Port Jeff Native Reports From Boston Bombing: 'You Just Don't Expect These Things to Happen'

The following column was written by Danielle Auerbach, a 23-year-old Port Jefferson native living in Boston who was at the Boston Marathon during this week's deadly bombing.

Her mother, Lauren Auerbach, an aide to county Legis. Tom Muratore, has asked Patch to republish the post, which first appeared on her daughter's blog on Wednesday:

Monday, April 15, 2013. I woke up early to a beautiful spring morning to kick off Patriot's Day and the Boston Marathon with a little brunch on Newbury Street. One omelet and several mimosas later, I was feeling good. Really good. I was with Jordan and Jackie, two of my closest girlfriends, sitting next to an open window, breathing in the intoxicating fresh air of springtime.

Around 2:30pm, after a delightfully long three-hour meal, the three of us made our way over to Boylston Street to see the runners as they passed the Finish Line. The sidewalk was crowded with excited bystanders and it was inspiring to see the athletes as they accomplished such a tremendous feat. I remember looking at the flags that hung at the finish line, representing each runner's country. I even made a comment about them to my friends. It was cool that that spirit of international unity was on full display at the most prominent spot of one of the most prestigious athletic events.

At some point, Jordan suggested stepping into the Charlesmark Hotel, just a couple feet away to grab a drink. At the time, I thought nothing of it, but in hindsight I realize that her suggestion -- a suggestion that seemed so fleeting and insignificant at the time; a suggestion that held no more weight than any other I've heard before; a suggestion I could have so easily rejected -- that suggestion, quite possibly, is what saved our lives.

Once inside the Charlesmark, Jackie and I went downstairs to use the restroom. As we were waiting in line we heard a loud bang come from upstairs. I didn't really think much of it. After all, we were at a race...it was probably just some celebratory cannon or something. But seconds later we heard another explosion and then almost instantly patrons from upstairs came bursting through the stairwell, running to the emergency exit.

"What's happening? What's going on?" I screamed out to nobody in particular. The response I got didn't match the question but the message was still clear as day: "GIRLS....RUN!!" And, by the Grace of God, at the very moment Jackie grabbed my hand and started running towards the exit, Jordan, who we had left upstairs to go to the bathroom, came running down the stairs.

The details that follow are hazy. But I remember running. I remember the sirens. The screaming. The smoke. I remember calling my parents. Calling Corey. Calling Sarah. Calling any other friends unaccounted for. I remember the impossibility of a good phone connection. I remember crying. Confusion. Then relief, when reuniting with more friends.

And then we were sitting in front of the TV at Jackie's apartment. Watching in silence as they replayed footage from the twin explosions. The first had gone off at the very spot we'd been standing 10 minutes prior, when I made a comment about those international flags.

I feel so blessed, but I don't know why I was one of the lucky ones. My life was spared. I walked away physically unscathed. All of my friends who were down there are okay. It's a true miracle. But I can't help but think of of the what-ifs. I was at 655 Boylston St. The first explosion occurred at Marathon Sports, 671 Boylston (105 feet away). What if the explosion had been more powerful? What if it had happened ten minutes prior? Our friends were 4 blocks away from meeting us. So what if it had happened five minutes later?

I remember the families who watched the race with excitement in that very spot. Those poor, unsuspecting people who would turn into casualties just minutes later. I saw children and baby strollers. I wonder if I passed the attacker. Walked by the bomb. Had I been more aware, could I have seen something or done something to change the outcome? You just don't expect these things to happen at a place that feels so safe. Boylston Street is like home. And these things don't happen at home. And they don't happen to me. And they don't happen to the people I know. Or so I thought.

Monday night was mellow and subdued and spent with friends. The boys grilled dinner for us and we finished the night with a game of Scrabble, listening to Elton John. I realize how fortunate we are, but as long as there are sick people in this world, nobody is immune.