The Storm

the waters were leaving long white wakes behind. It was obvious that these were rescue boats of various sizes and shapes. Landing on a cleared runway and pulling up to the terminal, the passengers prepared to leave the aircraft. They had leaned over one another to peer out of the aircraft windows to catch a glimpse below. No one was talking. I believe they all caught the vastness of the disaster and what they were about to encounter in trying to make connections with friends and family. At the end of the ramp that opened up towards the terminal lobby I was met by a nice fellow by the name of Bob, holding up a hand-painted sign with my name on it. I immediately went over to him. The kind fellow asked, “Zachary Taylor?” I replied with an affirmative. “Your ride is waiting. Do you have any checked luggage?” “No sir, I don’t. Traveling light,” I said. My driver perked up and said, “My name is Bob Tarrent and I will take you to Captain Peterson at the emergency comm and post. I got word that you’re going to take the report of this mess to a Brooklyn paper.” “Yes Sir,” I responded, “but my report will be in the Brooklyn FREE Press. We don’t quite have the readership of the Brooklyn city paper, but we are fairly well known. “ “Good enough. Let me take some of your gear, and just followme.” “Yes Sir!”, I replied, and headed down the corridor. “By the way, Mr. Taylor, just call me Bob, okay?” “Good enough for me, Bob, and you can call me Zach, okay?” “Will do, Zach, and watch your step at the escalators. They are a little tricky. Faster than most.”

1 6