A Beautiful, Regular Day: September 11th, Part I

Originally published in 2013, this is the first in a five-part series, to be published weekly throughout September and October.

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We have all learned so many things through this terrible universal experience. One thing I have learned is that everyone has a unique story. It may be dramatic or emotionally powerful. Others, in and of themselves, may be rather mundane stories, reflecting how so many went about another day in the week, in daily their lives; it was, after all, a Tuesday, and most of the country was at work or about to be. It was generally unremarkable, except that it was in most places a beautiful sunny day, but “regular” – as if that were really a clearly identifiable trait in our days.

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The moment I first heard the reports I was pulling into the drive at work – Jeppesen. “Jepp” is largely an aviation information company. We produced – and I sold, in simplest terms, instrument flying information. Although cockpits are increasingly “going electronic,” Jepps have traditionally been paper. In simplest, layman’s terms, the information would be referenced – and relied upon – as if the crew had no windows, and would rely solely on their instruments and the charts and procedures they had in front of them that told them exactly where to be when.

Ironically, at work we might occasionally lament after a tragic air crash somewhere, anywhere in the world, that warranted or not, when there are once again hundreds or thousands of sheets of paper floating all over a hillside that have the name “Jeppesen” printed on them – enroute charts, SIDs (Standard Instrument Departure procedures), STARs (Standard Terminal Arrival Route) charts, and Approach procedures among others, the lawyers have an easy target right there in front of them.

It didn’t really matter at the moment if a chart was out of date or not, or had been used properly or not; Jeppesen’s name was there so the lawsuit would always follow, and almost everyone shares blame.

As we all tend to say now, as others did beginning in November of 1963, I remember exactly where I was.

I said I was pulling in the drive at the Jeppesen parking lot. More specifically, (because it is in these things that we do remember so well) I remember the exact spot I was in: it was the dip in the transition from asphalt to concrete; the transition onto the apron of the parking lot, the edge of the street as my Land Rover crossed the threshold from street to parking lot. There was a dip as the concrete had been formed with a shallow trough in the ever-slightest V shape to serve also as a drainage gutter. It then immediately angled up onto the asphalt as the parking surface was inclined in its entirety from the street across the expanse of eighty yards or so to the far eastern edge of the lot.

At that moment, as I listened to the news on the radio with the morning bright in its usual Colorado sunshine and aside of the fact I had just cut my way through the regular morning rush and had the radio on low, it was a “quiet” day so far. But in that unbelievable, jolting, life-changing moment with the simultaneous turning and bumping of my truck, all coordinated with the shocking impact of the newsman’s words, the dip in the road felt like a collision, as if I had actually hit something. Even now when I replay that very instant in time over and over again in my mind, and see it in my mind’s eye, it is as if I had actually missed that driveway apron and hit the curb instead. I didn’t, but in my memory I do, and it feels like an explosion.

Needless to say, inside Jeppesen world headquarters everyone was in shock. The TVs had already begun to roll out of the conference rooms; groups of people, large and small were congregating everywhere, and in places people did not usually congregate. The last of the phone calls were ending as I walked into the sales area and with rare exception, the phones didn’t ring after that.

There was an odd and unique sense of connection to this, as there always was. Sadly, that was a strange but familiar sensation unique to Jeppesen. Bright white sheets of paper fluttering down, turning over and over, oblivious to their purpose or reason; only silently obeying the laws of nature. When an aircraft accident occurs, we are almost always somehow part of it.

I, like so many others there, had taken those calls from a wife or friend saying they needed to cancel chart subscriptions – “…need to stop the revisions from coming to the house; it’s so painful.” It was, in part, our corporate tragedy – paper floating through the air, “Jeppesen” on every sheet, almost as if in silent proclamation, “It’s happened again” – and we were part of it.

But this time it was far beyond that.

My supervisor, Tony grabbed me and said, “Let’s go to my car.” We raced back to the parking lot and ran to his car, where we sat, doors open, listening to the evolving tragedy. We could have been inside watching it unfold on the televisions with everyone else, but at least at that moment we didn’t need to. We could see it all as we stared at the dashboard and out the windshield, across the parking lot and up over the hillside and beyond the fence separating the Jeppesen property from Centennial Airport. As we listened and increasingly felt more stunned and angry and determined and fearful, we almost didn’t notice there was no longer any aircraft engine sound coming from across the runway; already – no airplanes were taking off or landing.

After perhaps fifteen minutes of listening in our own distant agony we returned to the building and walked quickly to the cafeteria, where we found as many as two-hundred of our co-workers crammed everywhere, all facing the south wall where a single television stood atop a tall stand. Within five minutes of arriving, we watched as one of the towers fell. A gasping inhalation filled the room as we all reacted. I don’t remember any words that were spoken, if at all.

In my memory, it is silent.

Within a couple of days we were informed the Federal Bureau of Investigation would be coming into the building and would be examining our sales and subscription records perhaps for several weeks, maybe months. There were certain customer accounts, or account profiles, sales transactions, even inquiries that never resulted in a sale that they were interested in.

At home the silence above us continued. The back or west side of our home faced the mountains; from the second floor height of our bedroom window we could see the beautiful contoured greens and browns of the foothills and the “hogback.”

Normally airplanes of all kinds, large, small, fast, and slow – those that would loll over the near peaks conducting their training maneuvers in sharp turns, cutting power, increasing power; the high-pitched and throaty Lycoming piston engines singing their straining and compliant songs, commanded by student pilots at the direction of their instructors – flew over. But now only eerie silence and emptiness filled the blue space.

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Next week: Part II – Quiet Skies