I will never forget watching the fire trucks charging down Water Street, horns blasting, lights flashing, sirens screaming, whipping around the tip of Manhattan and up the west side.
How many of those brave determined men were on their final mission?
For a while after that it was tough just to see a fire rig pass by in the street.
The fast ferry that took us to Bay Ridge was directly under the smoke and paper debris that was blowing southeast from Manhattan. As soon as we cleared the dock, all passengers went to the back of the boat to gape at the sight.
The next three months after we returned to work the fires burned and the smell of smoke covered lower Manhattan.
We all knew people who died, and children who suddenly were orphans.
Maybe future generations will be able to listen to tapes and view videos a little more dispassionately (much like mine sees Pearl Harbor in historical context), but the events of seven years ago are still too close for me.