+ COMMUNITY Contribution
Remembering 9/11
As an FDNY firefighter in New
York City, I was living the
dream. On Sept. 11, 2001, I
awoke in my Staten Island apartment on
my day off. Forty-five minutes later, my
phone rings. “Turn on the TV. A plane
hit the Trade Center!”
I called my dad while watching the
news. Thoughts flashed in and out of
my mind: God be with those people. That
would be the highest roof rope rescue in the
history of FDNY. How the heck are they going
to knock down that fire?
When I saw the second plane hit
the south tower, followed by a huge
fireball, I knew I had to go. During the
drive, a radio message came through: “All
off-duty NYC firefighters and police officers
are to report to work immediately.
A major disaster has just occurred in
lower Manhattan.”
32 Central Florida Lifestyle | September 2019
Just six months earlier I graduated
from the Rock, FDNY’s Fire Academy
and breeding ground for New York’s
bravest. But as I walked north on Manhattan’s
West Side Highway that day, I
didn’t feel brave at all.
There was no traffic. It was eerily
quiet and, instead of city sounds, I heard
a bad chorus of Scott Pak alerts. The
whaling alarms, located on a firefighter’s
breathing pack, go off when a firefighter
goes down or lies motionless.
I walked through what seemed
like a foot of soot, feeling totally unprepared
in my borrowed, one-size-too-big
FDNY bunker coat, khaki shorts and
sneakers. I kept asking myself, “Where
the heck are the towers?”
As I made my way closer to what
looked like a war zone, everything went
silent. There, about 20 yards ahead, sat
my fire engine, E-23. Windows blown
out, all compartment doors open. It was
clear the guys took everything they could
and bravely ran into hell.
Then, a figure emerged from behind
the engine. It was Tony, my engine
company’s driver. I wondered if I was
seeing a ghost. He explained that he had
been dispatched to retrieve another fire
engine, and it hit me. Jimmy took my spot
today. There’s no way he’s gone. He took my
spot.
With urgency, I crawled up the
rubble to search. The smoke smell was
heavy. Utter devastation surrounded us.
It looked like a mini mountain range of
burning scrap yard piles that went up
about eight stories, covering 16 acres.
Giant steel beams were twisted and torn.
Heavy elevator cables ran out of the pile
like thread.
A couple of us tried lifting debris,
but it wouldn’t budge. I felt like an ant
commissioned to rescue his brothers under
a pile of 2x4s.
I saw things in those days I can’t
write about.
In the days after 9/11, I attended
many funerals. To this day, the sound of
bagpipes still unearths buried emotions.
Seeing life through the lens of a funeral
recalibrated my focus to what matters
most in life. My second chance compels
me to live in gratitude in response
to God’s grace. It shapes my choices, my
relationships and my work.
While I wish this story on no one, I
write so we never forget.
This story has been condensed.
Visit www.CentralFloridaLifestyle.com
to read the extended version.
PHOTOS COURTESY OF MIKE CORTES
Courtesy of Mike Cortes
/www.CentralFloridaLifestyle.com