Six months ago today, I’d just gotten back to San Juan from a diving vacation in Bonaire, and was about to get on an American flight back to LA via Dallas. The flight was supposed to leave about 11 AM Atlantic Standard Time (which also happens to be the same time zone as Eastern Daylight Time).

Packed, and waiting for the time to approach at which I was to take a cab to Luis Munoz Marin Airport, I was doing some work on the computer in our apartment in Isla Verde, listening to Fox & Friends on the television. Just as the program was coming to an end at 9 AM, I heard E.D. Donahey announce that they’d just gotten word that a plane had collided with the World Trade Center.

The first thing that crossed my mind was that it must have been a private pilot who lost his way. Was the weather bad? Then I saw the image, and it was clearly a CAVU day (Ceiling And Visibility Unlimited, other than the smoke coming from the fire). Now it was starting to look deliberate–it’s hard to come up with a plausible scenario in which someone flies into one of the world’s tallest buildings, on a clear sunny morning, by accident, short of a heart attack in the cockpit or something.

As the fire burns, Fox brings in a supposed aviation expert, who assures us (despite my own thoughts) that this is just a navigational problem of some kind–it’s very unlikely that it is deliberate. Just as he finishes saying this, I see, in real time, the second plane hit the second tower.

Probably feeling like a fool, the “expert” says something like, “well, now this is starting to look like it’s deliberate.” Award that man a clue!

We’re clearly at war, the only question is with whom.

It’s now just twenty minutes or so before I have to decide whether to take a cab to the airport and get on a plane to the mainland. It seems crazy to even bother, but there’s been no announcement as to the status of other flights. But fortunately, just about the time that I have to make the decision, they announce that all flights have been grounded. Even if that doesn’t include Puerto Rico, I know that no planes are going to depart to Dallas, and if even if it does, I won’t get another flight to LA. So I’m now stuck in San Juan indefinitely.

We get word that the Pentagon is hit. I call a business associate in Old Town Alexandria, who has just gotten in to work, and tell him to look out the window. He sees the smoke and flames on the other side of Crystal City.

Now, as I continue to watch, I start musing idly about how I’d get back to LA if I really had to. I’m thinking, I could catch a non-American flight over to Santo Domingo, and then maybe Air Jamaica or something to Tijuana, and then walk across the border. But then I hear that the borders are closed as well.

So, I ended up spending almost another week in Puerto Rico (not a bad thing at all, as Patricia was there). The following Monday, I was on one of the first flights to leave after the fleet grounding. Security was clearly tighter–I had to put my computer through the machine separately, for the first time. The crew on the flight was somber. I wondered if they had lost friends that day…