As the ferry was docking on the west side of the Winter Garden, we heard the engine of a plane, too low, too close and then the sudden sound of it slamming into the first tower. And, debris, swirling, swirling in that beautiful sky. We thought it was paper and office bits -- and it was -- but it was so much more we would learn later.

All of us ferry passengers were gathered on the plaza outside of Morans, a restaurant in the WFC, staring at the smoldering building. Cell phones were useless, cut off from their supply by the impact.  The crowd swelled when traders at the NY Mercantile Exchange came out to see. Snippets of conversations -- people wondering why air traffic control had allowed a plane into the WTC airspace --  intermingled with sirens, lots of sirens.

I couldn't move in that crowd; a woman and I banded together, attempting to free ourselves. It was then we noticed another woman chanting "I've got to go home" and zomb-like marching directly towards us. Her entire front red, stained with blood, was glistening. She had been walking on the narrow stretch between the WTC plaza and WFC when she was showered with falling glass shards. We got her into the medical office at the NY Mercantile Exchange building and were stepping out when the second plane careened into the second tower. The crowd, considerably larger now, broke into pandemonium, fleeing onto an arriving ferry.

In the melee, I was knocked over but someone, I don't know who, picked me up and carried me over his shoulder, sprinting for the ferry. We were the last on.  Zigzagging up the Hudson, the ferry captain awaited instruction: should we head to Hoboken or go further north? Where was the next plane going to hit?  The ferry cabin was chaotic: passengers, who were arriving and not allowed to disembark, demanding to know what happened.  All of us, who were fortunate enough to squeeze on, trying to explain what we saw.  No one, of course, had any understanding or knowledge of what was happening or of the other planes in the other cities.  

It was decided that we would dock in Hoboken and the ferry would return for more passengers who were desperate to flee.

I jumped on the first train out of Hoboken; I didn't care where it was heading as long as it was away from Manhattan. On the train, someone, maybe one of the Mercantile traders had a transistor radio. Somewhere in the swamps of Secaucus we learned that the Towers had crumbled and the train let out a collective cry. Mine was still buried deep.  I was wondering if all of Manhattan was under siege or just downtown and if my husband would know the best, safest way out of town.  I feared he didn't and wouldn't survive.

I arrived home a couple of hours later, safe and shaken but it wasn't until I heard the voicemail messages on my cell phone from my husband and eldest daughter, who was then 11, that the cries emerged. With each successive message, their voices increasingly anxious. 

Somehow today's cold, gray, rainy day is a fitting remembrance of that beautiful day eight years ago. The light is gone now; there are less tourists and the signs seeking information on friends and family members last seen on 9/11 have all been removed. There are, of course, many calls not to forget this day.  And, I believe that too.  But, we should remember this day with acts of assistance and humanity and not of vengeance and hate. Because it was vengeance and hate that brought those planes and death, sadness and devastation to us.