That’s why my appearance on 60 Minutes was so meaningful to Theresa. She heard me explain that I had no extraneous thoughts once we lost those engines over New York. My mind never wandered. I was thinking only of how Jeff and I could get Flight 1549 to safety. My comments provided her with an epiphany of sorts.
“To hear you say how focused you were, and that you had a job to do . . . it gives me peace of mind, because you were someone who lived through it,” she wrote. “I now know that Greg was right. My dad didn’t leave this world in a moment of deep sadness. He was only trying to do his job. I can’t thank you enough, Captain Sullenberger. It has been a real blessing to hear your story.”
Lorrie was moved to tears by Theresa’s letter. She couldn’t get it out of her head, and so she decided to call her. They spoke for an hour—a pilot’s wife and a pilot’s daughter, sharing memories. “It was cathartic for both of us,” Lorrie later told me.
Theresa talked of the inappropriate things well-meaning people have said to her. “People tell me that my father died doing what he loved,” she told Lorrie. “Hearing that hasn’t been helpful to me. If he died in his garden of a heart attack, that would be different. That would have been dying doing something he loved. But he died in a three-thousand-degree fire. That wasn’t what he loved.”
The search for the remains of Flight 592 victims took two months, and Theresa told Lorrie how traumatic that was for surviving families. The plane had disintegrated into the smallest pieces, which had to be pulled from the muck far into the Everglades. While workers pushed through every sawgrass blade, snipers stood by to shoot alligators before they approached.
Half of those who died on the flight were never identified. Theresa recalled talking to a woman who was given her son’s ankle. They were able to identify it because of a tattoo.
Theresa’s father was identified only by a finger, which was delivered to the family in a small box. Because he was in the Air Force, there were records of his fingerprints. “The coroner asked what we wanted to do with it,” Theresa said. “We told him, ‘We want it back in the Everglades with the rest of him.’”
A mental health counselor and a wildlife and fisheries agent went with the family to the crash site during a memorial service, dropping First Officer Hazen’s remains from a small envelope back into the water. It was a surreal and tough moment for the family, and yet it offered a small bit of comfort.
There have been all sorts of airline incidents since the ValuJet crash in 1996, but Theresa said Flight 1549 struck her in ways that none of the others had. Flight 1549 and Flight 592 were similar, she said. Both encountered a serious problem minutes after takeoff. Both couldn’t make it back to a runway. Both ended up in the water.
Theresa has been offered the opportunity to listen to the cockpit voice recordings, but has declined to do so. A father of a flight attendant chose to listen, and said he ended up in therapy as a result. The cockpit door was open, and the sounds of screaming passengers are very clear on the tape. “It would be too hard for me to hear that,” Theresa said.
In 2006, on the tenth anniversary of the crash, she did find the courage to approach Greg Feith, the investigator: “I can take it,” she said to him. “Please tell me: Was my father screaming?” He responded: “Absolutely not. Your dad was going through his checklist. He and Captain Kubeck did everything they were supposed to do until they were incapacitated.”
Theresa told Lorrie that when she watched me on 60 Minutes, “I thought to myself, ‘I wish that was my dad. I wish he could have had the same success, and that everyone would be safe, and that it would be him being the hero and giving interviews.’”
She also told Lorrie this: “Because I lived through the worst outcome, I think I celebrate Flight 1549 so much more. My joy for the passengers and crew is so much more profound.”
In her letter to me, Theresa explained that she had spent a lot of time over the years thinking about “what-might-have-beens” involving her dad, who was fifty-three years old when he died. He passed away four years before Theresa’s daughter, Peyton, was born. “That’s the hardest part of the loss,” she wrote, “that he’ll never meet his granddaughter.”
Along with her letter, Theresa enclosed a photo of herself with her husband and daughter—“so you can see who you’ve touched.” They’re a very attractive family, pressed tightly together, all smiles. She told Lorrie that she now feels her father and I are connected; two pilots who tried their best to save lives. Though her father would never see his granddaughter, it gave her comfort to know that I would.
And so I was honored to hold the photo of beautiful nine-year-old Peyton in my hands as I thought about First Officer Hazen and the things he has missed.
17
A WILD RIDE
IN THE EARLY days after Flight 1549, I could sleep only a couple hours at a time. I kept questioning myself. On the very first night, I had said to Lorrie: “I hope they know I did the best I could.” That thought remained in my head.
It took me a couple of months to process what had happened and to work through the post-traumatic stress. Our pilots’ union has a volunteer Critical Incident Response Program team that began helping me and the crew the day after our Hudson landing. I had asked them for a road map of what to expect. They told me I’d be sleeping less, I’d have distracted thinking, I’d lose my appetite, I’d have flashbacks, and I’d do a lot of second-guessing and “what-iffing.”
They were right on all fronts. For the first couple of weeks, I couldn’t read a book or newspaper for more than a few seconds without drifting off into thoughts of Flight 1549.
“You might find it hard to shut off your brain,” I was told, and that described exactly what I was going through. I’d wake up in the middle of the night and my brain was running hard: What could I have done differently? What did other pilots think of what I had done? Could I have found time to tell the flight attendants that we’d be landing in water? Why didn’t I say “Brace for water landing!” when I finally got on the public address system? Could I have done something else, something better?
Eventually, I dealt with the issues in my psyche and started sleeping again. I went through every scenario. For instance, if I had said “Brace for water landing,” passengers might have begun fumbling around, desperately searching for life vests, rather than bracing. They might have panicked. The investigation would later show that before we took off, only 12 of 150 passengers had read the safety card in the seat pocket in front of them.
In the end, I was buoyed by the fact that investigators determined that Jeff and I made appropriate choices at every step. But even after I felt comfortable with the correctness of my decisions on January 15, I longed for my life before that day.
For months, if I could have clicked my heels and made the whole incident go away, I would have done so. Lorrie and the girls also wished it had never happened. Though I never thought I was going to die, they certainly felt as if they had almost lost me on January 15. It was hard for them to shake the horror of that feeling.
In time, however, my family came to see that our new reality was manageable, and we tried hard to find the positive possibilities in our new lives. I’ve been asked by colleagues to be a public advocate for the piloting profession and for airline safety, and I believe that’s a high calling. In testimony before Congress, I was able to speak honestly and bluntly about important issues in the airline industry. I know I now have the potential for greater influence in aviation issues, and I plan to be judicious in how I wield that influence.
Meanwhile, the notoriety I gained from Flight 1549 has allowed my family to have more than a few memorable experiences and interactions that otherwise would have been beyond our reach.
We’ve been plucked from obscurity, and every day the phone rings with an invitation to some new adventure: Buckingham Palace, a Jonas Brothers concert, dinner parties with hosts who would never have noticed us in our previous lives. We’re getting used to it, but Lorrie and I still find ou
rselves looking at each other and saying, “How did we get here?”
OUR LIVES became pretty surreal within minutes of the world’s learning about Flight 1549 on that Thursday afternoon.
My uniform was still wet from the Hudson when Lorrie and I began hearing from dignitaries, politicians, and the biggest names in the news media. It wasn’t just producers calling, but the on-air personalities themselves: Diane Sawyer, Katie Couric, Matt Lauer. While I was sloshing around the ferry terminal in my waterlogged shoes, back at my house, our two phone lines, the fax line, and Lorrie’s cell were all ringing simultaneously. One newspaper reporter even got hold of my daughter Kate’s cell-phone number and called looking for me.
By the morning after the incident, while I was still sequestered in New York, dozens of reporters and satellite trucks had gathered outside our house in Danville. Some of them would remain there for ten days.
Lorrie was poised but understandably emotional when she and the girls went outside on Friday morning to give the media a comment. “We’ve been asked—now I’m going to cry. I have been crying the whole time,” she said, then began again. “We have been asked not to say anything by US Air, so we’re not going to make any statements about much. But we’d just like to say that we are very grateful that everyone is off the plane safely. That was really what my husband asked to convey to everyone.”
A reporter asked how I was faring, and Lorrie answered: “He is feeling better today. You know, he’s a pilot. He’s very controlled and very professional . . . I have said for a long time that he’s a pilot’s pilot, and he loves the art of the airplane.”
The media picked up on that description, including it in hundreds of stories that followed. Friends and strangers told me that Lorrie wasn’t just a beautiful and loving wife. In the emotions of the moment, she turned out to be a pretty good spokesperson, too.
Lorrie was also asked how the family was taking the growing talk that I was a national hero. “It’s a little weird—overwhelming,” she answered. “I mean, the girls went to sleep last night talking, and I could hear them in the bedroom saying, ‘Is this weird or what?’”
I wasn’t able to see coverage of Lorrie’s impromptu press conference outside our house. In fact, I was too busy to watch any of the media coverage.
The night of the landing, I had gotten just two hours’ sleep. There was so much to do that night and the next day. I needed to have my wits about me for interviews with the National Transportation Safety Board. They had a great many questions. How much sleep had I gotten on Wednesday night? What did I eat for breakfast, lunch, and dinner? Was my blood sugar low? How did I feel on my flight earlier in the day? Was I tired? Distracted? How many days earlier was my last drink of liquor? It had been more than a week. It was a beer.
There were a few lighter moments, too. When we got to the hotel on the night of the incident, we were still in our wet clothes. All our belongings, of course, were on the plane. A fellow pilot who had come to help us ran out to a convenience store and purchased toiletries for us. Because we had no dry clothing, he also bought Jeff and me an identical wardrobe: black sweatsuits, black socks, and black, size-34 low-rise briefs. A week later I told him, “My wife liked those low-rise briefs. They’re sexier than the whitey-tighties I normally wear.” Jeff responded: “Your wife may like yours, but I’m a lot thicker around the middle than you are. Looks like they gave us the same-size briefs. On me, it looks like a thong.”
I WAS in meetings all day Friday, feeling very stressed. I was used up. I was still trying to process everything, and I wanted to clearly recall what happened in the cockpit so I could help investigators sort out the details.
Then I heard that President George W. Bush, with just five days left in office, wanted to talk to me. Next thing I knew, he had called the cell phone of the vice president of our pilots’ union, Mike Cleary, who had been by my side for the past twenty hours. Mike handed the phone to me.
“Captain Sullenberger?”
“Yes, Mr. President,” I said.
He was very friendly from the start. “You know,” he said, “Laura and the staff and I were having something to eat and we were talking about you. I am in awe of your flying ability.”
I thanked him. He then had an important question for me.
“Aren’t you from Texas?”
“Yes, Mr. President,” I said.
He answered like a true Texan: “Well, that explains it!”
I had to smile.
Then he had another question: “Didn’t you fly fighters?”
“Yes,” I told him. “F-4 Phantoms.”
“I thought so,” he said. “I could tell.”
I didn’t ask him how exactly he could tell, but I enjoyed his easy manner, and his Texas-centric view of the whole incident. It was just a pleasant, friendly conversation, and I made sure to tell him that the flight and the rescue were a team effort. I mentioned Jeff, Donna, Sheila, Doreen, the ferry crews, and he acknowledged them.
Despite all that had happened out on the Hudson the previous night, I hung up the phone and just marveled at the way things work in America. Twenty hours before, I was just an anonymous pilot hoping to finish my last flight of a four-day trip, before quietly heading home. Now there I was, talking to the president like we were old buddies from Texas.
About ninety minutes later, I got another call. It was President-elect Barack Obama. He was also very friendly, though a bit more formal in his comments and questions. He invited me to the inauguration, and I immediately knew what my response had to be. I said, “Mr. President-elect, I’m honored, but may I presume to ask that should I be able to attend, it be on the condition that my entire crew and their families accompany me?”
He said yes.
And so we all went, and ended up meeting the new president privately at one of the inaugural balls. Even though it was his big night, he was very gracious and generous in his time with us. He joked with Lorrie. “You’re not letting all of this go to your husband’s head, are you?” he asked.
Lorrie answered: “People may think he’s a hero, but he still snores.”
President Obama started laughing. “You’ve got to tell my wife this,” he said. “That’s what she says about me.” Mrs. Obama was about ten feet away, and he called over to her, “Hey, Michelle, come here, you’ve got to hear this!”
He had Lorrie repeat her story about my snoring habits, and the two women had a nice laugh at the expense of the president and the pilot.
We kept receiving invitations in the wake of Flight 1549, and some of them we accepted because, well, these would be experiences of a lifetime. How could we turn them down? The Flight 1549 crew was introduced at the Super Bowl, and we got to see the game from perfect seats. Lorrie and I went to an Academy Awards party, where she sat next to Michael Douglas and I got to talk at length with Sidney Poitier.
I was invited to throw out the first pitch at the second game held at the new Yankee Stadium. I made sure I was prepared—I didn’t want to embarrass myself in front of fifty-two thousand Yankee fans—so I practiced for the pitch a few days a week for more than a month at a baseball diamond near my house. One of my neighbors, Paul Zuvella, a former major-league infielder who played with four teams, including the Yankees, was kind enough to coach me. I thought I was doing OK, but when it came time for my big pitch, it was a little outside. At least it didn’t bounce. On the West Coast, I was also asked to throw first pitches at a San Francisco Giants game and an Oakland A’s game.
Though I got the most attention, being the captain of the flight, I was pleased when Jeff, Donna, Sheila, and Doreen were recognized for everything they did. They were at first reluctant to enter the media spotlight, but then they realized that they could help give insights to the world about what it takes to work in the airline industry. Jeff had his share of perks—he got to throw out the first pitch at the Milwaukee Brewers’ home opener—and he carried himself incredibly well in interviews. People also got to see that our three flight
attendants were highly experienced and well trained; they helped save lives on January 15. Their story reminded everyone that flight attendants aren’t just on board to serve coffee and peanuts. They’re on the front lines with passengers, ensuring their safety, while we pilots are locked behind closed doors. Despite their initial reticence, Doreen, Sheila, and Donna came to feel an obligation to their peers to be as effective as they could as spokeswomen for their profession. They were class acts all the way. I was very proud of them.
There was a lovely welcome-home ceremony in my hometown of Danville, attended by several thousand residents. Later, I was invited to speak at graduation ceremonies back at my alma mater in Texas, Denison High School. I was beyond thrilled to see ninety-one-year-old Evelyn Cook, the widow of L. T. Cook Jr., who had taught me to fly from his grass strip. What a great honor it was to publicly recognize Mr. Cook’s influence in my life, and to do so before such a large hometown crowd. It was also fun to be able to say, in front of the governor of Texas, former classmates, and the town’s dignitaries: “How come you weren’t this nice to me back in high school?”
Had even one person died on Flight 1549, I don’t think I would have accepted any of these invitations. The whole incident would have had a much more somber feel to it. But the fact that all of us on the plane had lived made people want to celebrate, and I saw that participating in these events was meaningful to people—and to me.
It also became possible to laugh about the flight. Comic Steve Martin went on The Late Show with David Letterman and claimed to have been on board with us. Letterman then showed alleged footage of Steve Martin walking on the wings, pushing other passengers into the Hudson, so he could get to the VIP rescue boat. His little performance was very funny, even for those of us who had lived through it.
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