I didn't write much of this down a year ago, but it's really clear in my head now so I'm doing it 365 days later.
Wednesday was September 12th. Our little semi-isolated environment on the island was kind of subdued. I was pretty shut down, while Kate and Barry spent a lot of the day getting in touch with people, to see who could still make it, who was stranded, whose plans had changed, who needed help, and so on. I kept looking at the sky, that awful, perfectly blue sky, with no jet contrails, and was beginning to get pretty hopeless about things.
The worst logistical problem we had was that the woman who was to marry us, Susan, and one of Kate's attendants, Jill, were well stuck on the west coast, and it wasn't looking good for getting them all the way across the country. Attendance in general, which was to have been around fifty, looked like it was at around 28 and dwindling.
Late in the afternoon, we separated, with Kate and Barry going to hang out at the "real" beach, while I walked to the more rocky, less inhabited beach on the western side of the island. I sat all alone and watched the sunset. I looked up and saw a lone jet contrail, I guessed it was a military tanker, since several east-coast cities had 24-hour fighter patrols.
I think Wednesday was the worst day of the week for me. There weren't any people around, there was still nothing really to do except worry and contemplate canceling the wedding, and look off across the sound to the west.
I assumed all I really had to do was wait until Kate's optimism played itself out, and we could start the process of regrouping and re-planning. Wednesday was just kind of a limbo; we were drifting forward still on the wedding planning process, but the wind was out of our sails and I at least no longer had my eye on the horizon.