​Remarks as prepared for delivery.

​June 10, 1999. Thirty years since the NTSB first warned about the devastating effects of delay in shutting down failed pipelines and the need for urgent action. 

It’s 3:27 p.m. in Bellingham, Washington. A 16-inch-diameter steel pipeline owned and operated by Olympic Pipeline Company ruptures, releasing 237,000 gallons of gasoline, over about an hour and a half, into a creek that flows through Whatcom Falls Park.

No one could have imagined that what began as 911 reports of a strong odor would turn out to be one of the worst onshore pipeline disasters in U.S. history. 

The first 911 call comes in at 4:24 p.m. — not from the pipeline company, but from a resident who reports that, as she was driving across a bridge, she smelled a strong odor that made breathing difficult. 

Three minutes later, another resident reports the same odor, adding that Whatcom Creek is discolored. A short time later, that same resident calls back and says his dog is convulsing and he’s evacuating because the odor is overwhelming.

Calls to 911 are now rolling in. The Bellingham Fire Department is on scene. No one has heard from the pipeline company.

At 4:30 p.m., an employee of Olympic Pipeline who happens to be in the area also calls 911 and Olympic’s control room in Renton to ensure they’re aware of the situation.

At the same time, the fire department is contacting Olympic to let them know there’s a significant amount of gasoline in the water and overwhelming fumes have enveloped the city of Bellingham. 

It isn’t until 4:46 p.m. — an hour and 19 minutes after the rupture occurred — that Olympic shuts down the pipeline. 

By then, it’s too late. 

The broken pipeline has been spewing 7,000 gallons of gasoline a minute into Whatcom Creek, which is now gushing down the forested canyon toward downtown Bellingham.

At about 5:02 p.m., the gasoline ignites, creating a massive fireball that travels over a mile and a half down the creek corridor, causing extensive damage and a plume of smoke 30,000 feet in the air visible from Vancouver, British Columbia. 

Witnesses report it sounded “like a jet plane flying through the creek bed.” And: “It was like an atomic bomb mushroom cloud rising up over the city.”

Tragically, three children are killed. 

One teenager, who’s flyfishing, is overcome by fumes, loses consciousness, and drowns. 

Two other children survive the initial blast but suffer second- and third-degree burns over 90% of their bodies and die the next day. They were just 10 years old.  

* * *

January 6, 2005. Thirty-six years since the NTSB first recommended railroads install Positive Train Control, which automatically stops a train from colliding head-on with another train and moving through workzones or switches left in the wrong position.

It’s 2:39 a.m. in Graniteville, South Carolina. A Norfolk Southern freight train is traveling about 47 mph along the tracks. As it nears the Avondale Mills textile plant, the train encounters a misaligned switch; the previous crew forgot to reline it for the mainline track. The train veers off the main track, onto a siding, and plows right into a parked train. 

The collision derails both head-end locomotives and the first 16 cars of the striking train, including three tank cars, each of which contains 90 tons of chlorine. One of them is punctured and releases chlorine gas. 

If you don’t know much about hazmat, liquefied chlorine can generate a gaseous cloud with a volume that’s 450 times greater than the volume of the liquid released. 

Within minutes, a large toxic cloud begins to form and extends about 2,500 feet to the north; 1,000 feet to the east; 900 feet to the south; and 1,000 feet to the west. Wind is light, so it settles in the low areas around the tracks. The water in nearby Horse Creek turns into hydrochloric acid. 

Workers at Avondale Mills nearest the crash can’t breathe. They smell the chlorine and feel their eyes and lungs burn. Some are vomiting; many are fleeing. 

Over the next 10 minutes, about a dozen calls are made to 911. Some callers report a low-lying yellow haze that smells like bleach. There are more than a hundred calls to 911 within an hour; by 6:00 a.m., more than 200 calls. 

Meanwhile, volunteer firefighters are trying desperately to approach the scene. But the smell is too intense. They can’t breathe, so they withdraw and call in a hazmat team.

Ultimately, nine people die from chlorine gas inhalation as a result of the accident: Chris Seeling who was the train’s engineer and whose parents I came to know; six employees of Avondale Mills; one truck driver; and one resident. Five-hundred-fifty-four people suffering respiratory difficulties are taken to local hospitals; more than 5,000 others are evacuated.

The conductor, who survived, later reports that he and the engineer got out of the locomotive, walked about 100 yards, and laid down. 

The problem is that gaseous chlorine is two-and-a-half times heavier than air. It sinks to the ground. 

That’s where Chris died. 

* * *

One more. 

September 2, 2019. Sixteen years since the NTSB first recommended marine passenger vessel operators implement a safety management system. It’s also 11 years since the NTSB first warned about the hazards of lithium-ion batteries. 

At 3:14 a.m., the U.S. Coast Guard receives a distress call from the Conception, a small passenger vessel, about 75-feet-long, anchored in Platts Harbor on the north side of Santa Cruz Island, not far from Santa Barbara, California. 

Aboard the Conception are 33 passengers. A family of five. People celebrating birthdays. High school students. Teachers. All pursuing their passion for diving on Labor Day Weekend.

Their adventure comes to a tragic end when a fire erupts in the salon on the main deck, where a tremendous amount of scuba diving equipment, cellphones, and cameras are charging. 

Five crewmembers are asleep in their bunks on the upper deck; one crewmember and all 33 passengers are asleep in the bunkroom below. 

A crewmember sleeping in the upper deck berth is awakened by a noise and gets up to investigate. He sees a “glow” outside and then fire rising up from the main deck below, so he alerts the four other crewmembers sleeping on the upper deck.

The captain immediately goes for the radio and makes a distress call to the Coast Guard. The four other crewmembers jump down from the upper deck to help everyone trapped in the bunkroom. But they’re blocked by fire and overwhelmed by thick smoke. 

As the fire intensifies, all five crewmembers jump overboard. Two swim to the stern and re-board the vessel in hopes of finding survivors. Unfortunately, access to the salon through the aft corridor is also blocked by fire, so, along with the captain, they launch the vessel’s skiff and pick up the remaining two crewmembers in the water. 

The crew locate a nearby vessel, where the captain continues to radio for help. Two crewmembers return to the waters around the burning Conception to search for survivors.

Despite intense firefighting and search-and-rescue efforts, the vessel burns to the waterline and, just after daybreak, sinks. There are no survivors; all 34 people in the bunkroom are dead. 

It’s worth mentioning that there was an emergency exit in the bunkroom. If you could find it in the dark, you had to crawl up three bunks, push out a square hatch, and shimmy up through it one by one. But you still wouldn’t have survived because the main exit and the emergency exit ended in the same location: the main deck that was fully ablaze.

The Conception remains the deadliest marine accident in recent U.S. history. It’s also the one that stays with me. I was the Board Member on scene. 

The first full day that I was on scene, we met in the family assistance center with those who lost loved ones. They knew that I had visited a vessel that morning that was similar to the Conception. I wanted to see bunkroom, the main exit, and the emergency exit. And I wanted to see how difficult it would be to escape a fire. 

One of the family members stook up and asked me, “Do you think my son could have escaped?”

I had to be honest; my answer was, “No.”

No one should ever have to hear that.

* * *

It’s February 3rd, 2023. Thirty-two years since the NTSB first warned about the poor performance of DOT-111 tank cars in derailments. 

Norfolk Southern Railway train 32N is rolling east on a cold winter’s night. 

The train — 3 locomotives and 163 mixed freight railcars — is over a mile-and-a-half long. It’s been on the move for days, bound for Pennsylvania.

At 8:52 p.m., the crew in the lead locomotive hear over the in-cab speakers: Critical alarm, critical alarm, critical alarm.

There’s an overheated wheel bearing. 

The engineer begins to slow the train, but it’s too late. The bearing has already failed, causing the axle underneath to “burn off.” 

The train’s automatic brakes engage at 8:54 p.m., causing 38 cars to derail in East Palestine, Ohio, near the Pennsylvania border; 11 of them are carrying hazardous materials. 

In fact, three hazmat cars carrying flammable and combustible liquids are punctured in the accident and release their cargo, igniting and feeding a pool fire for days. 

All three are DOT-111s: the very tank cars we’ve warned about.

Placards and other signage on the railcars are melting in the fire; Norfolk Southern hasn’t communicated what’s in the cars to local responders, most of whom are volunteers.

In fact, the one-mile evacuation zone was established only after a volunteer fire fighter who happened to be a local science teacher realizes what’s in the five pressurized tank cars that are sitting in and around the pool fire: vinyl chloride, a highly toxic flammable gas, a known carcinogen.

As emergency responders spend the next two days managing fires and protecting the community, the tank cars intermittently release vinyl chloride from their pressure relief devices — just as they are designed to do — to protect the tank from catastrophic rupture due to overpressure. 

Norfolk Southern and its contractors are monitoring temperatures of the tank cars and despite evidence to the contrary, they tell Governor DeWine and the incident commander, a local fire chief, that the cars are experiencing a dangerous chemical reaction that could lead to an uncontrolled explosion with a large radius of destruction. 

Others, including the shipper and their chemical experts, disagree.

On February 5th, the railroad and its contractors begin preparing and advocating for a vent and burn, ` which the Federal Railroad Administration characterizes as “dangerous” and a “last-resort” method of unloading a damaged tank car. 

When incident command meets on February 6, an expanded evacuation effort is already underway in preparation. 

At the meeting, the railroad and its contractors give the incident commander 13 minutes to decide whether to allow them to proceed; they do not share any dissenting opinions or evidence to help inform the Governor and the incident commander’s decisions. 

Hearing no objections or evidence to the contrary … and believing it to be the only remaining option to avert catastrophe … the incident commander authorizes the vent and burn.   

At 4:37 p.m. on February 6 … three days after the derailment … Norfolk Southern contractors detonate explosives on the five vinyl chloride tank cars. 

A column of black smoke rises up and grows into a persistent cloud that experts later say likely contained soot particles, carbon dioxide, carbon monoxide, hydrogen chloride, and a trace of phosgene, a toxic gas. 

In the immediate aftermath, residents, first responders, and rail workers who cleaned up the area for weeks suffered a variety of physical health effects: headaches, coughing, skin rashes, and eye or throat irritation. 

Across the region, high rates of post-traumatic stress disorder, anxiety, and psychological distress have been documented.

Thousands of animals — not just wildlife, but pets and livestock — died. Local businesses were decimated. Home values plummeted. 

Ongoing research is exploring potential long-term risks, including liver, neurological, respiratory, and immune system impacts from the chemical exposure.

While devastating, it could’ve been so much worse had it not been for the swift action of that train crew and emergency responders.

Yet, over three years later, our East Palestine recommendations remain unimplemented. 

* * *

That’s a solemn beginning, I know. 

But, at the NTSB, our mission doesn’t end with determining how an accident occurred. We have a duty to the public … to every worker, just like you … to ensure it never happens again. 

That brings me to what I want to focus on … why we’re here, why we do what we do at the NTSB, why I’m so passionate about safety … why we’re — collectively — so passionate about safety … why promoting action … fighting for safety… is so critical in everything … everything … we do. 

Their names are Liam, Wade, and Stephen: the three children killed in the Bellingham pipeline rupture. 

Their names are Chris, Steven, Tony, Allen, John, "Rusty," Willie Charles, Joseph, and Willie Lee — the victims of the Graniteville train collision.

Their names are J.P., Patricia, Neal, Marybeth, Charlie, Kendra, Raymond, Justin, Lisa, Kristy, Yuko, Vaidehi, Adrian, Andrew, Yulia, Dan, Allie, Jang, Sunil, Carrie, Kristian, Kaustubh, Sanjeeri, Steve, Diana, Tia, Berenice, Evan, Angela, Michael, Fernisa, Nicole, Ted, and Wei — all of whom perished aboard the Conception. 

Their names are Misti, Lisa, Trent, and Ashley, who join thousands of residents in the communities of East Palestine and Darlington Township who continue to push for implementation of our rail safety recommendations.  

But there are so many others whose names don’t make headlines … who no longer have a voice to fight for safety … who are counting on every single person in this room to be their voice to fight for safety … one voice that can be the catalyst for change or, perhaps, inspire an entire movement. 

Admittedly, fighting for safety, fighting for change can be tough, frustrating, heart-wrenching, especially when you feel like no one’s listening. You aren’t being heard. Get louder! 

I mentioned Bellingham, Graniteville, the Conception, and East Palestine earlier. Because out of each of these tragedies, family members, friends, entire communities came together to fight for change … fight for safety … to prevent the next tragedy … to save lives.  

And in each of those cases, that change didn’t start with a crowd. 

It started with one person, one decision: the decision to care… to speak up … to listen … to act … and the belief that what you do — what you can do — matters. 

That one person could be you. Or you. You. Or you.

Because when you choose to make a difference … choose to fight for safety in all that you do … no matter the cost … you don’t just change someone else’s life, you change the world.

It’s May 3rd, 1980. Thirteen-year-old Cari Lightner is walking along a quiet road in Fair Oaks, California, on her way to a church carnival when a car swerves out of control, striking and killing her. 

The driver of the vehicle, Clarence Busch, leaves the scene, leaving Cari to die in the arms of her friend. 

Meanwhile, Clarence continues home and blacks out from drinking. This isn’t his first offense. He’s had three prior convictions for drunk driving in California and was just released from jail and out on bail that morning for another hit-and-run drunk driving crash. 

Shortly after his release from his conviction in Cari’s death, he hit another girl, a 19-year-old also named Carrie, while drinking and driving. 

He had a BAC of .20, which was twice the legal limit in California at the time.

Just four days after the death of her daughter, Candace Lightner founded an organization that — to this day — is THE most influential force against impaired driving: Mothers Against Drunk Driving. 

Because of her efforts, states increased penalties for repeat offenders; raised the minimum drinking age to 21; and lowered the nation’s legal BAC from 0.10 to 0.08.

Candace took fighting for safety to heart. Her advocacy led to the successful passage of more than 700 bills at the state and national levels. She testified before Congress and state legislatures, formed coalitions, and served on a Presidential Commission on Drunk Driving. 

Candace chose to make a difference and with that one decision — to care — she changed the world.

At the time of her daughter’s death, 27,000 people died annually of drunk driving in the U.S. Today, we stand at about 13,000 annually. MADD has saved thousands of lives. Still, Candace’s work is far from done; 37 people die every single day in a drunk driving crash on U.S. roads. 

At NTSB we’re fighting for zero. 

We’re fighting for the nine people who died two Januarys ago in Avenal, California, in a horrific drunk driving crash. Seven of the victims were children. The oldest was 15 and the youngest was just six years old.

We’re fighting for the 1.2 million people who die annually from road traffic crashes across the globe. 

We’re fighting for the 376 who die annually in U.S. aviation accidents; the 926 people who die in rail, including the seven on-duty employees who died last year; the 616 people who die in maritime; and the 12 people who die in pipeline ruptures.

These numbers don’t even count the thousands of rail workers who are injured on-the-job: 3,056 last year alone — each one a personal tragedy. 

That’s who the NTSB is fighting for. We will not stop until we get to zero.

Now, I recognize plenty of people think zero deaths is an unrealistic goal. 

What about you? 

Who thinks we’ll never see a day with zero transportation deaths? Zero worker deaths? 

Every time I ask that question, no one wants to put their hand up. I understand.

Then think about a good goal. Should we aim to cut transportation deaths by 25%? How about 50%? By when? Keep that goal in mind. 

Now, let me ask you this: what’s an acceptable percentage of transportation deaths for YOUR family? YOUR union brothers and sisters?

What’s an acceptable number of empty seats at your next local meeting?

Zero just became real, didn’t it?

There’s no acceptable amount of injury or death when it’s OUR colleague. OUR best friend. OUR partner. OUR parent. OUR son. OUR daughter. It shouldn’t be acceptable for anyone else.

That’s what drives everyone at the NTSB and I know that’s what drives many of you. 

Look around this room. 

To your left. 

To your right. 

You’re looking at the heartbeat of rail … of American commerce and transportation. You are a leader in safety (otherwise, you wouldn’t be here). Some of you have the power to take action; all of you have a voice. I encourage you to use it because you are how we get to zero. 

Now, getting to zero isn’t easy. We need everyone in this fight.

But we also need something else — something less tangible.

We need to be fearless: unafraid to open our hearts to the preventable pain of transportation disasters and to fearlessly, passionately, unrelentingly pursue safety solutions.

Fearless especially in speaking up again, and again, and again … until the cost to real people, not shareholders, is understood and acted on … until we turn lessons learned into lives saved.

And while those contributions are rarely — if ever — seen… every signal system, every grade crossing, every safe trip on every inch of our tracks is a testament to your i0.mpact — felt not just in moments, but across generations.

Parents … spouses … children … friends … colleagues … neighbors … who return safely to their communities … their loved ones. 

That’s why I told you stories this morning — true stories. That’s why I talked to you today about people I’m fighting for… we’re fighting for … at the NTSB.

Here’s one last story.

It’s 8:48 p.m. on January 29, 2025. A Black Hawk operated by the US Army under the callsign PAT25 collides with a CRJ operated by PSA Airlines as American Airlines Flight 5342 near Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport. 

Two pilots, two flight attendants, and 60 passengers onboard the plane and all three crew members onboard the helicopter die in what is clearly a preventable tragedy.

I received a letter from a young man, Ben, whose fiancé had died on the plane. It’s the most beautiful letter I’ve ever received, and, with his permission, I’d like to share what he wrote:

Dear Chair Homendy,

When Melissa and I met, she was 20 and I was 21. I had an intense feeling right away that she would become the most important person in my life — and to my amazement, she did. Over the course of nine years, we did everything together. It still felt like our lives were just beginning. She was the love of my life. She had a gift for making people feel seen, and was the go-to person among her friends — whether they needed guidance, someone to listen, or just a giggle.

I was waiting for her to arrive home to our apartment in Brooklyn from a work trip to the University of Kansas the night she was killed. We lived in DC for four years, and had flown out of DCA countless times. That night, it was just a coincidence she happened to be connecting through there. I was always afraid of flying and she would comfort me when we flew together. This month, she would’ve turned 29. I hope this can be a reminder that, on January 29, sixty-seven universes were permanently torn apart. The pain of these losses will echo across the rest of our lives.

I also hope that you will seek accountability across the FAA and Army to ensure something like this can never happen again. I hope that you will leave no stone unturned, ask the hard, uncomfortable questions that will ruffle feathers, and let no one, in power or otherwise, obfuscate or delay the truth.

Sincerely, Ben

Sixty-seven universes were permanently torn apart on January 29th. Sixty-seven universes came crashing down in a second. 

The families of those who died that night have been fighting desperately to understand what happened…fighting unselfishly to prevent it from happening again…fighting courageously through what I can only imagine is tremendous pain to make sure no one else loses their life… fighting so damn hard to prevent another family from having to endure the heart-wrenching loss they must feel every single moment of every single day. 

Day after day, after day, after day.    

In the midst of devastating tragedy, the worst day of their lives, they fight for safety. 

If they can do it, so can I. 

And so can you.

So before you leave this room, I encourage you to think of one thing you can do to help … to fight for your fallen brothers and sisters … for their families … fight for safety … to fix the system … to promote action to prevent reoccurrence.

Don’t do it for me! 

Do it for Liam, Stephen, and Wade — three kids who just wanted to go fishing or play at the park.

Do it for Chris and eight other people who suffocated in a toxic cloud caused by a preventable rail disaster.

For 34 people who just wanted to have fun on a Labor Day Weekend diving trip … 34 people who never made it back home.

For the people of East Palestine, whose lives will never be the same — and the crews of every train carrying hazmat across the country. 

Do it for Cari Lightner, who just wanted to go to a church carnival.

For Melissa and 66 others who died tragically on January 29. 

For your members! 

For your brothers and sisters! 

For their families, their friends! 

I come from the labor movement, too, and we have a saying: Mourn the dead and fight like hell for the living. 

Say it with me: Mourn the dead and fight like hell for the living. 

We need leaders who never forget what we’re fighting for … who we’re fighting for. 

We need leaders — leaders like each of you — who fight like hell for the living.

Because I promise you this: We at the NTSB will never, ever give up. I will never, ever give up.

Until there’s no longer a need for our safety recommendations.

Until there’s no longer a need for the NTSB.

Until we have a safe transportation system for all. 

Until there’s zero.