ISBN: 9781483507583

For Edward Gray Kimber

1919-1981

Acknowledgments

I knew when I set out to write the human story of the tragedy of Swissair Flight 111 that the book I wanted to write would not be possible without the cooperation of a lot of people who had no reason to answer questions I had no right to ask. I am grateful so many of them did. I am especially indebted to those family members — Peggy Coburn, Mark and Barbara Fetherolf, Miles Gerety, Lyn Romano and Nancy Wight — who not only shared with me their personal stories but also those of their relationships with the loved ones they lost.

Nova Scotians involved in this tragedy also responded to my endless questions with the same instinctive grace and generosity they showed to the victims and their families in the aftermath of the crash. I thank them as well.

At Swissair, I would like to thank Urs Peter Naef who, without hesitation or question, tracked down all sorts of information and graciously arranged more than a dozen interviews with airline officials for me. Urs von Schroeder, a writer formerly with Swissair, also offered invaluable insights into the airline and its operations.

There was much Larry Vance, the Canadian Transportation Safety Board's deputy chief investigator in the Swissair crash, couldn't talk to me about. The board is rightly cautious about appearing to reach conclusions before it completes its investigation but, within those constraints, he was generous in helping me understand the process investigators are using to investigate the Swissair crash and his own role in it.

Stuart Allsop, who modestly describes himself as a “low-time private pilot” but who has an obvious passion for, and a rich knowledge of the ins and outs of airplanes, helped explain to me how planes work — and sometimes don't. Alex Richman, an epidemiologist who now applies the diagnostic techniques he learned in medicine to determine the “health” of airplanes, offered invaluable insight on the state of airline safety. Allsop and Richman, it should be noted, both lost loved ones to aircraft tragedies.

I am also grateful to many of my journalist colleagues — particularly Richard Dooley of the Halifax Daily News, Stephen Thorne of Canadian Press, Kelly Toughill of the Toronto Star and Paul Koring of The Globe and Mail — who have all written extensively about the crash and whose reporting I often drew on while researching this book.

I also want to thank my agent, Anne McDermid, and John Pierce, the Editor-in-Chief at Doubleday Canada, for their support for this project. Pamela Murray, my editor at Doubleday, was a godsend, helping keep the narrative on track and on time. I thank her for that.

I won’t presume to know how well I’ve succeeded in telling the human story of Swissair Flight 111 and its aftermath. I do know I’ve learned a lot about a lot of things, including the fragility of human life, in the process of writing it. As Lyn Romano explained it one day: “After going through something like this, you learn not to take things for granted. When my boys go off to school now, the last thing I tell them every morning is that I love them. Because you never know.”

Stephen Kimber

Flight 111: The Tragedy of the Swissair Crash was originally published in August 1999 by Seal Books, a division of Random House of Canada Limited.

Prologue

The crash of Swissair Flight 111 stopped being an abstraction for me — one of those horrific, isn’t-that-awful-and-what-else-is-there? news items that, this time, just happened to have happened in my backyard — shortly after six o’clock on September 3, 1998, the night after the plane plunged into the waters off Peggys Cove, killing all 229 people aboard. I was in Halifax — about a half-an-hour’s drive from the crash command centre — preparing dinner at the kitchen counter, half-listening to the latest news about the accident on the radio. The announcer said that the victims — a list of whose names had just been officially released — included many prominent figures: Jonathan Mann, the internationally renowned AIDS researcher, and his wife, Mary-Lou Clements-Mann, also well known as a public health specialist, and several United Nations officials, most notably the director of operations for the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees in the Great Lakes Region of Africa, Pierce Gerety—

Pierce Gerety?

The name sent an icy sliver of recognition through my body. I knew him. I didn’t know him, of course, not really; I simply knew someone who knew him very well. I had only met him once, in an office for just a few minutes, more than 20 years ago. He was a colleague and close friend of Dan Steinbock, who would, in the course of events, become my brother-in-law.

It was the summer of 1975. I had come to New York to meet the family of my new girlfriend. Jeanie’s brother Dan was the associate director of an organization called Prisoners’ Legal Services, an advocacy group that acted on behalf of convicts in New York state prisons. Since his office was near Chinatown, we agreed to meet at his office and go to lunch from there. Jeanie introduced me to Dan, Dan introduced me to his boss, a man named Pierce Gerety. Gerety and I made small talk. And then we left. I never saw him again.

But I followed his career after that through the life of my brother-in-law. When Gerety left Prisoners’ Legal Services a few years later to go to Thailand to set up refugee camps for Cambodians on the run from the brutal Pol Pot regime, Dan joined him as education coordinator in several of the camps. Later, he and Gerety were among the co-authors of a United Nations study on the plight of what are euphemistically called “unaccompanied children.”

Even after Dan had moved back to the U.S., married an American woman he’d worked with in the camps, settled into the more tranquil life of a law professor at the University of Toledo and begun to raise a family of his own, he would occasionally, almost in passing, make reference to things his friend Pierce was up to. And I would remember, almost in passing too, that summer day so long ago.

Pierce Gerety dead?

In spite of the hard truth that I didn’t really know this man at all, had no more profound connection with Pierce Gerety or his life than that I had once talked to him for no more than five minutes nearly two dozen years before, hearing his name on the radio suddenly made me realize the 229 people who died in the crash that night — from “Abady, George, dual citizen of Curacao and Canada” to “Zuber, Florence, Switzerland” — were more than names on a too-long passenger list.

That’s one reason I decided to write this book. I wanted to know more about at least a few of the people behind the names on that list. And I wanted to know too about some of the people whose lives they had touched, and whose lives had been profoundly changed by their passing. Not just their families and friends but the strangers who had tried to save them or console those they’d left behind, and who were also changed by the experience.

The actual decision to write the book evolved slowly. For the first few days and weeks after the crash, I was simply another spectator to this tragedy, awestruck and humbled by the almost instinctive eagerness of my Nova Scotia neighbours to give aid and comfort to perfect strangers: the fishermen who risked their own lives that first night in the roiling seas in a desperate, fruitless search for survivors; the shopkeepers who opened their stores in the middle of the night so bereaved strangers could get the toothpaste and shampoo and sundries they’d been too upset to remember to bring from home, or develop the poignant pictures of Peggys Cove they’d taken and just couldn’t wait for morning to see, and then refused to accept payment for their goods or services, let alone for their kindness; the dozens of businesses and hundreds of individuals who, often without even being asked, filled the local legion hall to overflowing with tractor-trailer loads of barley soups and chicken casseroles and fresh apple pies and homemade brownies, even Wrigley’s chewing gum and dental floss, to keep the searchers fed and fortified for their depressing but necessary duties; and all those office workers, teachers, bus drivers and ordinary folk who abandoned their day jobs, often for weeks at a time, to acts as searchers, drivers, care-givers, gofers, whatever was required.

The newspapers were full of touching little stories.

“When the full scope of the tragedy hit [Arlen Crocker], he did what came best to him,” the Halifax Chronicle-Herald reported. “‘I just went into my work shed and I didn’t come out until I was done,’ he said.... He placed the turquoise sign [To All The Families, Relatives And Friends Of The Casualties Of Flight 111, Our Thoughts And Prayers Go Out To You One And All] with hand-painted red flowers at the foot of his driveway for the families to see as they passed....”

“When [St. Margarets Bay Branch 116 Royal Canadian Legion Branch President Burton] Morash heard that volunteer ground search and rescue members were sleeping in their trucks and cars, he said, ‘No, no, we can’t have that,’ and some legion members started opening their homes to them....”

“Twelve-year-old Danielle Thibodeau of Elmsdale sent a package of chocolate chip cookies that she baked, along with a letter to thank the searchers for their efforts....”

“Dawn Upshaw said her original idea was to take a carload [of friends] to Peggys Cove to sing spirituals and provide comfort to the families, local residents, searchers and everyone else affected by the plane crash.... ‘I contacted the African Nova Scotian community. Originally I had hoped to get about six people to go down and sing some spirituals on the rocks. Then I realized I needed a bus. In the end, I needed four buses and three vans.’”

Gary Kerr, a provincial government worker who volunteered to act as a driver for grieving family members, told the Halifax Daily News he “didn’t find the long hours— drivers worked 156 hours in 10 days — that difficult. ‘We considered it an honour,’ he said. ‘I just keep thinking if I was in a strange place during a terrible time like this, it would be nice to have someone look after me and take care of me. That’s what we tried to do. Look after them like they were our neighbours.”

They did. And those “neighbours” responded in kind. “From the very first night, the people of Nova Scotia have been generous, thoughtful and brave in helping our family and many others,” Pierce’s Gerety’s brother, Tom, the president of Amherst College in Massachusetts, wrote in an open letter to Nova Scotia Premier Russell MacLellan. “All of us join in thanking you as a nation and a province.”

“My heartfelt thanks to all the wonderful people of Nova Scotia and Canada,” Nancy Wight, a New York woman who lost her 18-year-old daughter in the crash, wrote in a letter to the editor published in a number of Canadian newspapers shortly after the crash. She enclosed two pictures of her daughter. “All my love to the Canadians and the starkly beautiful landscape of Peggys Cove,” she concluded. “My heart lies there forevermore.”

But that wasn’t the end of the bond that appeared to develop between some family members and the Nova Scotians they’d come to know.

A few months after the crash, Wight quietly moved up to Halifax for a month to volunteer at a local church. Earlier, during her first visit to Nova Scotia immediately after the crash, she’d met Robert Conrad, a St. Margarets Bay fisherman who’d taken part in the initial rescue effort. Wight and the Conrads, Robert and his wife Peggy, became friends.

She wasn’t the only family member to find comfort in the place — or the people. Any number of unlikely friendships forged in those first few days as strangers — people who would probably never have met otherwise and, even if they had met, almost certainly never would have found common ground if not for the tragedy of Swissair Flight 111 — became members of the same exclusive club, a community of sorrow to which no one else could ever belong. Even more unlikely, some of those flash friendships survived the immediate aftermath of the tragedy. And endured. And deepened.

I became curious about that. What is it about an airplane crash that not only seems to make it different but also makes people respond differently to it than to, say, a stranger’s heart attack on the street, or a car crash, or even a natural disaster?

My curiosity eventually led me to Hans Ephraimson-Abt, a frail but energetic 76-year-old American whose 23-year-old daughter was killed when Soviet jets shot down Korean Airlines Flight 007 in 1983, and who has since become one of the world’s leading lobbyists on behalf of those who lose their loved ones in plane crashes.

“What makes an air crash so different?” Ephraimson-Abt repeats my question, lets it hang briefly in the air. He has thought about this question, of course. “An airplane crash is a major event, involving the sudden deaths of hundreds of people at the same moment. It often happens far from where those people, or their families, live, sometimes in places so remote they are all but inaccessible. Because it is such a major event, it generates massive, intrusive, gory publicity that can go on and on. There is the long process of recovering the bodies or belongings. But in many cases, there are no bodies, or the bodies are not intact. That creates its own psychological trauma for the families. There can be no finality, no closure. And then, as people are trying to come to terms with their own personal grief, they must also deal with the inevitable speculation about what caused the plane to crash in the first place. The investigative process to determine what really happened is almost always lengthy. So is the process of litigation. It never seems to end, the glaring light of publicity always shining on them, reminding them.”

He pauses. “What image do you remember most from Pan Am 103?” he asks. That was the plane that was blown out of the sky by a terrorist bomb over Lockerbie, Scotland, in 1988. “The cockpit,” he answers his own question. “Whenever there’s a story about the crash, the television news always shows the same pictures of the plane’s cockpit in a field. If you look closely at the bottom of the cockpit, you’ll see there’s a briefcase in the picture. That briefcase belonged to John Cummock. Every time that image appears on the television screen for years and years to come, that briefcase will be there too, to remind his widow and three children, a visual symbol of what happened to their husband and father. There is no escape for them. Ever.”

KAL 007, Pan Am 103, TWA 800, Swissair 111...

Airplane crashes are not only different from other kinds of accidents but they are, I discovered as I spoke with more people about more crashes, often eerily similar to one another in the ways in which people respond to them: the arc of shock and sorrow and coming together and splitting apart and anger and bitterness and vengeance and sadness and — perhaps eventually — accommodation and understanding that almost everyone touched by these tragedies goes through.

Over the course of this book, you’ll meet a cast of characters whose lives were changed forever by what happened the night of September 2, 1998. Plane crashes don’t transform people into something they’re not, Ephraimson-Abt once explained to me, but they can — and often do — accentuate and intensify the traits that make them what they are.

Housewife Lyn Romano, for example, has always been a feisty, larger-than-life force of nature. That’s why she is such a dominant force in her Goldens Bridge, New York, neighbourhood. That’s why too, when her husband was killed in the crash of Flight 111, it only made sense that she would play out her me-against-them moral certainties on a larger stage, quickly becoming what she liked to refer to as Swissair’s “worst nightmare.”

Miles Gerety, Pierce’s younger brother, is a small-town Connecticut lawyer who’d spent most of his life in the long shadow of a brother he both admired and desperately needed to compete with. Flight 111 offered him the chance to assume the role — the one his brother might have taken on had he survived — as prime protector of those who lost loved ones in the crash.

It was probably inevitable that Lyn and Miles — both strong-willed and self-possessed — would eventually clash. And that others — like Peggy Coburn and Mark and Barbara Fetherolf, who also lost family members in the crash — would be forced to pick sides in their conflict. And that their dispute — in part over how best to remember those who died — would ultimately divide Nova Scotians too.

Disputes among family members have become commonplace in the aftermath of airline disasters. The 1996 TWA 800 disaster off Long Island, for example, has spawned four different, often bitterly divided groups, each claiming to represent the real interests of the families of the victims. The difference in the Swissair crash is the speed with which all of that has happened; the Internet has made it much easier for groups to form, and for families to communicate — and mis-communicate — with each other instantaneously.

Air crashes affect more than just those who die and those they leave behind, of course. In these pages, you’ll also meet John Butt, Nova Scotia’s chief pathologist, who considered himself case-hardened until Flight 111 reminded him, and everyone else, just how human — and humane — he could be.

Veteran television news reporter Rob Gordon thought he’d seen it all too, until the night he spent on the water in the middle of what was left of Swissair Flight 111 convinced him there are some things no one should ever have to see. Fishermen Robert Conrad and Harris Backman were out in the middle of the “debris field” that night too. They had responded, as fishermen do, to the first word of people in danger on the water. But even they weren’t prepared for what they encountered — or how it would affect them.

That, in the end, is what this book is all about. It’s an attempt to see the crash and its aftermath through the eyes of just a few of those who lived it, to tell you a little about the people affected by this tragedy and what happened to them as a result.

August 19, 1998

Goldens Bridge, New York, 7:30 p.m. EDT

“Don’t go.”

“It’s only for two days.”

“If it’s only for two days, why not do it by phone?”

“Because they want the personal touch, that’s why. But don’t you worry, Little Girl, I’ll be back on Friday.”

“But—”

They’d had this conversation before. Perhaps a hundred times. Lyn had a “horrific fear” of flying. She had what she liked to call a “gift, an insightful gift;” she just knew something terrible was going to happen sooner or later. Her husband Ray didn’t put much stock in insightful gifts; besides, he loved everything about airplanes. The speed, the power, the sheer beauty of an incredible piece of machinery.

That’s just the kind of couple they were. “He’s pure logic,” she would tell her friends, “I’m pure emotion.” As if he she really had to tell anyone that. It was obvious. Whenever they’d have to attend some company black-tie function — Ray enjoyed them, Lyn hated them — he’d inevitably give her “the speech.”

Little girl, be good, he’d say.

Sure I will, she’d answer. “Until someone pisses me off.”

And, of course, someone would. And Lyn would let them know just how they’d pissed her off. As only Lyn could.

One night at a party at their place, a woman whose husband was one of Ray’s most important clients, “imposed herself” on Lyn. “She touched me on the shoulder, started offering me her opinion, which was not in line with my opinion, and I hadn’t asked her to butt in. So I said to her loud enough so everyone could hear: ‘Did I ask for your opinion?’” She laughs. “Ray was across the room making coffee. I could see him looking at me with these pleading eyes. He stayed beside me the rest of the night.” Afterwards, Ray asked her why she felt compelled to do such things. “Because it’s crap,” she’d say. As if there could be any other answer.

She let Ray know too when he pissed her off. About everything and anything. When Ray decided they should join the oh-so-snooty Mount Kisco Country Club, he got Lyn to type up the application letter. Over and over. It had to be perfect, he told her. He wanted to make sure they were accepted.

“Why,” she replied? “Because I’m never going to go there with you. You won’t catch me sitting on that porch at that club house with all those ladies. You go if you want. Fill your quota with clients. But don’t expect me to go with you. That’s not my scene.”

It was Ray’s scene. It has sometimes hard to believe they’d grown up just a few miles from one another in tiny Valhalla, a community of 6,000 just 40 minutes north of New York City. Their families were both Italian Catholic. Italian-Irish and Italian-English. Ray’s father owned the local cab company. Lyn’s dad ran a restaurant. She and Ray graduated from the same high school. But they didn’t date. Not then. They just knew one another in the way kids from small towns who go to the same schools know each other.

That all changed on the night of Wednesday, January 31, 1973. Lyn can tell you it was a Wednesday because Wednesdays have always been significant days in her life. She was born on a Wednesday too, back in July of 1954. She was 19. He was 19. Lyn and a few girlfriends had gone to G.G.’s North, a popular hangout in nearby Armonk, to drink and dance, and see and be seen. Lyn saw Ray Romano lazily leaning against a post by the bar. He was wearing sneakers, sloppy jeans and a brown corduroy waist-length jacket over a T-shirt. His hair, she remembers, was “long and funny. But he didn’t have a moustache then; I made him grow that later.”

Lyn can’t explain why — it was just another of her “insights” — but she knew then and there, on that Wednesday night in the middle of the bar at G.G.’s, that there could never be anyone else but Ray for her and her for Ray.

Ray took a little longer to convince. Just like he took a little longer to figure out what he wanted to do with his professional life. During the seventies, he played academic hopscotch — getting an associates’ degree in engineering and a Bachelor of Arts degree before finally finding his true path in the MBA and CPA programs at Pace University in nearby White Plains. During his final year at Pace, KPMG, the big international accounting firm, recruited him for its Stanford, Connecticut, office.

He was already 26 years old.

“What took you so long,” asked the recruiter?

“It just takes me a while to make up my mind,” Ray told him.

It took Ray nearly seven-and-a-half years after that night in the bar to finally propose to Lyn. He popped the question on the day of the 1980 presidential election.

“I want to go shopping,” he’d said.

“For what,” she said.

“For a ring.”

“What sort of ring?”

“An engagement ring,” he said.

“Thank God Reagan won,” Lyn says now. “Otherwise my engagement night would have been ruined.” Ray was as obsessively Republican as Lyn was vocally a pox-on-all-their-houses. “Every time an election would come around, Ray would ask, ‘Who did you vote for? I just pray to God you didn’t vote for a Democrat.’”

She’d sometimes tease him, egg him on. But not that night. That night they went out to Madera’s in Thornwood for dinner. They ordered a bottle of Dom Perignon to celebrate their love for one another. And then they went home to his parents’ house to tell them the good news — and watch the rest of the election returns.

“Of course,” Lyn says, “it took him a year after that to set the date for the wedding. My girlfriends told me to dump him. They said he’s never going to marry you. But I knew. I just knew.”

She was right about that. She was right too about how rock-solid their union of opposites would turn out to be. Even though they grew up in the seventies, their relationship had a kind of fifties quality to it.

On fall Sundays, Ray would wash the cars, “whether they needed it or not,” and then he and the boys — Raymond, Jr., and Randy — might play some football in the yard. It was just like the Kennedys, Lyn would say. Like the Kennedys too, Ray was always competitive, never the kind of father to let his kids win out of some misplaced kindness. The boys loved it, loved it even better when they did win. Afterwards, they’d all go into the living room, where Lyn had laid out a sumptuous spread of home-made food on the coffee table for them to enjoy. They’d light a fire and, together, watch the football game on TV.

They lived in a sprawling ranch house on a hill in Goldens Bridge, a rural-suburban community of a few hundred less than an hour’s drive but a world away from New York City. And they were still only a few miles from the families and friends they’d grown up with in Valhalla. The house they lived in had once belonged to Ray’s parents. Ray found it for them back in 1968 while it was still being built. He’d been driving along back roads on his way to a drag race when his clunker du jour broke down in front of the construction site.

Ray, who was always a big “toy person,” loved to race cars and motorcycles when he was younger. He sold his last motorcycle when Randy came along in 1987. Now that he was a family man, he told Lyn, he figured he’d never get the chance to indulge his fantasies again.

But that was before he bought the GTO. It was a 1968 hunter green model, one of only 6,900 of the muscle sports cars Pontiac made that year. It was Ray’s dream car. When Ray found it advertised for sale — the owner, the original owner, was a “little old lady who only drove it on Sundays” — Lyn pushed him to buy it. “Better he gets a car than a girlfriend,” she joked to her friends. He was doing well in his job, she pointed out to him, so they could afford it. “For a lousy $8,000, Ray,” she said, “you can have your dream car. Go for it.”

So he did.

The day he brought it home, Ray sat in it in the driveway and just revved the engine. Neighbours came to admire the car and to revel in Ray’s boyish delight at his new toy.

“He was always working on it,” Matt Nevey says. In fact, one of Matt’s first memories of the man who would quickly become one of his best friends was seeing the GTO in pieces in the driveway and Ray hovering lovingly over it. It was 1990 and Matt had just moved into the house above Ray and Lyn on the hill. He was still a bachelor then, and the Romanos took him under their wing. There was always a beer in the fridge for him, an open invitation to stop by for a drink or a meal or just to have a chat. Matt was a lapsed accountant. He’d gotten a degree but never practiced. “I was really stressed when I found out Ray was a partner in a big accounting firm,” Matt says. “Whenever I’d say I hated it, Ray would say I must have just been in the wrong area. He loved accounting, he loved the organization of it.”

Later, after Matt married Moira, and Tony and Darlene Goncalves moved into a third house on the hill at the top of their shared lane in 1992, their little enclave was complete. The three couples became each other’s best friends as well as neighbours.

When they got a notice from the postal service that they’d have to put in their own mailboxes at the end of the lane, for example, the project became a joint venture. Matt supplied the cement, Ray got the wood and then Ray and Tony did the actual construction work. “We were sweating our butts off,” Tony remembers. “And Ray says, ‘You gotta admire people who do this for a living.’”

Ray didn’t do that for a living, of course, but he was one of those men who are “good with their hands.” Six years ago, the summer Lyn’s sister, Mary Jo, got married, Ray built a huge deck beside their backyard pool. He was still in the middle of constructing it — doing all the work himself — when Lyn and Mary Jo began to worry it wouldn’t be big enough to handle all the people they wanted to invite to her wedding reception. “No problem,” said Ray; he’d just make it even bigger. And he did. That simple gesture didn’t only ease Mary Jo’s worries about the wedding reception, it also helped make her a little less nervous about getting married in the first place. Since Lyn and Mary Jo’s parents had divorced when they were kids, Mary Jo looked to her sister’s relationship for reassurance that marriage still made sense. “Lyn and Ray’s marriage restored my faith in the institution,” she says simply.

Although reality is always more complicated than the view from the outside, the Romanos’ marriage — like their family life — did seem like something from a different, less complicated era. Though Lyn had graduated with a degree in psychology and spent 10 years working as an administrator for a judge in their local ninth district, she happily gave up that job to raise their boys and be there for Ray when he got home from the office. “My life revolved around him and the house,” she says without the least trace of angst or post-feminist regret. “My only other passion was the kids.”

During the summers, she’d spend her days around the pool with her kids and the neighbours and the neighbours’ kids. Partly because of the pool, the Romanos’ backyard was a favourite gathering place. Lyn liked that too, liked being at the centre of things. But each day at four o’clock, she’d get out of the pool, shower, change and be there to greet her Ray at the door. It was the way they both liked it.

Like Lyn, Ray relished their role as neighbourhood hosts. People would often stop by for a beer. Ray, who had done stints as a bartender while working his way through college, made them feel at home by the pool.

The pool was the setting for more than just neighbourly gatherings — as Matt and Moira and Tony and Darlene found out the night they got together for a night of parlor games. Ray loved to play games. On this night, it was the Newlywed Game, in which players ask each member of a couple the same questions and compare their responses. When they asked Ray and Lyn how often they made love, it was Ray’s answer they all remembered later: If it was up to Lyn, he told them, it would be seven nights a week. When they asked Ray and Lyn their favourite spot to make love, their answer — the same from both — surprised their friends: the pool, they said, without hesitation. “After that,” remembers Darlene, “it was hard to walk past the pool without thinking, ‘Ah, the pool.’...

“Lyn and Ray were always the family support structure for our little community, our three families, and their house was the gathering spot,” Darlene explains. “The door was always open. Ray, he was like the head of the families. How do you say warm but reserved? It was like being around a tranquilizer. Every year, we’d put on this Valentine’s party for the neighbourhood and I’d be really stressed about organizing it, about whether something was going to go wrong. Ray would come over before and he’d be teasing me, calming me down. And then he’d take over, he’d act like the bartender and cut up the lemons, and by the time everybody came, it was all fine.”

Like Lyn and Ray’s life together, Ray could be more complicated than he appeared too. He was part the high school class clown all grown up, part the protective big brother, part the obsessively ambitious, upwardly mobile professional. If Lyn’s life revolved around Ray and the kids, Ray’s life revolved around Lyn and the kids and the house and the neighbours — and, of course his career. It may have taken him a while to find himself professionally, but Ray quickly made up for lost time.

In 1993, he became a partner at KPMG. His clients included such corporate giants as Xerox, GE, Pittston Oil and Union Carbide. He was proud of his accomplishments, and he was keen too to take on the trappings that came with his business success. Including expensive suits.

Lyn bought her own clothes off the rack at Kaldoor’s.

“How can you shop there,” he’d ask her?

“That’s my Sak’s,” she’d fire back She liked to needle him. Once, when he came home with two brand new suits — one of which had cost him $1,100 and the other $300 — she told him the $300 suit looked much better on him. “He was crushed,” she says.

But she had a way of zeroing in on what was really important to him. When he began to worry that other partners were making more than he was, Lyn demanded: “Are you happy with how much you make?”

“Yeh.”

“So why do you give a shit what they make?”

“Because,” he would say, “I work hard. I think I deserve to make as much as they do.”

Ray would never admit it to her, of course, but he knew Lyn was right. Once, after he told his mother how much he earned and she told him how proud she was of him, Ray’s seemingly disconnected reply was simple: “Lyn keeps me grounded.”

He could tell his mother that, Lyn would complain later, but he couldn’t tell me.

Ray was hardly a conventional romantic but that made the odd moments when he would make some tender, out-of-character gesture all the more meaningful. One day, for example, when Ray was in New Orleans on business, a florist’s delivery truck arrived at their door in Goldens Bridge.

“Are you Lyn Romano,” he asked?

“Yes.”

“Then these are for you.”

At first, Lyn couldn’t figure out who they could be from. In all their 14 years of marriage, Ray had never once sent her flowers for no reason. But the card confirmed they were from Ray. The card elliptically praised the benefits of one-stop shopping. Everything I need, the card said, is right there.

When Ray arrived home from his trip that night, Lyn, as usual, was waiting at the door.

“So,” she began without preamble, “Who is she?”

Ray looked puzzled. Then he laughed. “I did good, didn’t I,” he said. He had, she conceded.

“Just don’t expect me to do it again,” he said.

And he didn’t. But he could be full of surprises. Just this summer, he’d called her from a partners’ meeting he was attending in Florida. It had been a lousy summer for Lyn. Her father had suffered a heart attack and she was emotionally and physically exhausted from helping to care for him. When Ray called her from Florida, it was to announce that he’d booked a villa for her and the kids. They were booked on a flight to Florida a few days later.

“I can’t,” she protested, “I don’t have the time.”

“It’s already booked,” he said.

“But I hate flying.”

“It’ll be fine,” he said.

And it was. “And the place was unbelievable,” Lyn remembers, “the most beautiful place I ever stayed.”

Not all of Ray’s surprises were as welcome. Even though he loved their home and their life in Goldens Bridge almost as much as Lyn, Ray was still eager to move to a bigger house that better reflected his status in the firm. All the other partners have bigger houses, he would say. They would occasionally spend their Sunday afternoons driving around looking at other larger and more luxurious homes in the area, but Lyn would always find some reason why whatever house he found just wouldn’t do. The truth was it was because none of those bigger, more luxurious homes were located next door to Matt and Moira and Tony and Darlene.

But then one weekend afternoon last January, Ray got a telephone call at home from one of the firm’s senior partners. Lyn and his mother were sitting in the kitchen when Ray came in after taking the call in his home office “His face was gray,” Lyn remembers.

“You’re not going to believe this,” he said, “but I’ve been offered a real great opportunity. They want to transfer me to Pennsylvania. It’ll be a major step —”

Lyn began to cry.

Ray knew better than to push then. “I suppose we should talk about this some other time,” he said.

Ray’s mother was less reticent. “How could you be crying,” she demanded? “It’s his career. It’s the same with flying,” she added. “You may not like it but he’s got to do that too. He has to. For his job.”

Lyn understood that. But it didn’t make it any easier.

Ray tried to find a way to make it all sound like an adventure. He knew how much Lyn liked to garden. “I’ll get you a great house,” he said, “and it’ll have a greenhouse out back—“

Lyn had heard enough. “The two of you don’t get it, do you? You don’t have a damn clue. I waited three years to get a porch built on this house. I don’t care about any of that stuff. I like living here. I like living with our friends.”

Later, after Ray had left for the office, Lyn softened. She sent him an email. She addressed it to “Maym.” She couldn’t remember why she’d started calling him that in their emails. But she did. The reason didn’t matter. It was a pet name, like Little Girl, which is what he always called her.

“You know that I don’t want to move,” she says she wrote in her email, “but I will follow you to the ends of the earth if that’s what you need me to do. I love you.”

In the end, the transfer fell through. Lyn was relieved, but she knew the relief was probably only temporary. Ray was moving up in the company, as she knew he deserved to. There would be another transfer offer, another promotion. She would just have to learn to live with it.

As she had learned to live with Ray flying.

This trip — to Switzerland on behalf of a Union Carbide spinoff — had already been postponed twice this summer. Now the date had finally been set again. It would take place two weeks from now — on Wednesday, September 2, 1998.

Still, as they sat on the deck on warm August night drinking a beer with Steve, their helicopter pilot neighbour from down the road, Lyn couldn’t resist one more why-do-you-have-to-fly conversation.

Steve, like all of their friends, knew all about Lyn’s flying phobia, knew that before she’d relent this time — as every time —she’d make Ray promise to call the minute his plane landed, make him leave her a detailed itinerary with phone numbers for every stop “including the nearest pay phone outside the hotel.” It wasn’t quite that bad, of course, but Steve knew enough to sit back and drink his beer while Lyn and Ray played out their routine.

Finally, Ray turned to Steve for help. Ray — as he often did — had quoted statistics to Lyn, told her how much more likely it was to die in a car accident than in a plane.

“Isn’t that right,” he asked Steve?

“That’s right,” said Steve.

“See,” he said to Lyn, “Everything will be OK.” He took a sip of his drink. “Hey,” he said suddenly. “I just had an idea. Why don’t you come with me, Little Girl?”

Lyn laughed. She wasn’t having any of this. “Yeh, right,” she said.

August 30, 1998

St. Margarets Bay, 12:30 p.m. ADT

Rob Gordon cut the boat’s engine, felt the freshly stirred, sun-warmed summer breeze on his face. Finally. The Bay had been so flat calm when he and Alan Jeffers were preparing to set sail from Mahone Bay an hour ago he’d decided they had better stop and buy some extra gasoline in case the wind didn’t pick up and they were forced to run the engine for the entire 40-mile, 10-hour journey to Halifax. In fact, they’d motored all the way out of Mahone Bay, past Little Tancook and Pearl islands. You won’t run into another piece of land between here and France, Gordon told Jeffers as they were passing between the tip of the Aspotogan Peninsula and Ironbound Island around Seal Ledge. That’s when he finally felt the wind come up.

Time to raise the sail.

God, he wished this wasn’t the last day of his vacation.

He instructed his friend Jeffers — still an amateur in matters of sailing and the sea — when to pull which lines as they brought Gordon’s 20-foot Nordica around to catch the wind in its sails. Gordon used his handheld GPS — a device that allowed him to figure out the boat’s position simply by bouncing a signal off a satellite — to get a reading off the Ledge and a nearby buoy as they slipped, sailing now, through the passage between Ironbound and Big Tancook Island.

Glorious.

August was still the best month in Nova Scotia, Gordon thought to himself, the only month when you could really depend on the weather. This year, he had spent his August wisely. On vacation. Gordon and his two sons, Angus, 14, and Mathijs, 12, had camped out on the boat for the last two weeks. They’d hung out for a while among the dozens of wooden and non-wooden sailing ships at Mahone Bay’s annual wooden boat festival, puttered around along the province’s south shore, exploring some of the dozens of uninhabited islands and beaches that dotted St. Margarets Bay and just generally had a good father-sons time.

Now the boys had gone back home to Halifax, and Gordon and Jeffers would sail the Nordica back up across the mouth of St. Margarets Bay and then. hugging the coastline, sail past Peggys Cove and Prospect and Pennant Point and Chebucto Head and then into Halifax’s Northwest Arm where they would tie the small boat up at its mooring at the Armdale Yacht Club.

Tomorrow, Gordon knew, he would have to go back to work. He tried to remember what was going on in the world of local news, what stories he might end up covering this week. But he gave it only a moment’s consideration. There would be plenty of time to worry about all of that tomorrow.

Today, there was just sunshine, sweet sea breezes, good friends and better plans. He and Alan Jeffers had been friends since they met more than a dozen years ago as young reporters at the Halifax Chronicle-Herald. They’d remained close through marriages, kids, divorces and various job changes.

These days, Jeffers was Mobil Canada’s chief spokesperson in Atlantic Canada. Gordon, who jumped the newspaper ship in 1989 , was now a general assignment reporter at the local CBC-TV supper hour news show, First Edition.

Despite their different, occasionally conflicting career paths, Gordon and Jeffers still got together at least once a week for a beer after work, occasionally more than once a week and — more occasionally — for more than one beer.

It was during one of those nights last winter, in fact, that they’d first come up with the idea for a book on the Titanic’s connections to Halifax. James Cameron’s Hollywood movie about the 1912 sinking of the Titanic — partly filmed in Halifax — had just been released and everyone, it seemed, was trying to think of inventive ways to cash in on the public’s newfound fascination with anything to do with the famous marine disaster.

Why shouldn’t he and Jeffers cash in a little too? Halifax, after all, was where many of the victims had been buried. The local media was already reporting the first movie-inspired pilgrimages to Halifax to visit the Titanic grave site. And it was still the dead of winter, for God’s sake. Think how many tourists might make the trip to Nova Scotia in the summer to look for real Titanic lore.

And what would all those visitors do after they’d been to the cemetery and checked out the decidedly unremarkable collection of headstones and crosses? Perhaps they’d wander down to the Maritime Museum of the Atlantic on the waterfront, which was advertising an exhibit on the sinking, and spend an hour or so admiring the artifacts.

And then?

And then.... What if Gordon and Jeffers wrote a quickie guidebook, an everything-you-ever-wanted-to-know-about-Halifax-and-the-Titanic kind of book designed specifically to fill in the gaps for all those Titanic-hungry visitors? Why not? They were both Nova Scotians, both steeped in the province’s history and both excellent reporters and writers.

Why not indeed?

So they did. In a few inspired weeks of research and writing, they put together Titanic Halifax, a slim, 108-page collection of eclectic, Halifax-related Titanic trivia. Nimbus, a local publisher, agreed to publish it. Even though the finished product hadn’t finally made it to the book stores and tourist shops until a little over a month ago — halfway through the lucrative summer season — sales were already living up to their expectations. They’d heard rumours it had already sold out most of its first 4,000-copy print run.

And that could be just the beginning. Even after the movie-inspired Titanic hype died down, as it inevitably would, there would almost certainly be a steady stream of people coming to the province every year to find out more about the real story of Halifax and the Titanic.

Perhaps they might even be able to come up with other ways to cash in on their knowledge. Gordon had begun working on an idea for a screenplay, a docudrama built around the city’s connections to the disaster. That was the other reason they were sailing back to Halifax together on this sunny Sunday afternoon — to discuss Gordon’s screenplay and any other ideas the sun and the sea and the beer might inspire.

Gordon took out a beer, passed one to Jeffers and stared out at a sea that seemed to stretch to forever. Gordon loved the smell and taste and feel of the ocean. There was a time when he had planned to make his career on the sea. In truth, he had become a journalist, initially at least, more by process of elimination than desire.

The oldest of three children of a prominent Halifax doctor and his wife, Gordon had surprised and shocked his family by dropping out of school at 16, then spending the next five years just bumming around. “It was a time when there was a whole lot going on,” he remembers. “You could stay in a youth hostel for 50-cents a night.” He did stints as a seaman in the coast guard and a cook on offshore oil rigs before deciding to return to school, largely to escape the ghetto of unskilled labor.

After earning an honours degree in strategic studies from Dalhousie University, he enrolled at the Nova Scotia Nautical Institute with plans to get his navigation officer’s ticket and begin his career as a ship’s officer. But he quit after only a few months when he realized that, if he did get his ticket, he would probably have to spend much of the rest of his life at sea. He suddenly realized that, as much as he loved the idea of it, he couldn’t imagine really spending his life that way. He dropped out and enrolled instead in a new public relations program at Mount Saint Vincent University in Halifax, largely because “it seemed like a way out of going to sea.”

After his first year there, he traded on a family connection to land a summer job as a reporter at the Halifax Chronicle-Herald. After a few months of obituaries and Lion’s Club luncheons, he got his first taste of journalism’s intoxicating joys. A friend told him that the owners of a trawler, which was tied up at a Halifax pier, had skipped town and the Mounties were using dogs to search the vessel. Gordon wrote a dryly factual news story about it. A fellow reporter took a look at his copy on the terminal.

“Good story,” he said.

“Yeh?” replied Gordon, pleased.

“Yes,” the reporter dryly informed him, “but not the way you wrote it.”

“He helped me rewrite the piece... perhaps he did rewrite it,” Gordon concedes with a laugh. The new lead jumped off the page. “It was a good story. And I got to follow it up — I found out the boat had been involved in a drug bust in Lebanon. I was calling up FBI guys in Virginia... It was a crossroad. I realized you could have fun — and do interesting stuff.”

He never went back to PR.

He had no regrets — about any of it. He was 43 years old and he couldn’t imagine being anything but a reporter.

Still, he wished he had one more week of vacation. He wasn’t ready for it to end. Not on a day like today. He could see whales frolicking off in the distance.

The screenplay? Oh yes, the screenplay. They really should talk about the screenplay.

Noank, Connecticut, 4 p.m. EDT

“Nice.” Pierce Gerety eyeballed his brother Miles’s Ericson 35 sailboat with the keenly appraising eye of an expert sailor. “Mom buy this for you?” Pierce asked, still staring at the boat bobbing at the dock in Noank, a slight smile playing at the edge of his mouth.

“No,” Miles replied too quickly, almost defensively. “I got a second mortgage for it.” Even though he’d had the boat for three years, Miles realized Pierce had never seen it before. He realized too that, even after all these years, Pierce still knew how to push his brother-buttons. Pierce, the much older brother at 56 — about to turn 57 in just a few weeks — and Miles, his 48 year-old kid brother, were both successful adults with careers and wives and grown-up children of their own. But...

Sibling rivalry, it sometimes seemed, came with the turf of being born a Gerety. That didn’t make it any easier to compete with a living saint. Pierce was the saint. Miles was ... well, Miles was not Pierce. But they were both Geretys, Fairfield, Connecticut’s, version of the Kennedys, a large and larger-than-life Irish-American clan full of boisterously competitive overachievers.