Aviation

Ricardo and I were sitting on a tug parked at gate G93. It was 11h15 in the morning and we were waiting patiently for the arrival of Singapore Airlines, to get her first class cans, bag drop them, go to the 'boneyard' and push-off the cans just to get the dollies. Then it was back to the "A" side. ASAP.
I felt strange. It was like a cold clammy tingling sensation. I felt nauseous and sad, then it dawned on me.

"Ricardo?" I sort of yell to the man sitting to my left. It's always noisy on the ramp, sometimes I think we ought to be taught ASL when sitting in close proximity to one another.
"Ricardo? Don't you think it's weird for us to be sitting here on this side of the airport at this hour, at this gate, on this day?" I inquire of my associate.
"Weird? It what way?" Ricardo replied. Apparently clue-less.
"Dude, it's 11 September. It's the third anniversary of the Day of Tragedy."
"Yeah, so? Why is it so weird?" He asks cluelessly.
"Ricardo, UA93 was enroute from NWR to SFO before it was hijacked. This is the United side of the airport. UA93 was scheduled to arrive at this airport three years ago today, at this time of day. UA93, G93. Get it?"

"Yeah, I get it and you're right- it is weird."

I love aviation. In high school instead of taking Art for an elective, I took an elective class called "Aviation Today". The class was taught by a history teacher by the name of Mister Gay. In that class, I learned about the different components of aircraft. From the wings to the fuselage to the elevators to the ailerons. I learned how lift was created by convexing the top of the wing, thus causing the air to have a lower pressure rushing above the wing's leading edge than beneath. I learned the difference between pitch and yaw and what the hell a yoke was. No, not the kind inside eggs. Fascinating, as Mr. Spock would say- Aviation fascinated me.

I flew everywhere when I was able to travel on my own. I flew from Boston's Logan Airport to Norfolk Virginia for a weekend in 1986. I flew roundtrip to/from Boston and San Jose also in 1986. I and some friends stood on the roof of our apartment complex to watch the Blue Angels perform their airshow at Moffett Field. F-14's flying tree top level in Sunnyvale. After-burners running full. I loved the feeling I felt throughout my body as the jets flew overhead. I had made four roundtrips transversing the country to visit my folks and returned home. Air travel is safer than a pedestrian crossing the street in San Francisco.

I received a call on my cellphone from my friend Rudy. He instructs me to turn on the TV. I ask what channel and he says it doesn't matter because it's on all the channels. "Dude" I say, I'm at the ten-ten, can't this wait? Rudy said no, it couldn't wait. So I grabbed a towel and walked from my room to the media room, sat down and watched the horror unfold in front of my eyes. The WTC south tower just collapsed.

Yet, for me, the terrorists succeeded. The horrific tragedies of that day really, fucked. Me. Up. It was eerie when none of the planes were flying that week. The only planes allowed to fly were the military aircraft on patrol around the Bay Area.
When the planes returned to flight, the skies didn't seem so friendly after all. Worse still- I had now developed a fear of flying.

There were two reasons why I decided to work at SFO. One being money- the great motivator that it is. The other was to help me get over my new fear. For the first three weeks I was petrified to go out on the ramp. Although, I had passed all of the background checks (FBI, MI5, Interpol). I had earned the 24/7 clearance required to become an authorized person in the restricted areas of the AOA (Airport Operations Area). Yet for me to be there in the same place as the aircraft? Nope. I wasn't ready for that just yet. My friend Ron understood my plight and didn't push me. I would get the confidence soon enough on my terms. In time, I got myself reacquainted with my love for aviation. I enjoyed being out on the ramp at the far end of the runway (28R) sitting on my tug parked on the side of the road and just watch the 747-400s achieve lift. Within seconds the plane is screaming over my head. I would get this sense of enormous energy permeating the very essence my being manifesting itself with a tingling sensation that made my nipples hard. Another was scrambling atop a tug conforming my upper body against Tubular Belle's smooth cold fuselage. My outstretched arms with fingers splayed trying to cling to the curved surface as I worked the panel switches to open the cargo door and retrieve the first class cans. Knowing full well that I am the first person to touch the body of a magnificent bird that was airborne a scant fifteen minutes prior.

Squirt guns don't squirt people, kids do.

Despite all the onboard computer systems on the flight deck. Airplanes do not fly themselves into buildings, people do. People kill one another for socio-political reasons. People kill each other for sport. And aircraft are merely tools.
Large sophisticated tools. Large sophisticated fragile tools for travel.
A plane arrives at a gate with passengers. Whom de-plane, get their bags and leave. Meanwhile most aircraft are "turn-arounds". Arriving as VS19 and departing four hours later as VS20. All cleaned up and fresh smelling. A new crew and refueled and on they go.

I boarded an airliner once again in June 2005, for my first trans-atlantic flight. SFO to LHR via Virgin Atlantic Airways. By October the same year, I flew domestic on Jet Blue. Oak to IAD, it had been awhile since I spent time with the Ottah.

Thousands died that day...

Hundreds of thousands were affected that day...

And, it's been only five years.

It seems like forever...

It feels like yesterday...