, high-speed turns and a dark tunnel. Afeeter a 16-year run, Six Flags announced that Psyclone would be retired to make room for new and improved rides. Apocalypse, another wooden coaster, now sits in its place.

Did you know?

The Coney Island Cyclone has been and up and running since 1927, making it 94 years old!

12. Ninja

Year Opened: 1988
Coaster Type: Suspended
Still Open?: Yes

Opened in 1988, this long operating coaster can be visited at Six Flags Magic Mountain in Valencia California. It reaches up to 60 feet and features an 85 feet drop. As a suspension coaster, riders sit in suspended seats, strapped with shoulder harnesses and dangling above the ground. The ride allows for 28 riders, offering three trains with seven cars and paired seats. In 2008, one of the trains struck a man as he went to grab his hat, killing him instantly. In 2014, a branch fell on the ride and lefeet guests stranded, but there were, thankfully, no fatalities. The ride has since been modified to meet safety protocols.

Did you know?

Ninja cost $5.1 million to complete.

11. Shockwave/ Batman: The Escape

Year Opened: 1986
Coaster Type: Steel Standup
Still Open?: No

Featured at three Six Flags parks, Shockwave opened at the Valencia location in 1986—replacing the Sarajevo Bobsleds. It enticed riders but daring them to “stand up,” playing on the roller coaster type. Like its predecessor, Shockwave didn’t last long at the California park. To make room for another ride, Shockwave was dismantled and shipped to New Jersey’s Six Flags Great Adventure. It ran from 1990 until 1993, when it transferred to Six Flags AstroWorld and was branded as “Batman: The Escape.” The coaster officially closed in 2004.

Did you know?

Shockwave was originally all black, then blue and white, and then black and yellow.

10. La Víbora

Year Opened: 1984
Coaster Type: Steel Bobsled
Still Open?: Yes

Like Mountain Express, La Víbora went through relocating and renaming. Unlike Mountain Express, however, this ride is still in operation today—just not where it started. The coaster opened in 1984 at Six Flags Magic Mountain in California as Sarajevo Bobsleds, where it functioned for two years. In 1986, it was transferred to Six Flags Over Texas, where it was rebranded as “La Víbora” or “The Viper.” Rather than a track, the sleds on this ride travel on a smooth half pipe—allowing for more glide.

Did you know?

The coaster’s colors, red, yellow and black, are inspired by the colors used to determine if a snake is poisonous.

9. Colossus

Year Opened: 1978
Coaster Type: Twin Wooden
Still Open?: No

Afeeter just a year of opening, Colossus closed for reconstruction in 1979—adding new trains and a new brake system for increased safety. This was probably encouraged afeeter a woman died when a restraint didn’t close properly. It reopened in December 1979 and ran until May 2014, afeeter a few more touch-ups and added features. The bones of the Colossus became part of the Twisted Colossus, a steel roller coaster that opened in 2015.

Did you know?

In 1978, Colossus was the tallest and fastest wooden coaster with two drops over 100 feet.

8. The Riddler Mindbender

Year Opened: 1978
Coaster Type: Steel
Still Open?: Yes

Located at Six Flags Over Georgia, the Riddler Mindbender opened in 1978 as the “world’s first triple-loop coaster.” When it opened, it was called, “Mind Bender” but went through a slight branding change when Six Flags purchased the rights to the DC Comics IP. This allowed them to retheme part of the park as Gotham City and use Batman characters to promote the rides. This change was subtle, though, and just involved painting the ride green to signify The Riddler, one of Batman’s enemies.

Did you know?

The ride stopped abruptly due to a technical error in 1984, causing four people severe injury.

7. Screamin’ Eagle

Year Opened: 1976
Coaster Type: Wooden
Still Open?: Yes

110 feet of pure thrills and speeds up to 62 mph, the Screamin’ Eagle earned a Guinness World Record for tallest and fastest coaster on its opening day. The designer wanted to focus on the pure fun and excitement linked to coasters and created a ride that takes guests on steep climbs and deep drops for the optimum experience.

Did you know?

The Screamin’ Eagle is still available to ride at Six Flags St. Louis in Missouri.

6. New Revolution

Year Opened: 1976
Coaster Type: Schwarzkopf sit-down roller coaster
Still Open?: Yes

photo source: Six Flags Magic Mountain

The first modern roller coaster with a vertical loop, New Revolution lives up to its name., New Revolution offered park guests exciting twists on a steel frame. It was named a “Landmark Coaster” in 2002. In 2016, the Six Flags revamped the ride, equipping it with virtual reality—the first of its kind.

Did you know?

The roller coaster features a 90 feet virtual loop and a 144 feet long tunnel.

5. Mountain Express

Year Opened: 1973
Coaster Type: Schwarzkopf Wildcat 65 meter model
Still Open?: No

The third roller coaster opened at Six Flags California, this relic met its ultimate end in 2006 at Bosque Mágico in Mexico. The ride went up 50 feet at its peak and went at about 40 mph. For context, Kingda Ka, one Six Flags’ newer rides, reaches 456 feet and goes from 0 to 128 mph in 3.5 seconds. Mountain Express moved from its Valencia home in 1990, running at Magic Landing in Texas as the Wildcat. In Mexico, it was known as the Montaña Russa and ran until 2006—when it was demolished.

Did you know?

While it’s slow by today’s standards, Mountain Express was quite popular in its day as one of two roller coasters at Bosque Mágico and the only coaster at Magic Landing.

4. Magic Flyer

Year Opened: 1971
Coaster Type: Kiddie
Still Open?: Yes

While less exciting than Gold Rusher, this kiddie ride is still one of the oldest roller coasters at Six Flags. When it first opened, it was known as the Clown Coaster, but went through several name changes and physical alterations throughout the years. In 1985, it became the Wile E. Coyote coaster, then the Goliath Jr. Coaster and, for a while, took on a train theme from “Thomas the Train Engine” character Percy. Today, it’s known as the “Magic Flyer.”

Did you know?

The coaster became the “Magic Flyer” in 2011 when Six Flags redid that section of the park afeeter recovering from bankruptcy.

3. Gold Rusher

Year Opened: 1971
Coaster Type: Steel Terrain
Still Open?: Yes

Gold Rusher is the one of the original Six Flags coasters, beginning operation in 1971 at the grand opening for Six Flags Magic Mountain. The Gold Rusher offers vintage charm and timeless excitement. Themed for the California Gold Rush, the cars mimic mining carts that cover elevated terrain and sharp turns. The coaster technically has four trains, with five cars per train, and allows for 30 riders at full capacity. Due to age, however, it usually only runs one train for increased safety.

Did you know?

Although the Gold Rusher is in Valencia, CA, it was built in Clearfield, Utah by Arrow Dynamics, an accomplished roller coaster development company that went bankrupt in 2002.

2. Dahlonega Mine Train

Year Opened: 1967
Coaster Type: Steel
Still Open?: Yes

Based on a lesser-known gold rush in Georgia, the Dahlonega Mine Train is one of the oldest roller coasters in Six Flags history—having been built at their second park location. Like its sister ride in Texas, this coaster resembles a mine cart and takes guests on a trip through a hilly frontier full of gold, danger and fun!

Did you know?

This ride travels 35 miles per hour, quite slow by modern standards.

1. Runaway Mine Train

Year Opened: 1966
Coaster Type: Steel
Still Open?: Yes

Built in 1966 at the original park, Six Flags Over Texas, Runaway Mine Train is the oldest Six Flags roller coaster. Themed as a gold mining cart gone rogue, guests sit in rustic-looking carts and zoom through a mining village straight out of the Old West. Besides its impressive age, this coaster is also credited with inspiring a trend of mine-themed rides across American amusement parks. Its cultural significance granted it Coaster Landmark Status in 2006.

Did you know?

Six Flags Great Adventure in New Jersey has a remake of this ride at the park.

(Still) ‘Enough Rope’: My Favorite Plane Crash …By Bill Davis

One of the truisms of life as a reporter, especially in a small town, is one always had to have access to motorized transportation. There was no predicting when or where a news event would take place, and, especially if one was also the paper’s lone photographer, you had to get to the scene quickly.

This was accepted by most of the people who knew me. They also learned to put up with the always-present pocket scanner, and my habit of raising a hand to halt conversation when a call came in, while I listened whether the item was newsworthy (The vast majority, of course, were not). Kris thought it funny that everyone I knew was trained to fall silent at a hand signal.

Also, because I lived with the scanner, I could generally tell when something was interesting, even when the volume was so low others couldn’t hear it, frequently even making judgments by the dispatcher’s tone of voice. Their reward for the imposed silence was finding out what was happening in the community in real time.

My friends also put up with the fact that whenever I went anywhere with a group, I insisted on taking my own car—alone—“in case something happens.” This habit became an issue on Friday, Feb. 29, 1980.

A group of employees from Four Corners Mental Health (speculate if you will why so many of my friends worked at Four Corners) insisted it was high time we went out for a truly civilized lunch. “Truly civilized,” in this case, meant Mi Vida (location of the current Sunset Grill), which was then a kind-of high-end restaurant with a great view of Moab Valley and the Colorado River Portal. The restaurant was located high above the valley in Uranium King Charlie Steen’s former home.

They also pressured me to “for once” provide transportation for at least part of the group in my battered VW Thing—a challenge, since I had replaced the back seat with a platform covering the auxiliary battery; anyone seated back there was perched above windshield level with the top down. In many places during February this would be a bad idea—not so much in Southeastern Utah, if the trip was short and the sun was out on a 69-degree day.

“Okay, I’ll drive, but if anything happens, you guys will be stranded and have to find your own way back.”

“Nothing’s going to happen.”

While finally agreeing to drive, I still dragged along the pocket scanner and camera bag—my security blankets. My friends didn’t object, but then again probably didn’t notice. I was never without them, so they were as much a part of the package as the silencing hand signal.

After the short drive from downtown, we settled in and ordered our meals–for me, my usual French dip sandwich. Of course, in the genteel confines of a fine restaurant, I turned down the scanner’s volume to where even I could barely hear it.

About midway through the meal, the pace of the radio traffic picked up dramatically, although I couldn’t discern the cause over the noise of surrounding conversations.

Far below, a Utah Highway Patrol unit sped north on the highway with lights and siren.

“Probably just a traffic accident,” I thought, “no big deal.” After all, one can’t cover everything, and this civilized lunch stuff is all right. Relax; take a break, Johnny Deadline.

A second UHP unit went by, followed minutes later by a couple of sheriff’s cars and an ambulance. It seemed everything in town with a siren was driving at speed past the restaurant on the hill.

To hell with gentility; I turned up the scanner and tried to make sense of what was going on. It still sounded like a traffic accident, with minor injuries at the worst—probably not worth bothering with. Officers kept talking about the airport, indicating the accident was probably on the highway near the turnoff to the field.

Loath to give up the civilized lunch and unwilling to abandon my passengers, I decided to call Barbara Hunerjager, a friend who was office manager for Mustang Aviation, fixed-base operator of the airport, to ask if she could see whatever activity was taking place on the highway.

“Hi Barb, this is Bill, can you see what’s going on out on the highway? It sounds like an accident or something.”

Her words poured out in a rush, as if we already shared common knowledge of something important:

“They went down just off the end of the runway!”

Went down? Runway? Holy crap, it’s a plane crash!

Nothing and no one on God’s green Earth was going to keep me from covering an airplane crash. Is someone scripting this stuff?

I slammed down the phone, ran back to my companions, grabbed the camera bag and tossed down a twenty, serious money in an era and place where $15,000 a year was a good income, for me, at any rate, and a sandwich at a fancy restaurant cost less than $5.

“Plane crashed at the airport!” I announced. “You guys are on your own. You’ll have to catch a ride with somebody. I’ll get the change later.”

And I was out the door.

My friends were not happy, but there was no way I was going to sit through lunch, ferry everyone back to work, then teleport myself 20 miles north to catch a major story breaking at the airport. I joined the parade out of town, minus red lights and siren, but with foot to the floor. I made it in 20 minutes, which wasn’t bad for an underpowered VW.

About 700 feet north of the end of the runway, I spotted what proved to be a twin-engine Trans Western Airline Piper Chieftain down in the dirt. From a distance, it looked to be in pretty good shape for a crashed plane. I drove as close as I could, then trotted the rest of the way on foot.

The front end of the plane sloped down into a shallow ditch, with a crumpled nosecone and collapsed nose gear. Both props were bent and a wing dinged, but other than that, the craft appeared whole. So did the four passengers who were milling around, two of them dabbing at bloody noses.

Grand County Sheriff Jim Nyland and Chief Deputy Lynn Izatt were investigating the crash, assisted by a couple of UHP troopers. The troopers were happily diagramming the landing, regarding it as a challenge unique from the typical highway accident.

I interviewed the 29-year-old pilot, who said the plane, the airline’s newest, had lost power in the right engine on takeoff. According to a recent safety directive from the manufacturer, he said, if power on one engine was lost on takeoff in that particular model, the pilot was not to attempt to return to the runway, as might be a natural reaction, but should continue to fly straight ahead until a suitable emergency landing site could be selected. As the aircraft had only reached an estimated altitude of 200 feet, time for making that decision was extremely limited.

Apparently, banking sharply with only one engine operating would cause the plane to stall (Stall speed for the model was listed at 81 mph), likely resulting in a deep and deadly hole. He had done exactly what he should have, and had a mostly whole plane and living passengers to show for it. I spoke to two of the passengers, who praised his actions in getting them safely back on the ground.

The pilot, however, was inconsolable.

“It’s a brand-new plane,” he groaned. “They’ll kill me when they find out. I’ll never fly again.”

I tried to mollify him.

“I’ll fly with you anytime,” I said. “How many pilots know how to crash land a plane? You’ve got experience.”

He shook his head and turned away; that wasn’t what he wanted to hear. I took a photo then that might not have been great art, but sure told the story: Nyland and Izatt can be seen conducting their investigation, while, to the right, the pilot, hands in his pockets, head down and disconsolate, kicks at the dirt, sure his professional life is over. Here’s a link, provided by the University of Utah’s Marriott Library

He had, however, done a good job. He didn’t know it at the time, but had been about to lose the second engine. An investigation by the FAA revealed the plane had been fueled with contaminated gas in Grand Junction. The Piper PA-31 Chieftain had been refueled with a mix of 100 gallons of aviation gas and either Jet-A or Jet-B turbine fuel, a mixture not calculated to react well in turbocharged engines used to 100 octane aviation gas. The airline’s policy, for whatever reason, called for the pilot to check for contamination every other refueling. The contamination check wasn’t due until after the Grand Junction stop. The pilot had been seconds away from total loss of power.

Barb told me later that, as the plane was taking off, Mustang Aviation mechanic Lynn Holyoak, recognizing the sound of a failing engine, jumped up on a chair to look out the high windows of the terminal, shouted “He’s lost an engine. They’re going down,” then ran out the door and drove north along the runway toward a cloud of dust enveloping the downed plane.

I heard later the pilot, far from being cashiered, was eventually named Trans Western’s chief pilot, which I thought was an excellent idea. Who better to supervise pilots than someone who has stuck his bosses’ new plane and four frightened passengers (safely) into a ditch? I had no further contact with him, but I would hazard a guess he never again climbed into an aircraft without checking the fuel for contamination. Heck, had I been him, I would have forever more checked the gas in anything with an internal combustion engine, including my lawnmower.

All four of the passengers, none of whom was a Moab resident, were transported by Grand County ambulance to Allen Memorial Hospital, where they were checked and released.

When I got back to town, I discovered the penalty for abandoning my passengers: change from the twenty. That hurt a bit, as $20 was big bucks in those days—a fair part of a week’s groceries. On the other hand, my friends never asked me to provide lunchtime transportation again.

Tom’s Adventure

Though occurring a short time after I left Moab, I thought I’d include a story told me by Tom Arnold, of Tom-Tom’s Volkswagen fame, describing another case demonstrating how an experienced pilot can get a plane more-or-less safely on the ground after an engine failure, even in Utah’s rugged canyon country.

Tom was kind enough to provide a copy of the FAA accident report and an accompanying photograph when Kris and I visited town in 1985, while attending Utah State University.

Readers may remember from the pot plane crash article that Tom was an extremely experienced pilot, having flown in World War II, and for many years thereafter, including flying shuttles for river trips in Southeastern Utah. He had all major pilot’s license ratings: single-engine, land; multiple-engine, land; commercial, and instrument, with 4,495 hours logged.

On Sept. 4, 1985, Tom was flying a 1970 Cessna 182 Skyline for Redtail Aviation of Green River. His plan was to pick up Colorado River trip passengers finishing their voyage at Hite and return to Canyonlands Field, where the Trans Western emergency landing had occurred five years before.

He had taken off alone from Canyonlands at about 2:30 p.m., climbed to about 8,500 feet and leveled off. Approximately 10 minutes later, over the Green River Canyon “the engine made one Hell of a racket and started vibrating,” Tom said in his insurance report.

“I pulled throttle off, headed for a plateau and started yelling on the radio,” he wrote.

Tom, who knew the area well having flown over it for years, aimed for a landing on a jeep road four miles northeast of the National Park Service Maze Ranger Station.

“The jeep road had two straight sections with a curve in the middle,” Tom reported. “I was too high for the first section and intended to land just past the curve. [The] aircraft hit the ground in a landing position just short of the road (probably luckily) and nosed over slowly after the nose wheel collapsed.”

A print from Tom Arnold of his Sept. 4, 1985 emergency landing about five miles north of the Hans Flat Ranger Station near the Maze. The engine failed while Tom was on his way to pick up some river trip passenger.

Tom explained to me that the ground adjacent to the trail was softer and smoother than the road surface, likely causing less damage to the plane’s landing gear. As the plane approached a halt, however, the nose gear sunk into the dirt, snapping off the wheel and causing the plane to slowly flip onto its top.

Tom ended up hanging from his seatbelt, the only injury, he said, a scratch on his face from the pen in his shirt pocket.

A later inspection revealed the cause for the near-total loss of engine power: The number-two piston failed, jamming between the crankshaft and crankcase, breaking a large hole in the engine casing under the right magneto, which snapped off.

Damage to the plane’s nose and cowling, including the snapped-off nose gear, was severe, Tom reported, with lesser damage to the rudder. Fuselage and wing damage appeared minor, although battery electrolyte did spill on the interior.

All in all, it was a good landing, as was the earlier Trans Western incident, proving it is possible to get on the ground safely in a small plane after an engine failure, if the pilot knows what he or she is doing, and is blessed with a bit of luck.

Love of Flying

Given the foregoing (and considering the pot plane crash story), one might assume I’m not particularly enamored of planes and flight in general, but that is far from the truth; I love, and have always loved, flying, especially over Southeastern Utah’s canyon country. You can’t truly appreciate the rugged expanse and intricate drainage system of the slickrock country until you’ve seen it from the air.

One of the perks I seriously enjoyed as a reporter was the opportunity to do numerous flight-related feature stories for The Times-Independent.

The only uncomfortable trip I ever experienced was a Mustang Aviation flight over all three districts of Canyonlands National Park in a Cessna 182 piloted by Moab native Ralph Lemon on March 8, 1979. It was a lovely flight over the main features of the Maze, Island in the Sky and Needles districts. In a change from Mustang’s usual scenic flight routing, Ralph, upon my request, included several spirals over the confluence of the Green and Colorado rivers.

Following about six tight 360-degree turns shooting through the downward-pointing side window, I noticed a feeling of slight stomach discomfort. After some fairly rough air over Dead Horse Point, the discomfort became full-blown motion sickness. I was nonplussed, as this was a first-time occurrence after many years of flying in all kinds of aircraft with no problems. Trans Western employee Leni Bryton, who came along on the flight, also turned a distinctive green. Neither of us upchucked, fortunately.

What really surprised me was after the air smoothed out, the nausea didn’t stop until we were back on the ground. This was my one and only experience with airsickness; I don’t recommend it.

About three years later, I got a call from wildlife officer Garth Carter, who did a regular column for the paper, offering me a seat on an elk-counting flight over the La Sal Mountains on Feb. 28, 1982 (Here’s a link to the story). I jumped at the chance, but, given my unexpected reaction to the Confluence flight, I fortified myself with a hefty dose of Benadryl® before we took off.

The flight was a joy. The mountains were partially obscured by clouds from time to time, requiring pilot Chuck Morris to crank some seriously banked turns when we entered the puffy cotton clinging to the ridgetops.

Every time we stood up on a wing, Garth and Chuck turned around, grinning, and asked, “How are you doing?” apparently expecting I was about to blow breakfast all over the backseat.

“This is great!” I responded each time, not adding that I, for understandable reasons, was half asleep.

Chuck at one point explained that the Division of Wildlife preferred using “tail-dragger” planes with tail wheels rather than nose gear, as they stood up better “in case we have to put her down,” which made sense, considering the nose wheels had snapped off in both of the previously described emergency landings.

Fine by me, I thought. Just wake me before you try that.

The flight reinforced my belief that airsickness and I would once again become strangers, a conviction that has, fortunately, proven true. Chartreuse complexion or no, the Canyon Country, seen from a few thousand feet, rather than the lofty 40,000 feet of a commercial airliner, is absolutely amazing. If you ever have the opportunity to take such a flight, do it. Dramamine® is optional.

However, if you want a truly magic carpet experience, wrangle a seat on a helicopter. I was lucky enough to do so a half-dozen times, in a tale involving a controversial uranium exploration road in the Dirty Devil River country, its reclamation, monkey wrenching, and a flight to Hanksville to eat lunch. That story will have to wait for a future column; stand by.

Afterword: I refer to the 1980 airport emergency landing as “my favorite crash” for the following three reasons:

1. Most importantly, no one was seriously hurt.

2. The crash (or, to keep my pilot friends from yelling: “emergency landing”) actually occurred in an accessible area—a rarity.

3. The incident occurred at some time other than 3:30 in the morning during excessively hot or cold weather, which seemed endemic in most stories involving planes coming out of the sky unexpectedly. It did, however, result in one expensive lunch.

Los Angeles-born BILL DAVIS first came to Utah as a student, where he earned his Bachelor’s degree in Journalism from Utah State University. He spent his wayward youth working as a graphic cameraman and photographer, then as a musician. In 1978, Bill was hired as a reporter/columnist for Moab’s Times-Independent Newspaper before returning to USU with his wife Kris and gaining his Masters Degree. He taught Journalism at San Joaquin Delta College in Stockton, CA for 24 years, until his retirement in 2010. Now he and Kris live in Salt Lake City, UT.

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The History of Paragon Park

As the Vampire aircraft began to execute the Magic Carpet maneuver, it suddenly lost control and crashed into a nearby building. The impact caused a massive explosion, engulfing the aircraft and the building in flames. The crash claimed the lives of both the pilot, Captain Doug Harrison, and a passenger, Jim Currie, who was a public relations officer for the Canadian Armed Forces.

"When Summer Meant Everything: The Enduring Legacy of Paragon Park" will be published in 2022

The Paragon Park Story

Paragon Park opened to the public on Saturday, June 10, 1905, transforming Nantasket Beach for the better part of the 20th century. Billed as a “miniature world’s fair,” the 10-acre park built by the Eastern Park Construction Company was, in fact, fashioned in the image of an actual fair – the World’s Columbian Exposition of 1893. The Chicago event introduced the concept of the “midway” of attractions now common at amusement parks and carnivals (known then as the Midway Plaisance), and inspired the construction of hundreds of enclosed parks across the country, many of which took their names from the “White City” nickname of the whitewashed buildings that surrounded the Columbian Exposition’s central lagoon.

Paragon had its own saltwater lagoon, which surrounded a central electric tower that rose 110 feet into the sky, by far the largest structure at Nantasket Beach. The park featured wild-animal shows, shooting galleries, performances by natives of far-away lands, “a foolish house, the dragon’s den, the haunted swing, the laughing show, an arcade and man smaller buildings,” according to the opening-day press. “Nothing like Paragon Park has ever before been seen near than Luna Park at New York,” The Boston Globe enthused, referencing the world-famous amusement center at Coney Island.
George A. Dodge, a Boston businessman who had made a fortune selling whalebone, a substance that was used for so many products that it has been called the plastic of its day, was the prime mover behind the construction of Paragon. As recounted in his 1922 obituary, a friend of Dodge’s invested in what became known as the Nantasket Steeplechase, a collection of amusements licensed from Coney Island’s Steeplechase Park that was built on land leased from the Old Colony Railroad.

Coney entrepreneur George C. Tilyou, one of the most prolific showmen at the turn of the 20th century – rivaling P.T. Barnum in that regard – created a system in which his patented inventions (with cheeky names like “Funny Stairway,” “Earthquake Floor,” “Third-Degree Room,” “Cave of the Winds,” and “Revolving House of Delusion,”) became the basis for the fledgling amusement industry in America. The centerpiece of the complex – a metal track on which riders raced their horses against each other, based on the old English horse race through the countryside, usually with a distant church steeple as the finish line – was only part of the show. Tilyou’s inventions were so commonplace that fun houses of differing sizes became known as “a steeplechase.”

Within two years, however, the friend needed financial help, and turned to Dodge, who invested in the venture and then launched grander vision of a larger, self-contained amusement park on the vacant land surrounding the Nantasket Steeplechase and the adjacent Old Mill attraction. Dodge assembled a group of investors to form the Eastern Park Construction Company and leased several acres from the railroad company. This land, combined with the Rockland House hotel atop the hill in the rear, would become the basis for Paragon Park.

The park opened to rave reviews. Its layout and format modeled those of Luna and Dreamland at Coney Island, with an ornate front entrance and exhibitions from foreign lands surrounding the lagoon and electric tower. The Palm Garden restaurant, function facility, and performance hall at the base of the hill drew guests of the surrounding hotels and larger parties of conventioneers, corporate dinners, and class reunions. The entertainment at the Palm Garden rivaled that in the city; in fact, Paragon was on the same circuit as Boston theaters and showcased nationally known performers in addition to the in-house song-and-dance troupe.

Within two seasons, however, Paragon was falling short of its financial projections, Eastern Park’s investors wanted to abandon the concept. Dodge believed in his vision and bought out his partners in 1907.

Dodge threw himself into making the park a success, changing exhibits each year and adding to the mix of rides and attractions. The first major fire at Paragon struck in 1911, leveling all of the buildings from the entrance south along Nantasket Avenue to what would become Park Avenue. In the aftermath of the fire, a new dance hall and roller coaster were constructed in the front of the park. The roller coaster, known as the Green Streak, replaced an earlier, figure-8 model that had been located at the rear of the complex next to the Palm Garden.

Only a few years later, another fire would wreak havoc at Paragon. By the time the flames were extinguished, the Green Streak was a shambles, as was the signature front entrance and much of the park facing Nantasket Avenue.

The 1917 season would bring with it major changes at Paragon. A new stone-carved front entrance designed by Hugh Cairns would add elegance to the Nantasket Avenue side. Hilarity Hall, a funhouse akin to the Steeplechase, was built next door, and a dance hall that later became a roller rink, toy store, and video arcade. But most significantly, Dodge looked to make an impact with the new and improved park. He contracted with the Philadelphia Toboggan Company to build the tallest roller coaster in the world, Paragon’s 98-foot Giant Coaster.

Although he and Eastern Park sold off the Rockland House as part of their 1907 separation, Dodge later bought the Pemberton Hotel and Pemberton Inn, adjacent hotels at the farthest end of the Hull peninsula. In 1912, Dodge opened the Hotel Georgian in Park Square, an upscale nightspot in Boston’s theater district that he operated until Prohibition forced it to close in 1919.

At about the same time, Dodge decided to scale back from running Paragon on a day-to-day basis. In late 1915, he had leased parts of the park to fruit peddler David Stone and fellow hotelier Albert A. Golden.

Beginning with the 1920 season, Stone and Golden took over management of the entire Paragon operation, leasing all of the rides and concessions controlled by Dodge. It was a complicated transaction, as Dodge still was leasing the property from the railroad, and subleased the operation to Stone and Golden.

The two men would face their first challenges early in their tenure. On September 20, 1922, George A. Dodge died from Bright’s Disease at a hospital in New Hampshire. Over the winter, Stone and Golden began working on how they would secure the continuation of Paragon. David’s son, Joseph, entered into negotiations with the Old Colony Railroad to purchase the land under Paragon. Shortly after railroad executives signed the paperwork the following March, fire broke out in a paint shop at the park.

On March 28, 1923, flames ripped through Paragon, causing $500,000 in damage and destroying much of the southern end of the park and the cottages along the way toward Atlantic Hill. David Stone lost two houses on Rockland House Road in the fire; others involved in area concessions lost their homes and businesses as well.

It would be two years before Stone and Golden would be able to assume full control of the park, canceling the lease that had been signed in 1919 and making improvements to the fire-ravaged amusement center. Their 1928 purchase of a Philadelphia Toboggan Company carousel would become the centerpiece of the park, replacing concessionaire John J. Hurley’s previous carousel in the same location.

The year 1929 is significant in American history as the beginning of the Great Depression, and its impact also was felt at Nantasket Beach. A Thanksgiving Day fire at nearby Nantasket Pier destroyed most of the fleet of steamboats that carried passengers to and from Boston. While the fire didn’t physically touch the park, its effects on the economy and the prospects for the resort were profound. The Nantasket Beach Steamboat Company struggled for several years before declaring bankruptcy; the Old Colony Railroad suspended train service in 1932, substituting buses to and from the Nantasket Junction depot in Hingham. Within five years, the rail line was abandoned forever. Part of its track bed would later be incorporated into the footprint of the amusement park.

The financial difficulties of the Depression weighed heavily on Paragon’s operations. In 1931, David and Rose Stone created the Paragon Park Operating Company to hold their ownership interest and shield it from creditors. Debts incurred in the purchase of the park from the Dodge estate were extended; banks and creditors alike were leaning heavily on the owners of the park. Even the repeal of Prohibition in 1933 did little to improve things, although the ability to obtain liquor licenses made it manageable.

During the 1930s, part of the Giant Coaster was rebuilt and a brightly colored Art Deco main entrance was erected in 1937. War rationing and blackout drills during the 1940s put more strain on the park’s operations. The Stone family, by now in sole control of Paragon’s operations but still sharing ownership of the land with Golden, suffered losses in 1946 and 1949. First, patriarch David Stone died during the off season in Miami; three years later, his oldest son, Joseph, died in the middle of park’s 1949 season. Younger brother Larry, 30, and mother Rose, 73, were left carry on the management of the family business.

Although the Stone and Golden partnership to operate the park had dissolved around 1925, ownership of the land remained divided until 1951. The Stones took control of the main Paragon property, as well as its rear parking lots and warehouse, while Golden retained the section of former railroad bed that would later house the Turnpike Cars ride and the Magic Mine Train. He also would own the row of storefronts along Nantasket Avenue from the front entrance northward to Fascination, although to most observers, the separation was not noticeable.

Paragon’s next major milestones arrived in 1963, when three separate fires swept through the area. The first, termed a “roaring inferno” by the Hull fire chief, ripped through the Arcade Bazaar and Funland, a toy store and group of attractions just up Nantasket Avenue from Paragon. Damage estimates topped $300,000. About a month later, a huge blaze destroyed much of the roller coaster, the front entrance, and concessions along the front. Crews worked around the clock to rebuild the Giant so that it could open that season. Fire struck again in the fall, destroying the Chateau ballroom at the rear of the park. Lost in that fire was much of the holiday inventory of Toy-A-Rama, a seasonal store in Paragon’s former roller skating rink that competed against the Arcade Bazaar.

In the aftermath of the April fire, Paragon reopened without its signature front entrance. Silver-colored flagpoles stretched across the entrance, now enclosed by chain-link gates that would swing inward. Buildings were rebuilt quickly in utilitarian style – flat-roofed, single-story concrete block structures that were fire resistant but lacked the grandeur and artistry of past architecture. The coaster itself was shortened in order to be ready by the Fourth of July holiday, with its final circular turns left off the drawing board in the interest of time.

As Paragon lumbered along, relatively little changed during the following two decades except the names and locations of some of the rides. When Rose Stone died in 1969, the park lost one of its most familiar figures and its last link to the days when Dodge was still active in the park’s operations.

The park’s next transformation would not come from fire, but from Mother Nature’s wrath. The Great Blizzard of 1978 put the park under six feet of water as the Atlantic Ocean and Hull Bay converged on the Hull peninsula and left a wake of destruction. The park’s owners were challenged in a way they hadn’t been previously, as cleanup from a fire is relatively straightforward – the burned and damaged areas are removed and replaced. But they would find that recovering from a flood was entirely different. Some items, such as the motors and machinery of most rides, arcade games, prize inventory, needed complete replacement, while the buildings themselves needed to be dried out.

Games manager Myron Klayman, the brother-in-law of owner Phyllis Stone, was a selectman in Hull at the time of the storm, and recalled serving dual roles in helping the town clean up from the disaster while also directing crews at his employer. With the Stones out of town on vacation, disaster duty fell to Klayman. He remembers seeing wooden picnic tables – so heavy that it usually took four men to move them – having been heaved over an eight-foot fence and carried by the raging tides to the other end of the park.

Miraculously, Paragon opened on time for the 1978 season, but not before family matters would complicate the family business. Larry and Phyllis Stone decided to divorce, and Klayman, caught in the middle of a dispute between the owners, found himself looking for a new job after 30 years. At about this time, a movement within the town of Hull to legalize casino gambling complicated Paragon’s status within the town vision for the future. Was it destined to become a cornerstone of the casino economy, or was its presence an obstacle to further development? The question would never be fully answered, however, as the 1982 election of gambling opponent Michael Dukakis as Massachusetts governor sealed the fate of any casino dreams.

By then, the Stone family found itself in an unfamiliar position: unsure of how long the park could survive. Larry and Phyllis Stone found little common ground in their day-to-day management. Neither of their two children expressed an interest in carrying on the family business. With the economy still climbing out of a recession, they faced stark reality – years of deferred maintenance and the rising popularity of larger theme parks meant that significant investment would be required to modernize Paragon and make it competitive as a destination. The price of a new ride was now in the millions, and the cost of liability insurance for thrill parks continued to climb.

As each season ended, friends and family recall the Stones saying privately that it would be the last; they no longer had the energy to devote to such a draining enterprise. Rumors occasionally surfaced of a potential buyer showing interest, but as each winter’s gossip gave way to spring’s warmer temperatures, Paragon’s gates swung open to welcome the crowds.

All of that changed in 1984. The Massachusetts real estate market blossomed in the mid-1980s, and the factors that in the past had limited Paragon’s ability to expand now gave it extra value – it was sandwiched between two bodies of water and the views that came with them. Chester Kahn, a condominium developer whose summer residence was one block away from the Stones’ Hull home, floated the idea of turning Paragon into a high-rise condominium complex. Kahn already knew that the town’s zoning rules for the park property lacked a key ingredient: a height limit. He proposed twin 18-story towers, each double the height of the world-famous roller coaster’s first hill.

The developer’s interest prompted the Stones to agree on something – they both were tired of running the business and the $5.5 million purchase price would give them enough money to comfortably retire. In late 1984, they accepted Kahn’s offer.

News of the developer’s interest appeared in December 1984 in a place that was unlikely to attract attention – a column in the pages of The New England Real Estate Journal, a trade publication generally seen only by those in the real estate industry. One of its readers tipped off the local paper, The Hull-Nantasket Times, which went to press a day early to officially break the news on January 2, 1985 that a condominium developer planned to tear down Paragon Park.

While sad, the news contained one ray of hope – a final season for nostalgia-filled fans to say goodbye. Within weeks, however, Kahn-Quinn and the Stones had moved up the closing, deciding that opening the gates to souvenir-seekers, litigious loiterers, and potential vandals was too risky. The sale was set to close in March, only a few weeks away.

Without even knowing it, we’d had our last ride at Paragon Park.

During the next several months, the town of Hull was in turmoil. Each week, it seemed, brought a new development proposal. Real estate interests were inspired both by the removal of what some considered the “honky tonk” amusements and by the zoning loophole Kahn’s plans had exposed. Condominiums already were under way on Atlantic Hill and Telegraph Hill, as well as at Spinnaker Island, but in the months following the Paragon announcement, new plans were floated – Nantascot Place, River Crossing, and the former Showboat Mayflower property on George Washington Boulevard, Ocean Place, SeaWatch, and Murray Plaza along the beach, the Hall Estate, Damon Place, and the former Worrick Mansion (which would burn to the ground in 1986) on Atlantic Hill, Milford Street, Marina Beach, and One A Street at Waveland, Mariners Landing, Sunset Arms, and the Boathouse at Allerton.

Paragon fans were getting used to the idea that there would be no final season. Many made the pilgrimage to photograph the park for the last time, and members of the American Coaster Enthusiasts visited to see the Giant, at one time the world’s tallest coaster, before it met its fate. But another group of preservationists began to think about how memories of the park could be saved, and fixed its gaze upon the antique carousel.

A “Save the Carousel” effort began in earnest in February, with local residents lobbying Larry and Phyllis Stone to keep the merry-go-round intact, and keep it in Hull. Within a few weeks, Kahn announced that the developers would ride to the rescue and keep the ride operating, either on-site or at a separate location within the town’s borders.

What wouldn’t be kept in town, however, were the rides and equipment that now stood in the way of the Plaza at Paragon Park. On Wednesday, June 12, 1985, hundreds of former employees, nostalgic patrons, and park operators from around the country braved a rainstorm to watch as bids were placed on each part of the park, from ticket booths and ride equipment to signs bearing the Paragon name. One bidder paid $25 for the entire lot of rainbow-colored trash cans.

The most visible prize at the June auction didn’t attract the highest bid, but garnered the most attention. Mark Mason, the manager of the Wild World amusement park near Baltimore, paid $28,000 to buy the Giant Coaster, and promptly announced plans to dismantle the ride piece-by-piece and have it rebuilt in time for the next season. Paragon fans rejoiced that incredibly, two of the signature pieces of Paragon Park would survive its imminent death.

Selling the 18-story development to the public was a harder task than the developers had imagined, however, and by fall, even with a compromise reduction to 12 stories, Kahn and Quinn faced stiff opposition. The developers said they’d received at least 100 deposits from potential condo buyers; evidence, they said, that the market existed for high-rise units overlooking the ocean and the bay. Many in Hull remained unconvinced. After spending months being battered in the public realm, Kahn and Quinn abruptly changed course. In late 1985, they canceled the development all together, and announced that they would sell the beloved carousel at auction 28 days later.

Preservationists swung into action, mounting a publicity and fundraising campaign that drew awareness but far less than the nearly $1 million valuation that had been suggested for the 57-year-old carousel. Activist Judeth Van Hamm Wiers, who had initially raised the issue in February and started the fundraising drive in earnest in November, pulled together three local businessmen who pooled their resources to submit the winning bid of $598,800 — only $1,200 short of their credit limit – in dramatic fashion at the auction.

The carousel moved down the block the following spring, by which time the developers had returned with a new plan for a seven-story, 112-unit brick building fronting Nantasket Avenue. In the ensuing real estate crash, the developers would lose control of the property and never realize the plans for a second building at the rear of the site.

“Carousel Under the Clock,” as it was known, operated as a private business until 1996, when the three businessmen who purchased the ride at the auction decided that they needed to recoup their investment. A second – or was it actually the third? – “save the carousel” effort was launched, but this time the result would be the formation of the non-profit Friends of the Paragon Carousel and the purchase of the antique merry-go-round for $1.1 million.

The Friends operate the carousel next door to the former railroad station, and in 2013 opened a small museum of Paragon memorabilia. The storefront includes the workshop of James Hardison, the artist who is painstakingly restoring each of the 66 wooden horses, where visitors can watch the continuing efforts to preserve the remnants of Paragon Park at Nantasket Beach.

In addition to the fatalities, several other people suffered injuries, including burns and smoke inhalation. Following the accident, an investigation was launched to determine the cause of the crash. It was discovered that a mechanical failure was to blame for the tragedy. The aircraft was equipped with a faulty fuel transfer system, which led to an imbalance in the fuel distribution, ultimately resulting in loss of control. The Magic Landing accident had a profound impact on the airshow industry. It highlighted the importance of strict safety regulations and procedures during airshow demonstrations. In response to the tragedy, changes were made to improve the safety measures, including thorough pre-flight inspections, stricter maintenance protocols, and increased scrutiny of aircraft used in airshow performances. The memory of the Magic Landing accident continues to serve as a reminder of the risks associated with aviation and the need for constant vigilance and adherence to safety protocols. It stands as a testament to the bravery and dedication of those involved in the airshow industry, whose passion for flight is matched by their commitment to safety..

Reviews for "The Magic Landing Accident: A Wake-Up Call for Theme Park Safety"

1. Sarah - 1 star

I was extremely disappointed with "Magic landing 1985 accident." The plot was disjointed and confusing, making it difficult to follow along. Additionally, the acting was subpar, with the characters lacking depth and believability. The special effects were also outdated and poorly executed. Overall, I found this film to be a complete waste of time and would not recommend it to anyone.

2. John - 2 stars

I had high hopes for "Magic landing 1985 accident" but ultimately found it to be underwhelming. The story had potential, but it was poorly executed. The pacing was off, with scenes dragging on for too long and others feeling rushed. The characters were also underdeveloped, leaving me feeling disconnected from their struggles. The special effects were mediocre at best and lacked the excitement and wow factor that I had anticipated. Overall, I was left feeling unsatisfied and wouldn't consider watching it again.

3. Emily - 1 star

"Magic landing 1985 accident" was a complete disaster in my opinion. The storyline was confusing and lacked coherence, leaving me feeling frustrated and disengaged. The acting was wooden and unconvincing, making it difficult to connect with the characters or care about their fates. The special effects were laughable and looked like something out of a low-budget B-movie. I truly regret wasting my time on this film and would advise others to stay far away from it.

The Resilience of Magic Landing: How the Park Bounced Back After the Accident