I was just taking off in an American Airlines flight to Chicago from Ottawa on that morning. As we reached cruising altitude near Kingston the aircraft started a 180 degree turn. The pilot came on and said we were going back to Ottawa, landing and unloading. There was nothing wrong with the plane, don’t worry.
I called Marylou on the airphone and was greeted by a stream of tears. An airliner had crashed into the World Trade Centre. Nobody on the plane knew the actual reason we were being returned to Ottawa. All the flight crew got was a message to take it back to Ottawa, land it, unload and wait further instructions. I became the source, repeating news from the phone to the passengers and cabin crew near me. We were all dumbstruck. As we neared Ottawa the connection was dropped for some reason. I tried to connect again but was unable to get a dial tone.
Since we had cleared US Customs in Ottawa, we were an embargoed flight and technically had to clear Canadian Customs. We landed then held short of the gate, so I turned on my cellphone and called home to more tears from Marylou. Things had gone from bad to worse. There were rumours that more flights were crashing out of sky and my sudden disconnection had dropped Marylou into a puddle of tears, as she assumed that my flight was in flames somewhere.
After calming each other down there was a gasp in her voice. The second flight had just slammed into the South Tower of the World Trade Centre, live on every television channel. Our flight trundled up to the gate and we were unloaded into the airport without going through customs. The message from American Airlines was terse: Get your bags and go home.
I have never and hope I never again hear, 3,000 people making no sound whatsoever. We all stood there, mouths agape watching the playback again and again. There would be an occasional sob. A younger couple from Seattle were standing next to me, trying frantically to get a dial tone on their cellphone, with no success. I fired my phone up, got a dial tone and handed it to them; they protested it would cost me minutes. “Call your family, let them know you’re ok. Don’t worry about it, just do it.” I said. They called, briefly told their family what was happening and handed my phone back. They murmured thanks and walked away with that slow shuffling walk of people who are in a state of mental overload.
Marylou arrived at the airport and hugged me tighter than I have ever been hugged. We rushed home. We parked on the sofa for the next three days trying to follow the events.
I saw the towers fall, live on TV. I still can’t process the logic that 220 floors of structure, offices and people was pulverized into elemental dust.
I saw the cloud of dust hang like a grisly apostrophe over the New York City skyline.
I heard the reporters, notably Paula Zahn and Aaron Brown, try to wrap their reportorial minds around what they were seeing.
I saw the shaky video of the scene at the Pentagon, some kind of huge blast tearing a flaming slice out of the building.
I saw the images of people running away from the danger: Panic and tears distorting faces into wet masks of fear.
To this day I still cannot imagine that day, or those emotions, without weeping.
Since that ghastly day, we have learned much about what went on, the timelines, the people, the mistakes and the heroic efforts. None of it brings back the nearly 3,000 people killed on that day, or restores the families and lives that have been irreparably damaged.
Nothing anyone can do will put things back to the way things were on September 10th, 2001. I’m sorry for that.