Free We All Fall Down: The True Story of the 9/11 Surfer by Pasquale Buzzelli, Joseph M. Bittick, Louise Buzzelli Page A

is…wait.
    High up, behind him, there came the sound of rock falling on rock. He craned his neck back to see. He thought it could be just a settling of the pile he lay atop, or else the whole thing could be falling again. He was powerless either way. If the pile he lay atop gave way, he would fall to his death, into the open pit below. Every sound now took on magnified meaning.
    There was a sharp noise behind him, and he tipped his head back to find the source of it. A fireman stood there, up on a mound of steel, a stranger with a dirty face. The man’s boots kicked down rubble as he scrambled to get a foothold. He talked as he scrambled. Pasquale couldn’t tell if he was talking to him, down to the other fireman, or to himself. He didn’t know and didn’t care. He only knew the voice was a welcome relief.
    There was a closer noise, almost a thud , behind Pasquale’s head as the fireman dropped down from another part of the pile to stand directly behind him, into the small space where twisted pipes stuck up in a circle around Pasquale.
    “I’m gonna get you out of here,” the man said, his grimy face just inches above Pasquale’s. He was at work immediately, his face intent on fashioning a rope into some form of cradle. He bent to his work as if it were any fire, any place—all in a day’s work for a fireman and just another dirty job that somebody had to do.
    There wasn’t anything Pasquale could think to say to the man in his dirty yellow coat, his tattered and tarnished helmet, to the man with the painful-looking red eyes. If Pasquale had ever expected to see an angel in his life, that angel wouldn’t have looked at all like that man, but there he was, so certain he was going to save a life.
    “What time is it?” Pasquale asked as the man worked behind him, threading rope over rope.
    The firefighter stopped, frowned, and then checked his watch. “Three o’clock, buddy.”
    It had been hours since the building had fallen, hours since Pasquale had flown into free fall. It didn’t seem possible.
    The man reached for Pasquale. “Okay, fella, now put this rope behind your knees, then up under your armpits,” the guy said. “We’re gonna hafta lower you down. Here we go,” he said and slung the rope attached to the cradle over a twelve-inch fire standpipe. He pulled at the rope, and then pulled again. “Good enough. It’ll hold just fine.”
    The ropes went around Pasquale. He tested them, pulling to see if he would be safe. It worried him to depend on those tethered ropes, but that worry only lasted a couple of seconds. He tugged at the ropes one last time. Everything seemed sound. He had to believe in the guy, to believe he knew what he was doing. Pasquale inched his way to the edge. He knew he had to be careful. If I drop now, I might take the fireman with me—and maybe the others below too. His leg twinged. Not now!
    “I’ll hold on up here while I lower you to the next guy. There are guys in position to grab you all the way down.” The fireman nodded, encouraging him.
    Pasquale weighed close to 300 pounds, and at six-two, there was a lot of him to move. “You sure this is gonna hold me?” he asked a last time, just a little doubt bothering him as he inched his way slowly to the edge, toeing steel beams, concrete, and things he couldn’t recognize any longer.
    “Rated to 600 pounds.” The man looked down at him and grinned. “Oughtta hold ya just fine, friend.”
    Pasquale tested the rope again, scrambled his feet around, and then lowered his legs over the edge. He held tightly to the ropes around him.
    “I got you up here!” the rescuer called after him. “You’re free. Let go. There you go. That’s it. Now let yourself drop. Don’t worry, buddy. You won’t fall far.”
    Pasquale held his breath. So easy to say, “Let yourself drop.” That edge was all that had been between him and a fifteen-foot fall down into an open, black, bottomless pit. What they were asking of him called