Escape From New York

I was riding a commuter ferry into mid-town Manhattan when the first hijacked airliner crashed into the World Trade Center. The people around me gasped and pointed in the direction of the Twin Towers, allowing me to turn and see the first plume of smoke rising off the top. A gaping hole could be seen in the side of the tower. People on the ferry did not act very concerned, figuring it was a freak accident perhaps involving a commuter jet or a small helicopter. Nobody could sense the imminent tragedy that was about to unfold. Neither could anyone guess how difficult it would be to return home to safety.

As I reached Times Square on a bus, the second crash occurred. The news came over my radio earphones that repeated explosions were occurring in lower Manhattan. Though I was a couple of miles away from the scene, I could see the smoke billowing from both Twin Towers now. Crowds gathered to watch the giant television screens in Times Square, as if they were viewing a rock concert. I hustled into my office expecting to exchange stories with my co-workers, thinking the worst was over. Now watching a cable news program, I saw the first tower collapse and learned that desperate people were leaping from the second. Explosions were also occurring in Washington, DC, and terrorism was definitely to blame.

Everyone in my office realizes immediately that they are in potential danger by being so close to Times Square. Would the terrorists decide to make another example of the show business capital and tourist attraction? I hurry outside, past the throngs of shocked onlookers, plotting a strategy for getting out of New York alive. My cell phone is useless, with the phone tower no longer operating on top of the World Trade Center. Calling my wife is out of the question. Over the radio, I hear that every mode of transportation out of the city is blocked. My first lesson in government crisis management has begun.

My sense of frustration builds. The least safe place to be at this moment is Manhattan, yet the government has closed all the avenues of escape – the subway, the bridges, and the tunnels. The streets back to the ferry terminal are blocked by New York police, so I can't take a bus. I must walk towards the water. Yet that exposes me to a different threat – a rough neighborhood. Will rioters come out of the woodwork and take advantage of the panic and mayhem? I look around me to find no police close enough to protect me from crime. They're too busy blocking the intersections two blocks behind me. I quickly remove the cash from my wallet, tucking it into a safe place in case I am robbed.

I make it through unscathed and arrive at the ferry terminal just in the nick of time, as thousands of New Jerseyans with similar ideas start lining up for a ride back across the Hudson River. Over the radio, I hear more reports about gridlocked traffic and trapped citizens. Thank God, I think to myself, the ferry is operated by a private company with no connection to the city of New York, or either state government. The bureaucrats will not be able to block my escape now.

Within a remarkable twenty minutes, I am walking safely on the other side of the river. The New York Waterway does not even charge people for the service, and hundreds of grateful people are thanking the ferry workers for their generosity. The company has built up lots of goodwill with its customers on this day.

Unfortunately, the private buses at the ferry landing in Weehawken, NJ, are overwhelmed, and I face the most arduous part of my journey home. It takes a long time to board a bus that is heading in my direction. Lines of hot, sweaty, and worried people are waiting patiently for a ride home. When I finally reach my destination, I am greatly relieved. Yet I think about the poor women and children I saw walking along the side of the road. I climb into my car and make my way through traffic back towards the ferry landing. Surely, I can get someone home quicker than the buses can.

At the first traffic light I encounter my first obstacle: a police officer directing traffic away from the ferry landing. Here again, some government agency is trying to stop someone from getting home quickly and safely. Fortunately, the cop is on foot, and I turn past him and slam my foot on the accelerator. At the ferry landing, I find two grief-stricken ladies carting heavy bags and luggage down the side of the road. Both gratefully accept my offer of a ride, thanking me profusely all the way home.

I head back towards the congested ferry landing, hoping to relieve other weary walkers. On my return trip, however, the police state has stepped up its obstructionist efforts. Barricades now block my only path towards the shell-shocked and exhausted ferry passengers. When I try to sneak through, a siren sounds, and a police motorcycle screams toward me. I am seen as a threat to public safety. An angry voice scolds me and orders me to turn around and go home.

This day was dreadful and horrific in numerous ways. First, the government antagonizes some foreign group of people to the point of fanatical rage. Then, it fails to protect us against a violent reaction to its foreign policy, despite spending billions of dollars in tax money on cruise missiles, spies, and high-tech eavesdropping equipment. And finally, as innocent people are being killed, it obstructs our flight to safety, all in the name of safeguarding us from danger. The bright spots in my day, in contrast, were private, non-violent, and voluntary.

September 13, 2001