The Day The World Came To Town

by Jim Defede

  When the call came for them to leave Friday evening, a new problem surfaced. Three of the seventy-one passengers—Rabbi Sudak, Baila Hecht, and her daughter, Esther—could not travel on the Sabbath. From sundown Friday until sundown Saturday, their faith prevents them not only from traveling, but from engaging in any activity that drew their attention away from their religious observances on the day when God rested after creating the universe, the world, and man. On the Sabbath, Orthodox Jews refrain from riding in a car, cooking meals, watching television, or using any type of machine, including telephones. Even turning on a light switch is prohibited.

  As the rest of the passengers from their flight boarded buses for the airport, Rabbi Sudak and the Hechts remained in the school. Two families who lived within walking distance offered to take them in for the night. Rabbi Sudak went with one and the Hechts with the other. More than a test of faith, Rabbi Sudak had a feeling he was meant to stay in Newfoundland for another reason, perhaps another lesson. He just wasn’t sure what it might be.

  There were 361 passengers aboard American Trans Air Flight 8733, and at least 90 of them were children. ATA is a discount airline favored by travel agents in England who book package tours to the United States. The group on this plane was flying from Manchester, England, to Orlando, Florida. They were going to Disney World.

  The thought of so many kids having their hearts broken because their trip to the Magic Kingdom was in jeopardy was distressing for the people in Gander. And when they discovered that at least four of the kids were going to the amusement park to celebrate their birthdays, well, that was more than the folks in town could bear. Town officials and the staff at St. Paul’s Intermediate, where the passengers were staying, threw a giant birthday party for all of the children at the school who were turning a year older while they were in Gander.

  The local supermarket donated a massive birthday cake—enough to feed four hundred people—while the teachers and students at the school tried to create a miniature Disney World of their own. They decorated the cafeteria with streamers and balloons, and three girls from the local high school volunteered to dress up in fairy-princess costumes. Replacing Mickey Mouse and Goofy were Commander Gander and the Royal Canadian Mounted Police Safety Bear, two costumed mascots who visit schools in the area telling kids to stay off crack and not to set fires. As their names imply, one is a giant bird and the other is a bear in a Mountie uniform. The kids seemed to love them.

  Constable Oz Fudge’s seventeen-year-old daughter, Lisa, donned the Commander Gander outfit and was mobbed by kids who wanted to hug her. They sang songs and played games and handed out prizes, and each of the birthday kids received gifts. Nigel Radford couldn’t believe the effort everyone in town had made. Radford was traveling with his fiancée, Karen. They were going to be married in Florida. Accompanying them on the trip were ten members of their family who would witness the wedding and spend a week enjoying the different amusement parks—Disney World, Universal Studios, Epcot. The family had saved up two years for this trip.

  Radford had his two sons with him, Lewis, who was two, and Cameron, who was five. His brother and his sister were along as well, and they each brought their kids. All the kids had a great time at the party. Some were even upset when it was cut short because word had come in from the airport that their flight was ready to leave. They were going to make it to Disney World after all.

  Since Tuesday morning, Corporal Grant Smith had been spending nearly all of his time at the airport, searching bags and checking passports. Normally, the twenty-six-year veteran of the RCMP was assigned to the region’s drug task force. Over the years smugglers prodding for entry points into North America had found their way to Gander. In recent months the Mounties had seized a ton of cocaine in one bust and almost twenty-six tons of hashish in another.

  Smith was in his office, just down the road from the airport, when he heard about the attacks on New York and the planes, which were already beginning to circle Gander on their final approach before landing. He was ordered to help with security at the airport. Tensions had run high during those first twenty-four hours as Smith and his fellow Mounties scrutinized passengers looking for additional terrorists.

  Three days later, as more and more passengers were preparing to leave Gander, Smith was still concerned about terrorists, but he also wanted to do something special for the town’s unexpected guests. He felt a deep sense of pride in the way the people in Gander and the surrounding communities had responded to this tragedy. And he was equally proud of the passengers, for being so well behaved and understanding. Everyone remained calm and levelheaded. There wasn’t a single arrest during the entire week.

  Smith was determined that the stranded passengers’ last memory of Gander would be a positive one. Security for each of the outgoing flights was unprecedented, with passengers having to clear two and sometimes three checkpoints. The lines were long and the wait could seem interminable. Some passengers were visibly nervous about getting on a plane again. Smith encouraged his fellow Mounties to find ways to ease their fears and not make the screening process needlessly bureaucratic and impersonal. Smith led the charge.

  “Your passport and a smile,” he would say when a passenger walked up to his station. If they responded with a confused look, he’d tell them, “You can’t leave Canada without a passport and a smile.”

  His wife was a volunteer at Gander Academy, where she was also a teacher. At night she would tell him stories about the plane people she’d met. On at least a dozen occasions over the ensuring days, Smith drew from this knowledge while reviewing passports and stunned departing passengers by recalling their names and some small detail about them.

  To one couple he remarked: “Oh, you’re the one who ate all the fish at Noonan’s house.” And to another: “I believe Betty Smith was taking care of you in town.”

  For most people, this was their first encounter with a Mountie, and it certainly wasn’t what they expected. For one thing, they were dressed like ordinary police officers. This was a letdown for those folks whose images of Mounties were rooted in decades of movies, television shows, and cartoons. Nelson Eddy singing to Jeanette MacDonald in Rose Marie. Shirley Temple as a darling waif who survives an Indian massacre in Susannah of the Mounties. The classic fifties TV show Sergeant Preston of the Yukon and its dismal nineties counterpart, Due South. And, of course, there was the animated genius of Dudley Do-Right.

  The common ingredient in all of these memories—apart from the promise that “the Mounties always get their man”—was the clothing, the ubiquitous red tunic and broad-brimmed hat. Neither of which Smith and his cohorts were wearing. Smith could sense his appearance was an area of disappointment for passengers, some of whom would plaintively ask, “Where’s your hat?”

  Determined to turn things around, Smith received permission from his superiors to wear the RCMP dress uniform to the airport on Friday and Saturday. The formal attire, known as the Red Serge, is an eye-catching ensemble, usually reserved for ceremonial occasions. It consists of high brown leather boots with a matching belt, a rakish leather strap cutting across the chest from the left shoulder to the right hip, three-inch-long spurs, navy-blue riding pants with thick yellow stripes down the side, a Stetson with a wide, flat brim, and the scarlet coat with gold buttons, a navy-blue collar, and navy-blue epaulets.

  For those two days, all eyes were on Smith when he strode through the airport. Like paparazzi catching a glimpse of Madonna, passengers ran to snap his picture. In turn, he demanded that they pose alongside him for the next shot. Eagerly they complied. Some stood rigidly next to him. Others embraced him. Smith’s expression, though, was always the same, his greenish-brown eyes twinkling under that massive hat, his thick blond mustache curled above a proud smile, his five-foot eight-inch frame standing a bit taller.

  And so it went, one after another. Click. Click. Click. His picture, and all the warmth and good spirit it represented, captured on film by hundreds of passengers, a final meme
nto of this life-altering detour.

  For her entire life, Hannah O’Rourke has been deathly afraid of water, to the point where she wouldn’t even go to the beach, stand in the surf, and let the ocean rise up to her ankles. Her kids always assumed it had something to do with her journey to America as an Irish immigrant. She’d come to this country by boat almost fifty years before and never set foot on one again. All of which presented a problem for her family, since Hannah was currently trapped on an island.

  One of her son’s best friends—Maryann’s brother—was prepared to drive into Canada to pick Hannah and Dennis up if it looked like they were going to be stuck there much longer. If Hannah and Dennis could get to the ferry in Port aux Basque and cross over to Nova Scotia, he would meet them there and drive them home. The trip was about a thousand miles each way. Maryann decided to see if Hannah would be interested.

  “Gran, there’s a ferry that goes over to Nova Scotia,” she said. “We could pick you up there and bring you home. Would you be willing to get on the ferry?”

  “Yes.” Hannah said without hesitation. “If I have to swim to get home, that’s what I’ll do.”

  Maryann was stunned. When she told the others Hannah’s response, they, too, were amazed. “Wow,” Patricia said, “she really must want to get out of there.”

  In the end, the ferry ride wasn’t necessary when they discovered that their plane, Aer Lingus Flight 105, would be able to take off that afternoon. Before Hannah and Dennis left, they were visited by a delegation from the Gander Volunteer Fire Department. The chief of the department had just learned the O’Rourkes’ son was a missing New York firefighter and he wanted to pay his respects and let them know that if there was anything anyone in his department could do for them, all they had to do was ask.

  Saying good-bye to Hannah and Dennis was difficult for their new friends at the legion hall. Beulah Cooper told them she would keep praying for Kevin, as did the others at the legion hall—Wally Crummel, Alf Johnson, and his wife, Karen. Even Tom Mercer, when he heard the O’Rourkes’ flight was ready to leave, raced over to the hall to say good-bye. He gave them each a hug and wished them well.

  Neither Hannah nor Dennis knew how to express how much all of these people had meant to them during this horrendous time. When they arrived in Gander, it had been unbearable to be so far away from the love and support of their family. Now it felt to them like they, in fact, had a family in Gander.

  The flight to Dublin was uneventful. Between the steady stream of phone calls from the O’Rourke family and a few pointed inquiries from Hillary Clinton’s office, Aer Lingus officials were not going to take any chances with Hannah and Dennis O’Rourke. When their plane landed in Dublin at 2:30 A.M., they were met by four agents for the airline, who escorted them through the airport and guaranteed them they would be on the next possible flight to New York.

  Hannah’s brothers and sisters in Ireland also met the plane. Only a few days before they had all been together under happier circumstances. Hannah had had no idea she would see them again so soon, and the reason crippled her with anguish. Not even the sight of her siblings could allay her fears. The next available plane to New York was set to leave in ten hours. She still wondered if her family on Long Island was hiding the truth from her. Did they already know Kevin was dead? Had they found his body? Were they waiting to tell her in person? Ten more hours and another plane trip across the ocean and she would be home, and then she’d know the answer.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Karaoke at the Trailways Pub.

  Courtesy of Lana Etherington

  The most infamous of Newfoundland traditions is the “Screeching-In” ceremony, which allows a visitor to become an honorary Newfie through a series of challenges that test the strength of person’s stomach, the deftness of his or her tongue, and his or her ability to drink an unhealthy amount of alcohol. Not just any alcohol. One must drink a brand of liquor unique to Newfoundland. A lowbrow rum known affectionately as Screech.

  The history of Screech has long been debated in Newfoundland. In the 1970s, the Canadian government issued its own official account.

  Long before any liquor board was created to take alcohol under its benevolent wing, Jamaican rum was the mainstay of the Newfoundland diet, with salt fish traded to the West Indies in exchange for rum. When the Government took control of the traditional liquor business in the early 20th century, it began selling the rum in an unlabelled bottle. The product might have remained permanently nameless except for the influx of American servicemen to the island during World War II. As the story goes, the commanding officer of the original detachment was having his first taste of Newfoundland hospitality and, imitating the custom of his host, downed his drink in one gulp. The American’s blood-curdling howl, when he regained his breath, brought the sympathetic and curious from miles around rushing to the house to find what was going on. The first to arrive was a garrulous old American sergeant who pounded on the door and demanded, “What the cripes was that ungodly screech?” The taciturn Newfoundlander who had answered the door replied simply, “The Screech? ’Tis the rum, me son.” Thus was born a legend. As word of the incident spread, the soldiers, determined to try this mysterious “Screech” and finding its effects as devastating as the name implies, adopted it as their favorite.

  According to author Professor Pat Byrne, a longtime scholar on Newfoundland traditions at Memorial University in St. John’s, the Screeching-In ceremony itself can be an elaborate affair in which the person being initiated stands before the chief Screecher, dressed in traditional Newfoundland fishing garb, which to outsiders can best be described as the yellow outfit worn by the fellow on a box of Gorton’s frozen fish sticks. The initiate is given a few Newfoundland delicacies to eat, such as “Newfie steak,” known elsewhere around the world as bologna. The person is even asked to kiss a freshly caught cod as a sign of respect toward the importance of the fish in the economy of Newfoundland. This is followed by a series of questions the Screecher asks, in a heightened accent, which in turn is supposed to elicit a set response from the initiate.

  SCREECHER: Is we Newfies?

  INITIATE: Deed we is, me old cock, an’ long may yer big jib draw.

  SCREECHER: Did ye j’st go down on yer knucks and kiss a smelly old codfish?

  INITIATE: Deed we did, me old cock.

  SCREECHER: Did ye j’st wrap yer chops around a piece of Newfie steak and gobble some dried caplin?

  INITIATE: Deed we did, me old cock.

  As Professor Byrne points out, this question-and-answer period can go on for as long as the master of ceremonies wants to ask questions.

  SCREECHER: Did ye all j’st repeat a whole lot o’tings ye don’t un’erstand a-tall?

  INITIATE: Deed we did, me old cock.

  Once the last question is answered, the person is given a large shot of Screech to down in a single gulp, to the applause and cheers of those around them. An actual certificate is even presented, bearing witness to the event and making the person an honorary Newfoundlander.

  In the days following September 11, hundreds, if not thousands, of stranded passengers went through some variation of the Screeching-In ceremony across the island. Usually it wasn’t as elaborate or as time-consuming as an official ceremony. But in every town, from Stephenville in the west to St. John’s in the east, a Screecher held a rotting cod in his hands and had people line up to kiss it. It was the natives’ good-natured way of sharing a little bit of their past with their guests. Nowhere was that enthusiasm greater than in Gambo at the Trailways Pub. By some estimates, more than 150 of the 900 passengers were Screeched-In over a two-day period.

  Without question, the Trailways was the most popular spot in Gambo during these days. Every night the passengers came in and drank the place dry. And every day the owners sent one of their bartenders twenty minutes down the road to Glovertown to load up on supplies to restock their coolers. Over three nights they went through more than two hundred cases of beer, more ke
gs than they could count, and enough hard liquor to embalm a herd of moose.

  By Friday night the bar was so full that people were spilling out through the back door. After spending a quiet Thursday evening at George and Edna Neal’s home, the gang—Deb Farrar, Winnie House, Lana Etherington, Bill Cash, Mark Cohen, and their newest member, Greg Curtis—decided to let loose with a final night at the pub. They all felt there was a good chance they would be leaving on Saturday and so this was probably their last night together.

  When word reached some of the locals that Winnie was a Nigerian princess, the daughter of an African chieftain, they knew they needed to bestow their highest honor on her. She needed to be Screeched-In. By this time in the evening, Winnie had already been drinking a fair amount of wine and was up for anything.

  Jim Lane, a volunteer firefighter, was the designated Screecher in Gambo, and for the past two nights he’d been a busy man. Passengers were eager to be Screeched-In and Lane was glad to oblige. Dressed in the traditional yellow oilskin and sporting a most unkempt and dirty phony white beard, he created a mini-ceremony that may have been short on tradition but was long on enjoyment. Also making an appearance on Friday was the same rotting codfish he’d been using all week. Time was not kind to this fish and Lane had to hold the slimy cod carefully to keep its guts from spilling out.

  Lane was honored when he learned that Winnie was interested. He did his best to explain the ceremony to her, but her attention span at that moment was somewhat limited. He recited her one line—“Deed we is, me old cock, an’ long may yer big jib draw”—and asked her to repeat it for practice. Winnie squealed with laughter.