Frozen in Time. Nikki Nichols

Schiebel

      Allison Scott

      Shelley Seyfried-Bourg

      Skate Canada

      Cathy Stevensen

      Diana LeMaire Squibb

      Bob Sullivan

      Dr. Alvin Swonger

      United States Olympic Committee

      Elizabeth Viken

      Rose Anne Wager

      Dixie Wilson

      Peter Winters

      Ben and Mary Louise Wright

      Barbara Yeager

      Beverly Yeomans

      Pam and Gary Yohler

      Foreword

      Every time I lace a pair of figure skates and take to the ice, a corner of my heart aches for the skaters of the 1961 U.S. figure skating team. I silently pay homage, occasionally practicing the layback spin variation performed so enchantingly by 1961 champion Laurence Owen. Those skaters were stolen before their time—never again able to grace the frozen paradise they roamed in life—and never able to prove their mastery while the world watched.

      As a skater, I know all too well what drew them to the sport. Skating can be a sanctuary. The wondrous feeling of flight, of gliding across the ice, strips away any stress or sorrow, any pain or pressure. For a figure skater, every ice rink possesses a seductive power, offering freedom from everything outside it. And there is pleasure in the rituals of skating: the precision of lacing a pair of boots to just the right tightness, paying no mind to the hardened blisters and calluses on the fingers; the first moment of contact with the ice, when the ears are more sensitive to the sound of the blades scraping the first lines on a freshly cut ice surface; the chilly wind hitting the face as more speed is generated. And then there is landing a jump perfectly on one foot, arms stretched out and chin up, as if to say, “Take that!”

      The skaters you’ll read about in these pages were the top finishers at the 1961 U.S. National Championships. Winning a medal at Nationals earned each skater passage aboard Sabena Flight 548, a state-of-the-art Boeing 707. The plane would take them to Brussels, where they planned to board a new plane for Prague, host city of the 1961 World Figure Skating Championships. Some of the skaters brought parents or older siblings as chaperones. Coaches and judges also boarded the plane, and some of them brought spouses and children. When the plane crashed in a Belgian field on February 15, 1961, entire families were shattered, and the American skating program suffered a staggering blow that threatened to cripple it for many years. That tragic event still resonates deeply with champion figure skaters today. Michelle Kwan, whose longtime coach, Frank Carroll, was coached by Maribel Vinson Owen, cited a “cosmic connection” to Maribel after winning her ninth U.S. national figure skating title in 2005. On that evening, Michelle tied Maribel for the highest number of women’s titles in American figure skating history.

      Frozen in Time takes you on a journey back in time to experience the highly competitive U.S. National and North American championships of that fateful year. The skaters performed in a different way and in a very different atmosphere than the one we know today. Beginning in 1960, television revolutionized the sport, bringing skaters to unforeseen levels of popularity and even changing the rules of competition. This story takes place in the final days of what now seems like an antique era, when the world was black and white, when figure skating was not a well-publicized sport. It also takes place on the cusp of new media interest, when the skaters on that team would have become stars whose names are as well known as the stars who followed them, such as Peggy Fleming.

      I’ve done my best to provide a portrait, sometimes an intimate one, of the skaters’ and coaches’ lives—from their beginnings on the ice to the many painful sacrifices made to continue in their quest for gold. During the three years it took to research and write this book, I remained continually surprised that it had not been told before in book form. It was an unprecedented moment in the history of American sport. On board the plane were some of the most revolutionary people figure skating has ever known. I often felt inadequate to the task of providing for such amazing people a fitting tribute. As I wrote, I also fell under the spell of two families of women—the Owens and the Westerfelds. This is very much the story of women—women ahead of their time, living independently, mothers and daughters and sisters with complex relationships that were demanding as well as nurturing, full of sacrifice and laughter and love.

      In their lives, the people on board the plane were vivacious, talented, graceful champions. In death, they have become heroes to many who don’t realize the impact their deaths continue to have on the sport. In these pages, I hope a new audience will gain an appreciation for their gifts—an audience denied the chance to see them pursue the Olympic dream.

      Laurence Owen skates at an outdoor pond in 1958.

      Chapter One

      Laurence Owen bounded through the hallways of the Broadmoor Ice Palace sporting a luminous grin as she shook the fresh coating of snow off her boots. Mother and sister in tow, she walked with a self-possession beyond her years. Her long-legged stride suggested a genuine confidence hard to find in girls of sixteen. Her mere presence brought pause to the host of rabidly busy people working to ready the venue for the 1961 U.S. National Figure Skating Championships.

      They must have wondered in amazement, “What is she so happy about? Isn’t she nervous?” Though only sixteen years old, Laurence seemed to absorb her surroundings with a sort of nostalgia about the history she was poised to make. She knew, too, that this was not simply a competition—but a coronation. In a country with only the fictional monarchies of beauty pageants and movie stars, in America there were, too, the “ice queens.” They had all the qualities befitting true royalty. With their sparkling, brilliantly colorful costumes, they looked as regal and lovely as any fairy tale queen. They were graceful and strong under pressure, in a world where their every move was scrutinized. And their lives were as dramatic and heartbreaking as the lives of true royals. In 1961, the title of ice queen was vacant, and dozens of eager ice princesses readied themselves to leap, spin, and dance to obtain it.

      While other competitors, keenly aware of the life-altering importance involved in such an event, paced the arena’s halls in a perpetual state of panic and worry, Laurence, readily flashing her wide, joyous smile, was the picture of serenity. As she bounded along the hallways of the arena, her dark-brown hair cropped close to her face, she radiated an internal contentment. She was poised, sure, smiling, and relaxed. The bounce in her step didn’t suggest arrogance, yet it appeared that she knew what others would soon find out. This was her year. She was going to make her peers at the Skating Club of Boston proud. She smiled as if she had already won, though the biggest test was still days away.

      Competitors, rink employees, journalists, judges, officials, and parents overwrought with nerves crowded the halls, creating warmth in the usually cold ice rink, which had just been remodeled for the event. The smell of fresh paint hung in the air.

      Some of the skaters prepared for their practice, the first opportunity to see if nerves remained under control, or if pre-competition jitters had transformed otherwise good legs into something with the consistency of Jell-O. While others walked the hallways or sat in the seats of the mostly empty arena, those getting ready to glide onto the ice stretched their legs, bending their knees, touching their toes, each seemingly oblivious of everyone around them. In the intimidating atmosphere competitors donned their most serious and focused facial expressions. They did not have time to socialize with each other on the ice, for every minute of practice was needed for the business of winning a championship.

      Each practice session clicked by faster than most of the sweater-clad competitors would have liked. The superstitious types often felt that a poor practice signaled a good competition to come. The more relaxed