May 23--Six feet, 2 inches of Navy-grade muscle with forged-in-steel self-assurance to match, Command Master Chief Shawn Isbell is unquestionably a front-line kind of guy. But whenever he leads a tour of the USS New York, Isbell is no match for his emotions.
That's because the New York is not only a warship -- an amphibious landing transport dock, to be exact -- but also a maritime memorial to the 2,753 people killed Sept. 11, 2001 in Lower Manhattan. During last month's Fleet Week Port Everglades, the New York was the big draw, attracting thousands of curious South Florida civilians.
It is, quite simply, a ship unlike any other on the sea.
Its bow contains 7 1/2 tons of steel that once upheld the Twin Towers -- "We carry the DNA of 9/11 victims right in the soul of this ship," the New York's commanding officer likes to say --and it's appointed with many mournful souvenirs of a disaster that rattled the world on a perfect Tuesday morning almost 13 years ago.
Time cannot heal some wounds. All those photos of firefighters in their prime, all those salvaged pieces of twisted, melted metal, they cripple Isbell, the ship's senior enlisted man. First, the lump in the throat. Then, the tears.
"I normally cannot hold it together when I'm in here," says Isbell, standing in the lounge of the chief's mess, with its forlorn display of funeral memorial cards in the corner. "People lost mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, sons and daughters that day. That sense of loss -- I still can't come to grips with it."
The New York's sister ships, the USS Arlington and the USS Somerset, also commemorate the attacks that claimed a total of 2,997 lives in three states. On the Arlington, a privately funded Tribute Room contains a quilt, sewn by schoolchildren, listing the names of the 184 Pentagon victims. The catchphrase "Let's Roll" is emblazoned on the Somerset, named for the Pennsylvania borough where Flight 93 crashed.
"But when everyone thinks 9/11, they think World Trade Center," says Isbell.
The name of his ship, as well as its collection of grievous artifacts, serves an additional purpose. "It's easy to motivate the sailors when you have something like 9/11 to talk about," he says.
"It's like serving in World War II on the USS Pearl Harbor."
The definition of courage
Commissioned in 2009, the New York docked in Port Everglades specifically for Fleet Week, the signature annual event of Broward Navy Days, when sailors, Marines and members of the Coast Guard participate in interservice competitions, volunteer in the community and enjoy Fort Lauderdale hospitality. This year, about 2,000 civilians toured the New York and U.S. Coast Guard cutters Bernard C. Webber and Dependable.
In advance of Fleet Week, the Navy also invited a handful of journalists and three 9/11 first responders to embark on the New York for the two-day trip from the ship's home port -- Naval Station Mayport in Jacksonville -- to Port Everglades. Roughly 120 Marines also hitched a ride.
After a 5 a.m. workout on the ship's enormous well deck, Marine Cpl. Damian Dunlay, a 23-year-old from Homestead, recalled that day in the second grade when terrorists hijacked four planes they never intended to land.
"I heard the teachers talking about it, and my mom took me out of school early," he says.
The events of 9/11 helped motivate him to enlist in the Marine Corps, never mind the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan when he graduated from high school in 2009. Says Dunlay, "I thought, 'Now is my time to serve'."
To Capt. Christopher Brunett, this is courage, defined.
A relaxed leader with a salt-and-pepper crewcut and and an Instamatic smile, Brunett graduated from the U.S. Naval Academy in 1989, when "we weren't getting planes back filled with body bags," he said.
"But these young Americans raised their right hand to support and defend the Constitution when this nation was at war on two fronts."
You think "today's kids" are pale imitations of their elders? You haven't met the sailors who serve under Brunett, he says.
"They have the same patriotism, the same courage, the same work ethic that America's greatest generation had, and the generations since then."
Grief, ongoing
Now a sergeant with the Port St. Lucie Police Department, Brian Kenny accepted an invitation to travel on the New York because he wanted to talk to the young sailors and Marines about what he experienced so many Septembers ago, when he was an officer with the NYPD.
On the evening of Sept. 11, 2001, Kenny reported to what remained of the north and south towers, where he joined the frantic search for signs of life.
"It probably wasn't till seven days later that it hit me one night that it wasn't a rescue. At that point, it was going to be more of a recovery," says Kenny. "I remember breaking down and crying at that moment when it kind of clicked."
In the fall of 2001, Port St. Lucie's Al Hickey was a hardened Bronx homicide detective who'd seen it all. "That didn't hold a torch to what we saw that day," he says.
In the hours after the attack, Hickey joined the bucket brigade at ground zero. "In those buckets I saw shoes, clothing, paper, concrete, wires and body parts," he later wrote. "I heard K-9 cadaver dogs just howling at the sky; with the scent of death all around us, it was too much for those dogs to take in."
Hickey was eventually put on a nine-month-long rotation among three sites: 12-hour shifts at ground zero, the morgue and the Fresh Kill Landfill, where debris from the towers was sent for sifting.
He attended so many funerals of firefighters and police officers that he can no longer hear bagpipes without crying.
Frank Sisto describes his grieving process as ongoing, too.
Prior to 9/11, Sisto supervised an auto larceny unit in Brooklyn. His post-attack assignment: a temporary morgue established in a high school near the World Trade Center.
Through October of that year, he worked 17-hour days, seven days a week, helping medical examiners search human remains for identifying marks, tattoos or jewelry, then placing those remains into evidence.
"We were trying to provide closure for people's loved ones and help in the healing process," says Sisto, now a security officer with St. Lucie Public Schools.
What he and others began in that high school lobby continues, of course. Earlier this month, more than 7,000 vacuum-sealed plastic pouches containing bits of bone were relocated to the basement of the new Sept. 11 Memorial Museum, which opened to the public Wednesday.
Forty-one percent of 9/11's New York victims have not been identified, although scientists continue the painstaking work.
A ship and a shrine
Five minutes from lights out, more than 30 miles off the Florida coast, it's so dark on the ship's bridge that Chaplain Justin Bernard has to use a flashlight to illuminate the evening prayers he's reading over the New York's loudspeaker.
As the sailors and Marines retire to their bunks, Bernard's voice is piped into their berthing areas. He begins, "Most gracious, heavenly and loving father, we pause this evening from our extremely busy day to give thanks for all that you have done in and through our crew."
And after thanking God for beautiful weather and calm seas, he reaches the heart of this nightly ritual: "We lift to you in prayer one of our fallen brothers, who lost his life helping others somewhere between the 30th and 40th floors of Tower 1 in the World Trade Center on 9/11.
"We pray for the family of Lt. Gregg Atlas, of the New York Fire Department, Engine 10. For his wife JoAnn, his son Gregg Peter and his daughter Sarah.
"Comfort them, lord, even tonight, and as always may our work here on New York be an ever-present light of hope to them that their husband and father was not lost in vain."
The chaplain is working his way through a list of 403 names -- every New York police officer, firefighter, paramedic and Port Authority police officer killed in and below those buildings that fell from the sky.
A cheerful, friendly-faced native of Aurora, Colo., Bernard began the dedications three months ago.
"My initial concern was it would be almost too somber on a daily basis. But the resounding answer from the crew was, 'No, we're here for them.' Those are the people they feel like they're working for."
Back in the chief's lounge, firefighter Atlas's funeral memorial card is clearly visible in the crowded display case, on the second shelf from the top, surrounded by cards marking the passing of mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers, sons and daughters, from every walk of life.
"It didn't just happen to New York City," Isbell says. "It happened to us all."
As the New York approached Port Everglades, Sisto compared the ship of war to "a shrine or maybe a holy place.
"That's the way it should be."
Copyright 2014 - The Palm Beach Post, Fla.
