August 6th, part six...
I wish I could say the rest of the trip was a blur.
It wasn’t.
It is a pristine stained glass of images.
The Tech Sergeant assigned to recover body parts who did so through tears because he’d changed his daughter’s flight from Seoul to the following day.
The near-riot that broke out when a group of mostly Buddhist family members showed up and wanted to walk through the wreckage to stand as close as possible to where the spirits of their beloved had left their bodies and were denied because NTSB investigators wouldn’t allow it.
The first commercial passenger plane that flew overhead.
The chaplains who accompanied the recovery crews trying to provide some sort of spiritual help for whoever needed it.
The EMT from the Southside of Chicago whose eyes glazed over when he told me about being part of the first team on-scene and admitted to crying that morning, just before he broke into tears again.
The emergency room doctor who’d treated ALL of the first wave of rescuees.
The smell.
The Air show that continued at Andersen that weekend, because it was scheduled ... and how shell-shocked a lot of the people who came to visit seemed. It was a weird juxtaposition of happy and sad.
Standing on a guardrail as recovery teams pushed wheelbarrows full of body parts up the hill for "marking" and "identification."
The phone calls back to home base that confused me, because the home team was "excited" about "what kind of footage we were getting."
Finally shutting down the operation because word on the street was that the NTSB was looking for all of the video footage of the incident scene, and not wanting to have to go through the war between government agencies over our footage.
Sitting in my hotel room at the Hatsuo Greens, which has since become some other named golf resort, and trying to keep my thoughts and the room from spinning.
Going to the strip club with Dan (he was against it, for the record) in hopes we’d put it all behind us.
Fighting to find a flight home, hoping to leave from Andersen ... having that hope dashed when a flight to Narita showed up empty at Won G. Pat International.
Literally sprinting the length of the airport to make the flight, while trying to compute how many uniform pieces I had to take off to not be considered technically "flying in an unauthorized uniform."
Having airline attendants call our names over the intercom to tell us that our plane was finished boarding, and was about to head out to the runway.
Barely making it, and being stunned to be confronted with the walk to our seats in the very back row ... and having to pass the roughly 300 people, sitting in seats just like the wrecked plane I’d been seeing in my waking hours and in my dreams over the past three days.
Seeing a pregnant woman in the middle section. I couldn’t tell how far along she was, but she stared by at me with a look of concern in her eyes. I’m not sure if it was how filthy I was, or the terrified stare I must have been giving her. Or maybe, she just didn’t like to fly.
Flashing between the present, and the disturbing videotape as I searched for my row.
Flying DIRECTLY over the fucking wreck as we flew to altitude.
Not being able to fight the urge to look at it.
Almost screaming when we hit the first patch of turbulence.
Wanting to kiss the ground when we landed.
Trying to start processing my thoughts on the three-hour ride back to base.
Getting there, and starting to immediately write the short piece to send to Network.
Calling my wife, and telling her I’d made it safely home.
Realizing I’d changed, somehow.
Not being able to figure it out.
Going home, not being able to sleep and getting out of bed to return to work.
Three days straight of producing the piece. Arguing about what would make the cut, and which soundbites were appropriate, which were not.
Being far too close to the story to be objective, for some reason.
Having to watch the video again ... frame by frame.
Finishing it, and realizing I was as tired as I’d ever been in my life–AND simultaneously becoming aware that I wasn’t sleepy at all.
Drinking Nyquil to make me drowsy, and spending three hours in the most terrifying nightmares I’d ever witnessed.
Getting a lot of positive feedback on the finished product.
Winning a couple of awards for it.
Not caring.
Fast forwarding ten years, and starting a blog.
Reaching the end of this story. And being strangely satisfied that the only thing left ... is to make its point.
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