7 Last Words of Pilots During Kobe Bryant’s Crash
The morning of January 26, 2020, dawned with a heavy fog shrouding Calabasas, California. In the cockpit of the Sikorsky S-76B helicopter, pilot Ara Zobayan ran through his routine pre-flight checks. His passengers, including basketball legend Kobe Bryant and his daughter Gianna, were headed to a youth basketball tournament. The mood in the cabin was upbeat—laughter, chatter, the anticipation of another day on the court.
Ara had flown this route many times. He was experienced, trusted, and meticulous. Yet as he lifted the helicopter off the ground, he couldn’t ignore the thickening mist outside the windows. He radioed the control tower, received clearance, and set his course.
The first of the seven words, barely audible on the cockpit voice recorder, was “Visibility’s dropping.” Ara’s tone was calm but edged with concern. The fog was denser than he’d expected, swallowing the familiar landmarks below. He adjusted his altitude, hoping to rise above the haze.
A few minutes later, another word, this time a command to himself: “Climb.” He pulled the collective, urging the helicopter higher. The passengers in the back seemed unaware of the growing tension in the cockpit, still lost in conversation.
Suddenly, the radio crackled with a question from air traffic control. Ara responded with the third word, “Copy,” his voice steady. He was trained for moments like this, but the terrain ahead was treacherous—rolling hills, hidden by the fog.
For a moment, there was silence. Then, a fourth word, almost a whisper: “Mountains.” Ara’s eyes darted to the instruments, then to the gray void outside. He realized they were flying dangerously close to the hillsides.
He banked left, searching for a safe path, but the fog seemed impenetrable. The fifth word, a plea: “Clear?” He was asking himself, searching for any break in the mist, any sign of open sky.
The sixth word came as he tried to reassure himself and his passengers: “Okay.” He wanted to believe it, to keep everyone calm, but the uncertainty in his voice betrayed him.
And then, in the final seconds, as the helicopter descended rapidly, the last word: “Hold.” It was a desperate attempt to steady the aircraft, to pull back from the brink, but it was too late.
The cockpit voice recorder went silent. The helicopter crashed into the hillside, leaving a community—and the world—shocked and grieving.
In the aftermath, investigators pieced together the final moments from radio transmissions and the cockpit voice recorder. The seven words—visibility’s dropping, climb, copy, mountains, clear, okay, hold—told a story of a skilled pilot facing impossible odds, doing everything in his power to keep his passengers safe.
For the families of those lost, and for fans around the world, those last words became a haunting reminder of the fragility of life, the unpredictability of fate, and the courage of those who try to protect others, even in their final moments.
