You may have been flying that day, may have even been in New York or D.C. I was in a hotel conference room in Toronto, Ontario, attending an ALPA Safety School. We had traveled out Monday, and class began early Tuesday morning. We had just returned from our first break when someone burst in the room—“There was a plane crash in New York, they hit one of the World Trade Center towers, we’re trying to confirm who it was and coordinate the ALPA response.”

We all walked out and went to the hotel bar, the location of the nearest television, to get a glimpse of the news. After a short debate on the size of the aircraft and who it might be (how could an airline pilot make such an error?), we returned to our conference room; there was a lot on our schedule that day.

The cause of the crash became all too clear a few minutes later, when the same individual came into our room, interrupted the class again, and stated that a second plane had hit the other tower. The syllabus was out the window, and the class moved back to the bar to try to get updates. The discussions among the group were no longer about how this happened, but how we could get down to New York and help. The same sense of service that was the underpinning of our volunteering to represent pilots on safety was now a source of torment as we sat helplessly on the sidelines, hundreds of miles away and across an international border that would soon be closed.

As we regrouped in the conference room, those of us with cell phone reception started getting calls; the conversations all the same: “Yes, I’m OK.

No, I wasn’t flying today. My airline wasn’t involved . . . ” Then the hotel manager came in and asked if I was in the room, that there was an urgent phone call for me—he’d have the front desk patch it through. It was my wife. Our cousin, whom she grew up with and was very close to, worked in the towers and was missing; her dad (a firefighter) and her brother (a police officer) were packing bags and getting ready to head up to New York.

She was very upset. “Go up to your Mom’s, I’ll see what I can do,” was all I could say—the feeling of helplessness was overwhelming.

Our cousin worked as a law enforcement agent for the State of New York in cooperation with the U.S. Secret Service investigating financial crimes; he was also a volunteer fireman in Somers, N.Y., near White Plains. As he was driving in to work, he called my father-in-law to let him know he was OK and not in his office. The crash hadn’t hit the news yet. My father-in-law didn’t know what he was talking about. Then, he heard a call for mutual aid come over the radio in the background, the sound of sirens, a quick good-bye, and the line went dead.

Back up in Toronto, the news was reporting that all U.S. airports and airspace had been closed to all but military aircraft and that the border crossings between the United States and Canada had been closed. We saw images of the towers, as well as the Pentagon, as reporters took guesses as to what was happening. There was a fourth plane somewhere over Ohio or Pennsylvania that may be headed for another target. Canada was preparing for an influx of diverted international flights.

Our country was under attack, and we were resigned to clustering around the televisions in a hotel bar. With guests from all over the world, some comments were “insulting,” but most were supportive and expressed disbelief; more than one person felt that a small country, or at least a village, on the other side of the world would likely “disappear” in the next few days.

Anger, uncertainty, frustration, disbelief, resignation, resolve—the apex of a range of emotions would last for hours that day. Phone lines were flooded as we spoke to family back home trying to get more information and then meeting again with each other to share. Outside, the taxi stand had moved to the far side of the parking lot, the mostly Arab-looking cab drivers huddled together, shifting from foot to foot with nervous and guarded looks on their faces. The world was different and the new “rules” were still being written. Late in the evening, after an inadequate dinner eaten much later than it should have been, I received a call from my wife—there was news about our cousin.

The details were sketchy; they still are to this day. After hanging up the phone with my father-in-law, he had raced, with lights and sirens, to the towers and had tried to contact his coworkers several times while en route; there was no answer—there never would be. Upon arrival, he went into life-saving mode, grabbing his turnout gear from the trunk of his car, and ran into the south tower to help.

Outside was a war zone, a cacophony of rescuers racing toward the towers while others fled seeking safety; there were dead and injured on the ground, and the sky was “raining” bodies. Confusion, then everything went black.

It would take several hours for our aunt to make the drive from White Plains, N.Y., to that hospital in New Jersey. It would take several hours more to drop off the three others rescued and taken away by boat with our cousin who were unable to reach their loved ones. Our cousin was safe. We counted our blessings.

Back in Toronto, we tried to distract ourselves by returning to the syllabus of the course, a futile effort as our attention was still focused on our families. We began working on plans of how to get home. The border was closed. There were no rental cars to be had. We looked at rail lines that could take us to Windsor, possibly to cross the border near Detroit (when it opened).

All we could really do, though, was wait. Finally, we got word that the borders would be reopened, and late in the evening we got a call that a U.S.-registered rental car was available. Four of us, one from the D.C. area and three from Atlanta, jumped on it and packed for the journey home.

We left at 2:00 a.m. to get to the border as early as possible to avoid long lines. We would first drive to D.C., drop off one of our group, then continue to Atlanta—about 20 hours of driving. At the border the car was searched by Canadian Border Patrol officers. Once they realized that we were a flight crew, they expressed sorrow and support and cleared us through.

We heard on the radio about an hour later that the line at that border was several miles long. As we drove through New York, signs warned that Manhattan was closed. We discussed trying to find a way to go in and help, but relented in the face of the requests to stay away and continued south toward D.C.

Arriving at DCA was surreal. As we passed the airport, there was an eerie silence, no “sounds of freedom,” not even an APU. There was no traffic, no people, and no planes. We dropped off our companion, filled the gas tank, and set off for Atlanta. Aside from a few comments, we were silent as well.

When we finally arrived in Atlanta, the news was reporting that airspace was beginning to open; there was some movement on the ramps. We gathered our things and departed for our homes and families, uncertain of what tomorrow would bring.

When planes started flying again and we went back to work, things were different. Everyone was a suspect, even the flight crews and police, and was treated as such. There were soldiers in the concourse—some armed, some not—a sight once associated only with “other” countries.

We could no longer taxi with the cockpit door open, it had to be locked and barred. Flying became an even bigger hassle, and many chose not to take the risk. The romance of air travel, which had been waning for years, was gone.

Though our cousin’s physical injuries would heal quickly, the emotional scars remained. Many of those he worked with perished. For months he went to memorial service after memorial service, sometimes two or three a day. He visits his partner’s grave every year on September 11; the grieving parents are always there.

It took a while before he could go back into “the city,” and even longer before he was ready to fly. He’s no longer with the State of New York; he’s a federal agent now and flies often for both business and pleasure. You’ll know if he’s on your flight because he’ll come up to the cockpit to produce his creds and introduce himself. He recognizes the threat we face, and if you’re an FFDO, he’ll thank you. Having experienced the alternative, he has privately expressed befuddlement as to why every pilot isn’t one and is near anger when he hears of an FFDO who doesn’t carry.

As airline pilots, we’ve always had to defend against mechanical failures, errors in engineering, maintenance, ATC, and procedure; we also have to be ready to defend against a terroristic threat. Safety programs, research, and advances in technology have helped reduce risk and make flying safer. Likewise, advances in security have done much to reduce the security threat we face. However, in every case, the last line of defense is the pilots.

Semper Vigilans,

First Officer A. David Eiser, AirTran