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T it dawned on me I was about to die arrived during my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were traveling to Blackburn to visit a former classmate who had made a new home there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and basking in the prospect of the party weekend ahead, we chatted nonstop as we journeyed by train from York.

We placed our luggage – packed with necessities such as bottles of wine and my new pair of black clogs – on the overhead rack and settled down in a snug pair of seats. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. Another one sounded, which could not be dismissed. A female passenger shrieked as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like slow motion. All at once, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. Looking down, vision blocked, I expected the carriage to flip and explode, similar to cinematic scenes. My thoughts turned to our families and friends getting the news. Subsequently, there was the young girl weeping.

“You’re all right,” I murmured, my voice sounding croaky. “The worst has passed,” I murmured, more to myself than her.

Her age was roughly seven or eight, and looked like she had no guardian. Her crying shook me out of my trance; here was my chance to help. I moved to where she was standing and gave her a reassuring hug. “Don’t look round,” Helen yelled, but it was already too late. I glimpsed a man with his face covered in blood. A large metallic item had crashed through the window behind us. Afterward, we found out a uncontrolled excavator had tumbled down the embankment and smashed into our carriage, making the train leave the tracks.

Our car was lodged with its leading section elevated. Then came the noise of sirens and a fellow passenger requested that I to give the girl to him so he could pass her through the window, while young passengers were extracted to fire crews on standby. Not long afterward, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and climbing down a ladder on to the track.

Back on terra firma – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. My eyes scanned for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, we later learned had been in the toilet when the crash occurred. An emergency worker helpfully fetched my clogs. Another traveler collapsed on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – but, by good fortune our wine stayed unbroken. After a half-hour wait, we traveled in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the female passenger who had caused the luggage to burst. Our friend was waiting, pale with worry. She knew there had been a derailment and a guard had taken her into his office and prepared some tea for her while she hoped for information.

Displaying the fearlessness of young adulthood, we pushed the derailment from our minds and continued with our evening plans, which involved a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. Not a single life was lost in the incident, although several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I escaped with bruises and soreness and discomfort from the violent forward motion in the carriage. The train had been slowing to come into Leeds station, which had been the key factor in averting grave physical damage. Since nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to obsess over the “what ifs” but the child was the one who made a permanent impression. Looking after her and reassuring her helped take my mind off myself and showed me the value of focusing on others in a crisis. In the decades since, I have repeatedly asked myself if she had any memory of the event, and how big a deal it had been for her.

Helen and I have stayed close for over 30 years and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our ability to cope any situation, provided we have each other. Having her companionship during the accident gave me the impression I was protected from the full horror of the event. The derailment further transformed my method of handling different emergencies, giving me perspective – and serving as a reminder that, however bad things seem, it is invariably an honor to get older.