I was employed as an airline pilot on 9/11/01. It was perfect flying weather that day, and I bemoaned my ill fortune to be scheduled for a classroom training session at headquarters near Dulles. As I waited for my training partner to arrive, people began popping out of offices to spread the news. Someone produced a TV. Someone else produced pictures from the internet. The building was evacuated. The sky, usually thick with the sight and sound of air traffic at Dulles, was silent and empty. Occasionally, the sound of a fighter jet would rip through the quiet.
Many of my colleagues witnessed the burning and collapse of the towers from the air. Many more were trapped away from home and family in the days following.
The next day, I reported for training again. Our simulator session script (standardized, and determined months in advance by the training department) had us flying charted visual approaches at LaGuardia. Those photorealistic images of the Twin Towers on the sim's visuals were my last, eerie glance at the towers.
Weeks later, flying up and down the east coast at night, the bright work lights at Ground Zero could be seen for miles and miles.
Six months after 9/11, I was captain of an evening flight from LaGuardia to Dulles. As I taxied toward the runway, suddenly two shafts of light appeared where the twin towers had been. It was a beautiful, perfect, etheral tribute. But all I could think about were those work lights months ago.
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