By Charles Layton
I was up early on the morning of September 11, 2001, because men were coming to paint our house. The two guys who showed up asked me if I’d heard that an airplane had just crashed into one of the World Trade towers.
I flipped on the TV and there it was — a giant flaming wound high up on the building, framed by the purest of bright blue skies. All the New York channels were carrying it live by then. The two painters watched for a couple of minutes and then trooped outside to set up their ladders and start work.
I made some coffee and left the TV on in the living room. And then — to everyone’s astonishment — the second plane struck. Now the coverage was non-stop and commercial-free on all channels, and what we’d assumed was an accident we now knew was something else.
I walked outside and told the painters, “Hey, guys, come in here and see this. A second plane just hit the towers.”
In they came and stood in front of the TV in their dirty painter’s clothes, too stunned to know what to say or do. After a while, they trooped back out and resumed painting. I refilled my coffee cup and stayed on the couch, transfixed. At one point I looked over at the side window — on the side of the house where the painters were at work — and through that window I saw them both, still painting but also peering through the window glass and staring at the TV with stupified expressions.
In some other situation it might have seemed funny. In that moment it was anything but. We were all stupified together.
I was alone in the house; Mary was out of town. I honestly cannot remember what I did for all the rest of that day. But I will never forget the sight of those two men’s faces, like a couple of Kilroys, outside my living room window.
Editors note: The whole world knows what 9/11 was like in New York City. We would like to know what it was like here in Ocean Grove. We invite readers to file comments here, telling us how you heard about that tragic event, your thoughts and feelings at the time, and what you did on that day.
I lived in Staten Island at the time, and that morning got on the bus to the ferry to go to work in midtown about half a block from the waterfront facing the Harbor and downtown Manhattan. As it was the last stop, I usually just stood by the driver for the short trip to the ferry terminal. I noticed that while you rarely heard the driver’s radio, that day it was full of chatter, and when we got to the corner where there was a clear view of the tower, I saw the smoke. I asked the driver about it, and he said what most people seem to be thinking at first, that a small plane had accidentally hit the tower. When I got to the terminal, I started dialing my office on the cell phone, because I worked for a Japanese newspaper/TV news company, I wanted to make sure they were aware of the situation (my boss later said I got “the scoop” in Japan). I had trouble getting through, but kept dialing as I got on the boat, and like most passengers that day, moved to the front to see the fire.
The ferry pulled away from the dock, and most people had their phones pasted to the sides of their heads…then we saw the second plane hit and a gigantic fireball. Everyone gasped in unison, and I remember a tall guy standing right next to me say “it’s terrorism!” An instant later, the ferry stopped dead in the water, and then started going back to the terminal. The captain announced that “we are not going to Manhattan” that morning and to exit the terminal. It was to be used by emergency services.
Leaving the lower levels of the terminal, I saw emergency vehicles of all sorts streaming in, and the empty ferry departed to help with any evacuations. NYPD blocked the driveways into the terminal. Still trying to stay in touch with my office, I went up to the top deck of the terminal where a small group had gathered. Some were calling friends and relatives who worked downtown, other discussing what they had seen. I met a couple of young German travelers there who just that morning had decided to take the free trip on the ferry to see the Statue of Liberty before going to the top of the Trade Center!
Some time passed, and I interviewed a few people, included those arriving from the last ferry out of Manhattan, and relayed their accounts to my boss in midtown to include in the paper. Then I’ll never forget standing next to a very young police officer as the first tower collapsed. From where we were, we couldn’t hear the sound of it. I just remember him saying “there it goes” in a deadpan voice.
I had a lot of thoughts going through my head that morning, that inevitably there would be war, marveling over what a contrast that morning was to the night before when I was covering fashion week, a feeling of closeness with that small group of people who were standing on top of the terminal, etc. We were informed by the bus dispatchers there that all bridges were closed. That combined with the ferry service stopped meant we were all trapped on the island. My husband was surfing down in Ocean Grove that morning – I wondered when he would ever be able to get back (he later told me that he and his friend could see the smoke from out on the break, and thought it had to be a smaller fire closer to Ocean Grove, not a gigantic fire in Manhattan)
After some more time at the terminal, I collected the young Germans who were now stuck in Staten Island with no way to get back to their youth hostel, and took them to my house for some coffee. I had backpacked my way through Asia and Europe in my younger days, so I could put myself in their budget traveling shoes. They ended up staying the night on our fold-out couch, which was somewhat of a comfort to me because my husband could not return from New Jersey with the bridges closed. Phone service was hit or miss that day, so the Germans and I communicated with the outside world via internet, letting everyone know we were OK, and I assisted my boss with his reporting to Tokyo as best I could.
That evening the Germans and I went to the top of a hill by where I lived that on a normal day had a wonderful view of downtown. That night we could see the glow of the wreckage and all the emergency vehicles, and the huge void left by the missing towers. I went to sleep later hoping that it was just all a bad dream.
Anonymous “she” – I remember walking to the open door of the UPS truck, as I knew the driver for years. We exchanged a few words about what we had heard and I honestly think he was about to cry, as was I. I felt close to him at that moment because we shared an unspoken fear, worry, shock…….
I’ll never forget those few moments with Mike. He was the first person I saw and spoke with. Funny how you can remember SO clearly a moment from such a tragedy, yet I can’t remember where I laid my car keys this morning. The morning is etched in my mind forever.
What a blessing that my 80-year-old parents happened to be visiting us from their home in Pittsburgh the week of 9.11. I credit them for keeping me sane and centered after losing contact with my husband, Kurt, who was working in lower Manhattan. Kurt’s PATH train pulled into the World Trade Center basement just minutes after the first plane struck. Dodging a hail of debris falling from the towers, he called from the street to say that he was fine. Even after the second plane hit, and he was virtually imprisoned in his Maiden Lane office, he assured me he’d be just fine, although he had no idea how or when he’d get back to our home on Abbott Avenue. And then we lost contact. His cell phone was dead. For hours, we did not know his whereabouts.
Phone glued to my ear, I paced back and forth on our creaky front porch, answering calls from concerned relatives and friends from all over the planet. My stomach was in knots. With the TV blasting in the background, I sat on the floor with a detailed map of Manhattan and tried to determine if Kurt’s building would have been engulfed when the towers fell. As if this was something I could determine. Still no contact.
All the while, my parents were quietly in the background, tending to household chores, and distracting my daughters, who’d been dismissed early from school. My mom held Julianna, then 6, on her lap and together they read book after book. Anything but watch the horror on TV. While both girls were aware of the attack, they knew only that their Dad was trying to get home from the city. Never mind that we’d not heard from him in hours. “It will all work out,” my Dad said. “It’ll all be ok.”
Eventually, my mom and dad packed up snacks, grabbed the sand chairs and marched Julianna and her sister Katharina, then 10, down to the beach. What better place to be on a gloriously sunny September day? The girls dodged waves and showed their grandparents how to build sand sculptures. I have a vivid image of mom and dad, both in clip-on sunglasses, reclining side by side in the sand chairs, the girls at their feet on a blanket.
Ultimately, we were so very lucky.
Kurt survived, having walked some 70 city blocks to Penn Station. Disheveled and shell-shocked, he boarded one of the first trains back to the shore. I picked him up at the Long Branch train station early in the evening. Meanwhile, my parents cooked dinner and briefed the girls on their dad’s arrival. The instant the front door opened, both girls leaped into his arms. My dad shook his hand, and my mom stroked Kurt’s face, telling him how grateful she was to see him back.
That was the very last time my mom and dad ever visited Ocean Grove. Mom’s health steadily deteriorated, leaving her wheelchair-bound and unable to travel. She passed away in early 2010. My dad lives in western Pennsylvania and celebrated his 90th birthday earlier this year.
I took possession of my Ocean Grove house in mid-August of 2001; a place of rest and respite from my hectic whirlwind executive role at a major financial institution.
The morning of September 11, the executive team and I were at our Dallas call center to discuss and evaluate our offshore plans when my assistant called me to tell me that an aircraft flew into the World Trade Center. We all thought it was a bad joke but when we flipped on the TV and saw the flames, the meeting came to an abrupt end and we all starting calling our colleagues. Minutes the later the second plane hit. I know I was in shock as I used to work on the 85th floor of Tower 2 and we had colleagues in tower 7. Phone lines were jammed, though I called my daughter’s school to reassure her that I was ok, and I would fly home that night. Of course even the company jet was not allowed to take off and we felt stranded. We scrambled to rent 5 cars and drive back. In the interim, we were all trying to find friends and family and colleagues. It took me 2 and a half days to drive home only to find out that one of my friends and a close colleague, David Rathkey, who was working for another financial firm in the towers, perished. Dave was a big hearted Englishman with a great sense of humor who left behind his 3 young sons and the Mountain Lakes soccer team without it’s coach. At Citi, we lost 7 colleagues who had left early to get to a 10 am meeting with Cantor Fitzgerald.
In the days immediately after 9/11, this house, the beach and the quiet streets of the town were my solace. I didn’t go out much but somehow felt safer here. I still have a hard time going down to the WTC area. I will probably visit the memorial to find and maybe touch Dave’s name. But I will never forget.
I was sleeping in that day as I was off, recovering from the weekend flea-market and final Auditorium services. I was woken shortly after the first plane hit by my mother, who was at work and watching from a TV in the break-room. I called a couple of friends who I knew would be interested in the unfolding events. Then as I sat there I heard of the 2’nd plane hitting the towers. A sense of fear immediately over took my emotions.
At this point my mother was already heading back to Ocean Grove. I was, as cliched as this sounds, firmly glued to the television at this point. As the events began to unfold, the Pentagon, Flight 93, I began to really take in how incredibly beautiful the day’s weather was compared to the horrendous events that were occurring.
My aunt lives in Manhattan, so both of us were exceptionally worried about her safety. My mother managed to get a hold of her by late morning….She had been in Grand Central Station, volunteering for Habitat for Humanity, handing out fliers. She was fine, and home.
Wanting to be around other people as the tragic events continued to play out for the day, we chose to eat at the Sampler Inn. The owenrs, Mel, Christine, and Byron, had strong ties to Manhattan. Byron was also working in Manhattan that day, but was safe at this juncture. I’ll never forget the power and strength of the hugs we all shared as we saw each other in the dining room of the Sampler.
By this point the OGCMA had lowered all the flags at half-mast. You could clearly see the smoke from the Ocean Grove beach.
Word spread that St. Paul’s was open for prayer. We spent some time in prayer there….
That’s where my memories of that day cease being remarkable….I’m glad I was in Ocean Grove for this, and again for the 10th anniversary. It’s a blessing that during times like this, or the horrendous fires our community has had over the past 2 years, or the blizzards, or the hurricane, we can put down our differences and become the community of Ocean Grove. This place truly is God’s Square Mile. May God bless the USA and Ocean Grove.