Taking the first boat into Manhattan after 9-11 − 17 September, 2001

We lived on Staten Island.

Chiaki was doing her internship at St.Vincent's and had been asleep on the actual day of the attack, having just come off an all night shift. The kids were okay and I made it out of Manhattan eventually. That’s another story.

After I bathed that Tuesday evening, the tub had a big grey ring around it, kind of a sick redux of The Cat in the Hat Comes Back. Strange blur of a week afterward. Kids on the playground on Sept .12 trying to figure out just why they and their dads had the day off. People meeting spontaneously outside on the street, unwilling or unable to go back into their homes until they told their own particular story. There's a lot to tell of that week and subsequent weekends when on every Saturday from 1pm until about 3pm, Forest Avenue would be closed off to have a funeral or memorial for one of the firemen of cops who'd died.

But even as I try to place shards of memory into a collage, clarity comes forth when I remember taking the first boat into the city on Monday 17 Sept. The Staten Island ferries worked overtime during that whole week, transporting rescue workers, and their gear from the staging area of St. George's terminal.

That morning, Giuliani opened up Manhattan below 14th street which meant that we could take the uptown trains from Bowling Green. I drove to St. George’s terminal but couldn’t park in the usual lot be cause investigators had roped it off in order the run the plates of cars whose drivers hadn’t come back to claim them. When you walked on the promenade toward the terminal and looked at the lot below, where clumps of still parked cars stood, some of the enormity started sinking in. Subsequent analysis would show that Staten Island, with 5% of the population took 20% of the casualties.

I had to go into Manhattan that morning. Our company was on 32nd street in Koreatown and my business partners were stranded on the west coast because the flights were still grounded. Needless to say, most every employee was still in a state of shock but I also knew that if we didn't do something, anything, we'd lose our minds.

Before I went into the city, one of the neighbors lent me a large American flag he had hanging from his front door. It had a five foot aluminum pole and was 100 percent printed polyester, you know, the kind you get from Home Depot. I carried that thing with me because I planned to plant it on our rooftop which faced the Empire State Building.

But I want to stay focused on the boat ride.

I remember a Coast Guard zodiac accompanied us on the John F. Kennedy as it plowed its ponderous bulk through the straits between Jersey, Brooklyn and Staten Island on the way to the tip of lower Manhattan. The waterway had been cleared of nearly everything except police, coast guard, the ferries and a few other stragglers. A full cutter with five inch guns lay just off Liberty Island while our little zodiac sported .30 caliber machine guns fore and aft with dual Yamaha outboards so it could sting as well as zip.

I remember people milling around the boat throughout the 25 minutes it took to cross over. They pointed out the plume of smoke still visible, all the military and police presence, how the dust cloud had spread out to be an ugly smeared blanket over the city. You'd see reporters and photographers work the crowd for stories, a lot of people eagerly volunteering where they'd been and what happened. But this wasn't like people who wanted to get their 10 minutes of fame. A lot of the talking was cathartic.

Because I had a big flag, they would gravitate to me but I let them know politely, but firmly that I didn't want to talk. I needed to gather myself to look everyone in the eye and convince them that if they made one phone call, sent one email, wrote one line of code, that was enough work for the day. The next day would require two phone calls, two emails, two lines of code....

All that swirled through my head as the JFK slowed toward the Manhattan side terminal. Near that point, the interviewing stopped and people, one and all began drawing close to the bow. I had my flag furled because it was easier to carry. But as the ferry cut its motors and began to drift, squeezed among the silent, awe-struck people, I moved my way to the front of the bow and simply let the wind open it up. Every one was quiet as we took in the smoking hulk of what was our city. And you could hear gentle popping of the wind straightening out the flag. I placed my forehead onto the staff and kept quiet, although I could hear camera motors whizzing behind me as photographers took our picture. I didn't care.

It was the longest fifteen seconds of my life. Pressed quiet with about 150 people with only the sound of the wind and the flag. Nobody said anything because there was nothing you could say. The air tasted burnt.

The gangplanks lowered and a photographer asked to get my name. I refused. I don't know what he ever did with the pictures.

I know the American flag has been twisted beyond recognition in the years that followed that week. But not that day. Everyone who carried a flag or spoke with me knew exactly the purpose it served.

It was a floatation device.