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My big story: I survived Three Mile Island (unfortunately)
Shooting Three Mile Island
When KYW Newsradio sent three or four reporters to Three Mile Island on Saturday, March 31, 1979, the news director hired me to photograph these intrepid newsmen as they broadcast all day.
The news of the possible nuclear meltdown had hit the airwaves on Wednesday morning. The usual scary scenarios were trumpeted on national radio and TV, along with the usual denials of danger by the Nuclear Regulatory Commissioners and other heavies.
"Just a leak," they said. "A stuck valve."
By Saturday the leak had become a meltdown and then a hydrogen bubble that might blow the containment walls out. First there was no detectible radiation. Then there was detectible radiation. The eyes of the world focused on the energy generating plant set into a bend of the wide, slow Susquehanna River three miles south of Middletown, Pennsylvania. The China Syndrome, the great Jane Fonda-Jack Lemmon film that imagined in excruciating detail just this kind of nuclear meltdown, had opened only ten days before. No matter who we believed, we were all nervous.
But when the news director called me Friday night, I didn't hesitate to take the job. Three hundred bucks? I was needy. So early the next morning I loaded my camera gear into my old Volkswagen and headed out the Pennsylvania Turnpike under grey and gloomy skies. All the eastbound lanes were jammed with families in cars, top racks heavy with luggage as they fled what might well be a nuclear bomb. Traffic was slow. The drivers looked worried and impatient.
A win-win situation
I had the westbound road to myself. You'd think one person in those cars would turn to see what fool was heading the wrong way. Wave good-bye, at least. But no, their eyes were fixed on their escapes.
I felt noble and brave by comparison. Should I perish in an atomic inferno, my name would be immortalized as the gutsiest free-lance photographer in history. Well, in Philly. My grandchildren, if there ever were any, would tell my story down the generations.
And if I survived, well, I could pay my mortgage. Win-win.
The ominous towers appeared on the horizon emitting deadly-looking steam. I could almost see those little radioactive particles dispersing over the innocent, winter-dull plain. Into the jaws of death. I followed the temporary signs to the press parking lot filled with cars and TV vans, swarming with technicians, headphones in place, vest pockets bristling with two-way radios and other contraptions I knew nothing about. A free-lance photographer or writer soon learns to stay the hell out of their way—we are barely dirt beneath their shoes.
A gaggle of media skeptics
Every news outfit in the country had sent someone to hear what the various state and local officials, the plant's owners and heavy-duty Washington brass were telling the public at a press conference. As a pitiful free-lancer, I recognized only Jimmy Breslin, that cranky New York Post columnist. He was even more cynical and skeptical than the others. It humbled me to discover that I wasn't the only brave soul on a mission after all, but it comforted me to know if the place blew us to Kingdom Come, I'd be in famous company. Another story for the grandchildren.
Since my KYW reporters were radio voices, I had no idea what they looked like. I couldn't have picked them out by sound, either (I'm an NPR fan who never listened to KYW). When the heavies lifted off in their helicopters, I found my guys— the ones not wearing TV makeup, holding their own microphones and looking down at their notes as they spoke.
Were they glad to see me? Not particularly. Did they mind my camera's big flash? Yes, somewhat. Did they bother to ask my name? No. I dragged them outside for a closeup with the steaming towers in the background, proof that they had indeed been at the site. Were they worried, were they scared? Not a bit. But they were annoyed at having to travel all the way out to Three Mile Island on a Saturday and miss their weekend plans. I think I overheard them plan to negotiate some special bennies for the inconvenience.
A desperate search for gas
In an hour I had my shots and headed back, noticing as I retraced my way to the Turnpike that I was low on gas. Worse, the Pike was like a parking lot. I could hardly get near the on-ramp. At that speed I wouldn't get back to my little house in Spring Garden Street, a hundred miles east, until the next morning. No way would my gas last so long.
I turned north and found myself for a time along Route 422 looking for a gas station. I passed a deserted Hershey Park. Deserted towns. I might as well have been driving on the moon. Not a soul stirred. Not a gas station was open. All the houses, the malls and supermarkets, empty of human life. I remembered the awful despair of the deserted landscape in On the Beach, where the only sound the last survivors hear is a loose sign banging against its post. This frightened me more than the steaming towers. How jolly those wise-cracking journalists who wouldn't give me the time of day now seemed. Should I scribble a last will and testament? The news on KYW radio— now my lifeline— never made the story clear, between commercials.
What use would my film ever be? Would I have to knock on a farmhouse door for shelter or even break into a house to find a phone? As the day wore down and a light rain fell— nuclear rain, perhaps?— the gas gauge dropped down to the red zone. I feathered the accelerator and meandered alone down the rest of the afternoon through little towns whose names I'd never heard of.
Somehow I arrived in Pottstown and finally joined a thick stream of cars heading into the Schuylkill Expressway. My good old car had eked out 125 miles on fumes. I've never been so glad to see my front door.
One day later
KYW's news director (name long forgotten) came by the next day to pick up the photos I'd processed in my darkroom.
"These are really excellent!" she said. "Are you sure you want to part with them?" Surely she was nuts. Gimme my money, I wanted to shout.
"I mean, some photographers just fall in love with their work," she explained. "They can't part with it."
"Not a problem here," I assured her, sliding the glossies into an envelope. Did I want to be reminded of this horrible adventure? "Here's your invoice."
I never learned how or whether she used the pictures and I've never looked at them again. But I don't throw my stuff away, so I know exactly where they are right now: in my files under my same good old desk right here in Campbell, California. Three Mile Island, your bark was worse than your bite. But this grandmother thanks you for my almost-15 minutes of fame, such as it was.
To read responses, click here.
The news of the possible nuclear meltdown had hit the airwaves on Wednesday morning. The usual scary scenarios were trumpeted on national radio and TV, along with the usual denials of danger by the Nuclear Regulatory Commissioners and other heavies.
"Just a leak," they said. "A stuck valve."
By Saturday the leak had become a meltdown and then a hydrogen bubble that might blow the containment walls out. First there was no detectible radiation. Then there was detectible radiation. The eyes of the world focused on the energy generating plant set into a bend of the wide, slow Susquehanna River three miles south of Middletown, Pennsylvania. The China Syndrome, the great Jane Fonda-Jack Lemmon film that imagined in excruciating detail just this kind of nuclear meltdown, had opened only ten days before. No matter who we believed, we were all nervous.
But when the news director called me Friday night, I didn't hesitate to take the job. Three hundred bucks? I was needy. So early the next morning I loaded my camera gear into my old Volkswagen and headed out the Pennsylvania Turnpike under grey and gloomy skies. All the eastbound lanes were jammed with families in cars, top racks heavy with luggage as they fled what might well be a nuclear bomb. Traffic was slow. The drivers looked worried and impatient.
A win-win situation
I had the westbound road to myself. You'd think one person in those cars would turn to see what fool was heading the wrong way. Wave good-bye, at least. But no, their eyes were fixed on their escapes.
I felt noble and brave by comparison. Should I perish in an atomic inferno, my name would be immortalized as the gutsiest free-lance photographer in history. Well, in Philly. My grandchildren, if there ever were any, would tell my story down the generations.
And if I survived, well, I could pay my mortgage. Win-win.
The ominous towers appeared on the horizon emitting deadly-looking steam. I could almost see those little radioactive particles dispersing over the innocent, winter-dull plain. Into the jaws of death. I followed the temporary signs to the press parking lot filled with cars and TV vans, swarming with technicians, headphones in place, vest pockets bristling with two-way radios and other contraptions I knew nothing about. A free-lance photographer or writer soon learns to stay the hell out of their way—we are barely dirt beneath their shoes.
A gaggle of media skeptics
Every news outfit in the country had sent someone to hear what the various state and local officials, the plant's owners and heavy-duty Washington brass were telling the public at a press conference. As a pitiful free-lancer, I recognized only Jimmy Breslin, that cranky New York Post columnist. He was even more cynical and skeptical than the others. It humbled me to discover that I wasn't the only brave soul on a mission after all, but it comforted me to know if the place blew us to Kingdom Come, I'd be in famous company. Another story for the grandchildren.
Since my KYW reporters were radio voices, I had no idea what they looked like. I couldn't have picked them out by sound, either (I'm an NPR fan who never listened to KYW). When the heavies lifted off in their helicopters, I found my guys— the ones not wearing TV makeup, holding their own microphones and looking down at their notes as they spoke.
Were they glad to see me? Not particularly. Did they mind my camera's big flash? Yes, somewhat. Did they bother to ask my name? No. I dragged them outside for a closeup with the steaming towers in the background, proof that they had indeed been at the site. Were they worried, were they scared? Not a bit. But they were annoyed at having to travel all the way out to Three Mile Island on a Saturday and miss their weekend plans. I think I overheard them plan to negotiate some special bennies for the inconvenience.
A desperate search for gas
In an hour I had my shots and headed back, noticing as I retraced my way to the Turnpike that I was low on gas. Worse, the Pike was like a parking lot. I could hardly get near the on-ramp. At that speed I wouldn't get back to my little house in Spring Garden Street, a hundred miles east, until the next morning. No way would my gas last so long.
I turned north and found myself for a time along Route 422 looking for a gas station. I passed a deserted Hershey Park. Deserted towns. I might as well have been driving on the moon. Not a soul stirred. Not a gas station was open. All the houses, the malls and supermarkets, empty of human life. I remembered the awful despair of the deserted landscape in On the Beach, where the only sound the last survivors hear is a loose sign banging against its post. This frightened me more than the steaming towers. How jolly those wise-cracking journalists who wouldn't give me the time of day now seemed. Should I scribble a last will and testament? The news on KYW radio— now my lifeline— never made the story clear, between commercials.
What use would my film ever be? Would I have to knock on a farmhouse door for shelter or even break into a house to find a phone? As the day wore down and a light rain fell— nuclear rain, perhaps?— the gas gauge dropped down to the red zone. I feathered the accelerator and meandered alone down the rest of the afternoon through little towns whose names I'd never heard of.
Somehow I arrived in Pottstown and finally joined a thick stream of cars heading into the Schuylkill Expressway. My good old car had eked out 125 miles on fumes. I've never been so glad to see my front door.
One day later
KYW's news director (name long forgotten) came by the next day to pick up the photos I'd processed in my darkroom.
"These are really excellent!" she said. "Are you sure you want to part with them?" Surely she was nuts. Gimme my money, I wanted to shout.
"I mean, some photographers just fall in love with their work," she explained. "They can't part with it."
"Not a problem here," I assured her, sliding the glossies into an envelope. Did I want to be reminded of this horrible adventure? "Here's your invoice."
I never learned how or whether she used the pictures and I've never looked at them again. But I don't throw my stuff away, so I know exactly where they are right now: in my files under my same good old desk right here in Campbell, California. Three Mile Island, your bark was worse than your bite. But this grandmother thanks you for my almost-15 minutes of fame, such as it was.
To read responses, click here.
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