May 23,2026
Of the other kids in school, my classmates and friends at Abraham Lincoln elementary in Revere, most had never been on an airplane. This was the late 70s, when the cost of tickets put air travel out of reach for much of middle class America.
Of the kids who had been on planes, myself among them, a surprisingly large number of us had vacationed on Bermuda — that hook-shaped island in the Atlantic, about two hours flying time from Boston.
People assume Bermuda is a lot further south than it actually is. It sits roughly on the same latitude as Atlanta, and only 650 miles off the coast of the Carolinas. The island’s proximity, together with its mild weather, pink sand beaches and picturesque stucco cottages, drew tens of thousands of New Englanders every year.
The Caribbean was a much further away and a lot more expensive. Hawaii was out of the question. Florida was the obvious go-to, but Bermuda had an exotic-ness to it that Orlando or Tampa didn’t. It was a little bit of Europe — in an unintimidating, fussily British sort of way — without the long flight and pricey airfare.
All the local travel agencies hyped Bermuda, and the Sunday paper was full of easy and affordable package deals.
We signed on for one of those packages in the early spring of 1979, when I was in seventh grade. My parents, my sister, my grandmother and one of my uncles all made the trip. None of us had ever been outside the United States.
American Airlines flew a daily DC-10 on the route from Boston. Not to be outdone, Delta flew a similarly sized L-1011.
Our flight was on American. At the time, the airline’s DC-10s had a cockpit camera that allowed you to watch the pilots during takeoff and landing. Projected onto the bulkhead screens, the black-and-white visuals were blurry and unsteady, but for a 13 year-old airplane nerd like me, it was thrilling to watch. I remember the captain, who for sure is long dead by now, turning his head to the side and saying to us all, “Here’s a handsome profile shot for ya.”
I’m not sure what, in retrospect, is more remarkable, the cockpit camera (unthinkable today) or the fact that two different airlines were operating 260-seat widebodies on a two-hour hop.
It’s not like that anymore.
Over time, Bermuda lost its crown as New Englanders’ premiere sun-spot. Those DC-10s and L-1011s gave way to narrowbody planes. Northwest Airlines ran a 727 for a while. Delta used a 767-200, then downsized to an Airbus A319. Delta suspended the route during the COVID pandemic, and never brought it back.
The cruise ships still make their runs, usually in the spring and fall, and they remain popular. But if you’re going by air, today your options are JetBlue or a tiny upstart called BermudAir, both using small jets.
What happened is simple enough: the cost of flying fell and the choice of destinations grew. The vacation market fragmented. It became significantly cheaper to fly, with more carriers going to more and more places.
Below, on the apron in Bermuda, is our DC-10 as it prepared for departure back in ’79. In the photo up top you can see my mother (in pink), my sister (yellow), and my grandmother (gray), climbing the airstairs for the flight home.
PHOTOS BY THE AUTHOR
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THE TRIBULATIONS OF THE DC-10
