There was a tremendous roar outside the window of my office on the 91st floor of the North Tower where I was working as a naval architect for the American Bureau of Shipping, and I swiveled from the desk where I was working to take a look.
I saw the smooth belly of a passenger jet — its wheels were not down — and immediately as I saw it, the plane was in the building right above my head, just 25 feet above me.
I dropped to the desk and covered my head and prayed. Ceiling tiles, bookshelves, light fixtures buried me.
TEN YEARS LATER: THE POST REMEMBERS 9/11
COMPLETE 9/11 ANNIVERSARY COVERAGE
As soon as the debris stopped falling, I jumped up to see if any of my office mates were hurt, which they weren’t.
None of our windows were broken, and there wasn’t any smoke or fire initially. But still, the 12 of us who were there knew immediately to get out.
We knew where all the stairwells were because we had regular fire drills, but the first two we tried were impassable.
The third one was blocked from above, but OK from below us.
We decided to start heading out straight away, but I realized I needed my briefcase because in it I had my phonebook with my wife’s number, which I’d never memorized. I quickly reached back to grab it.
Initially the stairwell was quiet, still light and dry. Nobody was coming down from above us. Later I would find out the people above my floor who survived the plane crash had no way out.
As we went down, though, more and more people joined in from other companies. Everyone was calm. I guess nobody considered that the building might collapse.
At the 78th floor, Port Authority people sent us across to a wider stairwell. There was a huge wall of flame at the end of the corridor — that was the first sign we had that things were getting very bad, and I think it kind of rocked us all when we saw it. Sprinklers were gushing. We were soaked from head to toe.
I’d say the whole trip took us a little over an hour.
Eventually we reached the mezzanine level and for the first time I could see outside into the plaza. There were piles of rubble, fires everywhere and the lobby façade was shattered. It was hard to take it all in. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.
A security guard directed me down through the concourse, and I was walking along when a huge explosion hit. I was thrown against the concourse wall, the lights went out and a cloud of smoke and dust just rolled over me.
After the dust settled I was able to get to my feet. I started calling out, and two other guys found me, and then we walked around, shouting for help. Someone called us over to him, and then started waving a flashlight at us. He directed us up a flight of stairs, and then we were out on Church Street.
I got out and did not look back. I did not know the South Tower had imploded. Since then, I haven’t had a lot of trauma, no nightmares, but I’m very aware that many people left their homes that day never to return.
In 2003 I moved from New York to Ohio, and I don’t plan to return. I’m very grateful my family was spared the grief that others have had to suffer.
One floor above, and I wouldn’t be here.