story20322.xml
Title
story20322.xml
Source
born-digital
Media Type
story
Date Entered
2006-09-08
911DA Story: Story
SEPTEMBER 11, 2001
About 45 minutes into the 8:00am flight from Boston to L.A., the plane begins making a significant turn to the left. I remember thinking for a split second that the wings banked like the arms of a child pretending to fly - it was that kind of motion, my body moving into the turn. My mind is on alert though - what is this about? Why would we be turning as if drastically off course? Very soon the pilot's voice comes over the speaker saying we are landing in Cleveland, quietly stating there had been an incident at the World Trade Center in New York, that the stop was purely precautionary.
We land and remain on the runway awaiting word from the authorities about how to proceed. We wait two hours. The flight attendants seem nervous. We must remain in our seats with seat belts securely fastened until the pilot turns off the fasten seat belt sign. The twenty or so people on the flight talk with quiet, anxious concern. What was going on? The pilot comes on and says the Marshals would be boarding the plane shortly to explain everything.
An American airline flight with a Los Angeles destination and 8:00am departure from Boston, had been hijacked and crashed into the World Trade Center. Fifteen minutes later a United airline flight with the same destination and departure had also been hijacked and flown into the World Trade Center. These airlines had the same departure and destination as our Delta flight, two of the three that left Boston that morning, only now we were safe in Cleveland and they were incinerated along with thousands of other human beings - they and the terrorists.
I've got to let George know I'm ok. Everyone is using their cell phones. I don't know the number of the hotel in Boston. My purse is on the airstrip along with everything else except my I.D. that I am instructed to carry with me. We learn there has been a bomb threat to our aircraft. They are bussing us to a FAA building on the tarmac so the FBI can question us each individually. I'm desperate to find a phone. Everyone is talking frantically and emotionally to their families, friends - anyone familiar they can speak to. I can't use the payphone, I can't use the FAA phone. I volunteer to go first so I can get back and find a phone that may be clear by then.
Did I see anything odd at the airport or notice any suspicious behavior? I tell them about the cab driver of mid-eastern decent who picked me up at the hotel and was confused about the airport. He tried to drop me at the arrival level for Delta Airlines, then dropped me off at Delta Shuttle explaining they had no curbside check-in and the Shuttle was the only plane that serviced the States.
Our eyes had met as he unloaded my luggage. Was it nervousness, sympathy, nothing? I remember the letters of his last name, his cab number.
The counter person was surprised a cab driver wouldn't know the correct location and re-directed me across the huge parking garage to Terminal C where my Delta flight would depart. Along the way I asked directions to the curbside check-in, and a guy in the elevator helped me. He was flying on American.
I checked my bags curbside and purchased a New England calendar.
It was 7:14 am in Terminal C . still time.
It is now approximately 5 hours after we landed. A woman gets the number of the hotel for me and lends me her phone. George answers and I just say,
" It's me, I'm ok." He is screaming and crying and my heart is just outside of myself feeling his pain. I tell him, "it's ok - it's ok - I'm here ."
We're both crying, he in grief with the thought of my death, and I with so much sorrow for him. And everywhere around me people are feeling their own pain, an anxiety that morbidly pulsates in the air we are breathing. We begin to sense the magnitude of this brilliant gesture of hate.
We arrive at the hotel via bus, and go to a banquet room where the airline reps tell us what is going on. Stunned silence. It's beginning to settle in. We have yet to hear any news over the radio, though, and have not seen a TV. It is now 5:00pm. Once in my room I immediately turn on CNN and call George, again. I call my sister. My Brother calls. I'm on my knees and crying and praying for everything and everyone. I thank God for my life. Friends begin to call. I have a deep weariness I can't shake. A sense of morbidity and mortality and sorrow hangs on my shoulders. I'm reminded of a description I once read of death: "That fragrant cup of dark light". Was that what it was like? I begin to understand that my life and our lives, will NEVER be the same again. I order three Martini's - straight up.
Before leaving my hotel room that morning, I noticed the Bible that is always placed in the drawer, and opened it to see what wisdom it would impart (the significance of which only hit me later) - it fell open to Job 24. In this book there is reference as follows:
24:2 Some remove the landmarks;they violently
take away flocks, and feed thereof.
24:12 Men groan from out of the city, and the soul
of the wounded crieth out.
24:16 In the dark they dig through houses, which they
had marked for themselves in the daytime:
they know not the light.
24:17 For the morning is to them even as the shadow
of death: if one know them, they are in the
terrors of the shadow of death.
The next day all airports are closed and several of us take a bus into town and walk around a mall for a couple hours. We try to shake the burden. I buy three pairs of shoes. We meet for drinks and dinner. The two younger ones order the weirdest food: garlic mashed potatoes, pasta (no sauce) and white fish, for one. Everything was white. The other gets a bowl of pink sauce with a couple shrimps sticking out. Everything was pink. We laugh and it feels good. . . so good!
On Thursday, we go to the airport and try to get out. Everyone from our group is going different directions at this point. Some just go home. Some rent cars and drive to L.A. because they are afraid to fly. One company arranges a limo to drive its employees back to Boston. I get routed through Atlanta the following day. It's chaotic. We wait and watch. I have a growing sense of dread as my day to fly approaches.
In retrospect:
When the FBI came on board the plane on the runway one said, "there's two of them" and quickly eyed all the passengers. Once inside the FAA building they escorted a young man with dark, mid-eastern features immediately into an office for questioning. I would find out later from a Delta employee that this man was questioned extensively, that he was from a wealthy family in Saudi Arabia and was in the U.S. with a Saudi Visa. I remember his expression being absolutely blank - no life in his eyes, not a trace of fear or compassion on his face.
I want to remember the people I met, from the lovely older couple who lived in Belair/Beverly Hills, to the hooker at the bar downstairs in the Clarion Hotel in Middle America, Middleburg Heights, Ohio. And all those in between:
Katie, who lost six business associates on the United flight that crashed into the World Trade Center.
Serene & Kathy who were going home to Singapore.
Lisa who was on her way as a first year teacher to Japan.
Cathy and Wendy who shared time, dinner, and their personal lives.
Paul @ the bar who once lived in California, could relate to the band "Fresh Cream" and shared his gentle spirit.
Terry, who started every sentence with "those poor people" and would start to cry.
Harold from Delta, who saved me from making the return trip through Atlanta when he knew the detained Saudi from our original flight, would be travelling on that one, too. He had also heard there were threats of possible terrorism in that city, and actually personally pulled my luggage off that flight and booked me through Cincinnati to L.A. in First Class!
This is what I think of most: How lucky I am! That life has been given to me and love is constantly being extended to me, not only from my family and friends, (ESPECIALLY from them), but from new friends, people who were strangers. I'm feeling that these people, from all walks of life, nationalities, ethnic backgrounds, etc., are like a blueprint for all people around the world. In our own ways, we all want to be loved, and hopefully to give love in return, to live in peace, to laugh. These words have been used in abundance, and may be intellectually and philosophically naïve, but isn't this truly the bottom-line - simply to LOVE?
About 45 minutes into the 8:00am flight from Boston to L.A., the plane begins making a significant turn to the left. I remember thinking for a split second that the wings banked like the arms of a child pretending to fly - it was that kind of motion, my body moving into the turn. My mind is on alert though - what is this about? Why would we be turning as if drastically off course? Very soon the pilot's voice comes over the speaker saying we are landing in Cleveland, quietly stating there had been an incident at the World Trade Center in New York, that the stop was purely precautionary.
We land and remain on the runway awaiting word from the authorities about how to proceed. We wait two hours. The flight attendants seem nervous. We must remain in our seats with seat belts securely fastened until the pilot turns off the fasten seat belt sign. The twenty or so people on the flight talk with quiet, anxious concern. What was going on? The pilot comes on and says the Marshals would be boarding the plane shortly to explain everything.
An American airline flight with a Los Angeles destination and 8:00am departure from Boston, had been hijacked and crashed into the World Trade Center. Fifteen minutes later a United airline flight with the same destination and departure had also been hijacked and flown into the World Trade Center. These airlines had the same departure and destination as our Delta flight, two of the three that left Boston that morning, only now we were safe in Cleveland and they were incinerated along with thousands of other human beings - they and the terrorists.
I've got to let George know I'm ok. Everyone is using their cell phones. I don't know the number of the hotel in Boston. My purse is on the airstrip along with everything else except my I.D. that I am instructed to carry with me. We learn there has been a bomb threat to our aircraft. They are bussing us to a FAA building on the tarmac so the FBI can question us each individually. I'm desperate to find a phone. Everyone is talking frantically and emotionally to their families, friends - anyone familiar they can speak to. I can't use the payphone, I can't use the FAA phone. I volunteer to go first so I can get back and find a phone that may be clear by then.
Did I see anything odd at the airport or notice any suspicious behavior? I tell them about the cab driver of mid-eastern decent who picked me up at the hotel and was confused about the airport. He tried to drop me at the arrival level for Delta Airlines, then dropped me off at Delta Shuttle explaining they had no curbside check-in and the Shuttle was the only plane that serviced the States.
Our eyes had met as he unloaded my luggage. Was it nervousness, sympathy, nothing? I remember the letters of his last name, his cab number.
The counter person was surprised a cab driver wouldn't know the correct location and re-directed me across the huge parking garage to Terminal C where my Delta flight would depart. Along the way I asked directions to the curbside check-in, and a guy in the elevator helped me. He was flying on American.
I checked my bags curbside and purchased a New England calendar.
It was 7:14 am in Terminal C . still time.
It is now approximately 5 hours after we landed. A woman gets the number of the hotel for me and lends me her phone. George answers and I just say,
" It's me, I'm ok." He is screaming and crying and my heart is just outside of myself feeling his pain. I tell him, "it's ok - it's ok - I'm here ."
We're both crying, he in grief with the thought of my death, and I with so much sorrow for him. And everywhere around me people are feeling their own pain, an anxiety that morbidly pulsates in the air we are breathing. We begin to sense the magnitude of this brilliant gesture of hate.
We arrive at the hotel via bus, and go to a banquet room where the airline reps tell us what is going on. Stunned silence. It's beginning to settle in. We have yet to hear any news over the radio, though, and have not seen a TV. It is now 5:00pm. Once in my room I immediately turn on CNN and call George, again. I call my sister. My Brother calls. I'm on my knees and crying and praying for everything and everyone. I thank God for my life. Friends begin to call. I have a deep weariness I can't shake. A sense of morbidity and mortality and sorrow hangs on my shoulders. I'm reminded of a description I once read of death: "That fragrant cup of dark light". Was that what it was like? I begin to understand that my life and our lives, will NEVER be the same again. I order three Martini's - straight up.
Before leaving my hotel room that morning, I noticed the Bible that is always placed in the drawer, and opened it to see what wisdom it would impart (the significance of which only hit me later) - it fell open to Job 24. In this book there is reference as follows:
24:2 Some remove the landmarks;they violently
take away flocks, and feed thereof.
24:12 Men groan from out of the city, and the soul
of the wounded crieth out.
24:16 In the dark they dig through houses, which they
had marked for themselves in the daytime:
they know not the light.
24:17 For the morning is to them even as the shadow
of death: if one know them, they are in the
terrors of the shadow of death.
The next day all airports are closed and several of us take a bus into town and walk around a mall for a couple hours. We try to shake the burden. I buy three pairs of shoes. We meet for drinks and dinner. The two younger ones order the weirdest food: garlic mashed potatoes, pasta (no sauce) and white fish, for one. Everything was white. The other gets a bowl of pink sauce with a couple shrimps sticking out. Everything was pink. We laugh and it feels good. . . so good!
On Thursday, we go to the airport and try to get out. Everyone from our group is going different directions at this point. Some just go home. Some rent cars and drive to L.A. because they are afraid to fly. One company arranges a limo to drive its employees back to Boston. I get routed through Atlanta the following day. It's chaotic. We wait and watch. I have a growing sense of dread as my day to fly approaches.
In retrospect:
When the FBI came on board the plane on the runway one said, "there's two of them" and quickly eyed all the passengers. Once inside the FAA building they escorted a young man with dark, mid-eastern features immediately into an office for questioning. I would find out later from a Delta employee that this man was questioned extensively, that he was from a wealthy family in Saudi Arabia and was in the U.S. with a Saudi Visa. I remember his expression being absolutely blank - no life in his eyes, not a trace of fear or compassion on his face.
I want to remember the people I met, from the lovely older couple who lived in Belair/Beverly Hills, to the hooker at the bar downstairs in the Clarion Hotel in Middle America, Middleburg Heights, Ohio. And all those in between:
Katie, who lost six business associates on the United flight that crashed into the World Trade Center.
Serene & Kathy who were going home to Singapore.
Lisa who was on her way as a first year teacher to Japan.
Cathy and Wendy who shared time, dinner, and their personal lives.
Paul @ the bar who once lived in California, could relate to the band "Fresh Cream" and shared his gentle spirit.
Terry, who started every sentence with "those poor people" and would start to cry.
Harold from Delta, who saved me from making the return trip through Atlanta when he knew the detained Saudi from our original flight, would be travelling on that one, too. He had also heard there were threats of possible terrorism in that city, and actually personally pulled my luggage off that flight and booked me through Cincinnati to L.A. in First Class!
This is what I think of most: How lucky I am! That life has been given to me and love is constantly being extended to me, not only from my family and friends, (ESPECIALLY from them), but from new friends, people who were strangers. I'm feeling that these people, from all walks of life, nationalities, ethnic backgrounds, etc., are like a blueprint for all people around the world. In our own ways, we all want to be loved, and hopefully to give love in return, to live in peace, to laugh. These words have been used in abundance, and may be intellectually and philosophically naïve, but isn't this truly the bottom-line - simply to LOVE?
Collection
Citation
“story20322.xml,” September 11 Digital Archive, accessed December 23, 2025, https://911digitalarchive.org/items/show/10796.