Capsized, from pg 22 He looked up through the dark, swirling green to flecks of sunlight, so far away now. So far. It had been nearly two hours since the massive wave had seized and flipped the Ranger. He felt certain now. Resigned. The sea had won. This would be his last breath of life. ••• Lungs burning, they ran down the beach, back over the two miles, over shards of driftwood and past knots of kelp. They made it to the Highlander, rushed to a nearby farmhouse, and used a landline to call 9-1-1. A boat had capsized off Kehoe Beach, they reported. Two men were clinging to it. It had been about a half-hour since they had spotted the overturned Ranger and the fishermen. Bouchard and Kimber left the farmhouse. They drove back and parked on the side of Pierce Point Road near a large sign warning of undertows and sharks. They grabbed sweaters and towels and bottles of water. They ran through the dunes stubbled with anise and iceplant. Maybe the men had washed ashore. The muscles in their legs were screaming. Still, they ran toward Kehoe Beach. ••• A U.S. Coast Guard air search and rescue team was already in motion, speeding in their sleek orange-and-black Dolphin helicopter over San Pablo Bay. They’d received a mayday call earlier and were searching the San Pablo waters for a boat or survivor. They found nothing. It wasn’t unusual. Some mayday calls are pranks. Sometimes nearby boaters help out or local law enforcement responds before the Coast Guard arrives. In the Dolphin were Commander Sam Creech, pilot Kyle Young, flight mechanic Eric Lester and rescue swimmer Dan Strange. All were in dry suits. Strange, 27, was a football player and track athlete back in high school near San Antonio. His face splashed with freckles, hair close-cropped, he had a boyish look. Yet as a rescue swimmer, he was highly trained and in peak condition. Like all Coast Guard rescue swimmers, he was also an Emergency Medical Technician. As the men scanned San Pablo Bay, the Dolphin running in a pre-selected search pattern, a distress call came in from Point Reyes. A boat capsized, a single man aboard. The sighting had been reported by eyewitnesses. The crew knew this was no prank. In the Coast Guard, the term for going at full speed is “bustering.” Strange began pulling on his fins. It would soon be up to him. At 180 mph, it would take no more than 10 minutes to get to Kehoe. The men of the Dolphin bustered. ••• The blue fender lifted Tobeck to the surface. He opened his eyes. He was, somehow, still alive, still breathing. God is here, Tobeck thought. He looked at the beach. He was closer now. The surf pulsed him toward the sand. He clawed at it, tried to pull himself up and away from the water. He was nearly on the beach but he couldn’t touch bottom, couldn’t get traction. Another wave broke and began its backwards rush, and carried Tobeck with it.
Again and again, Tobeck dug his fingers into the sand only to be hauled back by the receding waves. Finally, a breaker washed Tobeck to higher ground, near the dunes and the white log. He dug in, and held. He crawled away from the water, still holding the fender. His heart was beating erratically, his lungs were rasping. His face was turning purple. On the chill sands of Kehoe Beach, Tobeck curled into the fetal position, a posture common for those dying from hypothermia. ••• Kneeling on the Ranger, Alexander had seen Tobeck survive the surf and curl up on the beach. Held in a rip current, the Ranger was still well away from the beach, still trapped in the slashing breakers. He had looked several times to the north, toward Bodega Bay, knowing there was a Coast Guard station there. But no Coast Guard cutter appeared. Somehow, the hikers had not understood. There would be no rescue. Still wet, in only his undershorts, Alexander was growing colder, more weary. He wondered now if his earlier decision was right. Maybe he should leave the Ranger and swim for his life. He was a decent swimmer, but he was so fatigued now, beaten down for two hours by the sea. He crawled to the bow of the Ranger. He would stand and dive into this monster surf. It would be his only chance. Then he heard a rumble in the sky. Alexander looked south, and saw the Dolphin approaching. ••• Swooping over the Bolinas Ridge, the team headed north along the Great Beach. They spotted the capsized boat and on it, a man wearing only shorts. The men flew over Alexander, assessed the best way to make the rescue. As the commander, Creech would make the decision. He turned to Strange and gave him the signal. The Dolphin hovered at about 30 feet, its engine screaming, its rotors blasting down at the surf. Strange had secured his mask, helmet, fins and snorkel. His harness held flares, lights, a knife. He looked down from the edge of the Dolphin. He could not simply jump into this surf. It was too high, too treacherous. If his timing wasn’t perfect, he could plummet deep into the trough of a wave instead of onto the crest and shatter a bone. Strange went down on a sling. Dangling a few feet from the water, Strange slipped from the sling into the surf. He swam to Alexander. “Is there anyone else?” Alexander pointed toward Tobeck, curled on the still-distant beach. Strange gave a hand signal to his crew. A rescue basket dropped from the Dolphin. Alexander was bluish, cool to the touch. “You OK?” Strange asked. “OK, but I’d like to get out of here,” Alexander said. The two splashed into the water, and Strange, his arm under Alexander’s shoulder, towed him to the basket. Another hand signal, and the basket, with Alexander inside, rose to the Dolphin. To steady the basket, to keep it from swinging back into the surf, Strange held onto it from below as it rose for the first 10 feet or so. Then he dropped back into the water and swam for the beach.
45 CONTEST EDITION 2009 It was, he would recall, the toughest swim of his life. The surf was 10 to 15 feet. The waves were concussive, pounding one on top of another. He duck-dived below some. Others struck him, rolled him. He’d describe it later as swimming through a washing machine. Strange made it to the beach. He threw off his fins and snorkel. He would need his mask, he knew, to see through the rotor wash. He sprinted to Tobeck, coiled tight in the last stages of hypothermia. He touched Tobeck’s hand. It was colder than the sea itself. He bent low and could hear the rasping of Tobeck’s breathing, see the purple spreading over his face. “You’ll be OK, you’ll be OK,” he told him. He looked up to the Dolphin, signaled once more, and the basket dropped. Tobeck looked out from his cocoon. He saw Strange, heard the shrieking of the Dolphin, saw the rotors’ hurricane-force winds strafing the sand around him. Then he peered toward the dunes at the metal wire of the exclosure. Oh, the poor Plovers, he thought. Bouchard and Gimber had rushed down the beach and then stopped when they heard the Dolphin’s approaching thunder. They watched as Strange and his team rescued the fishermen. Now the helicopter was speeding south, the thunder fading. The fishermen, they hoped, would be safe now. ••• Wisps of fog drifted over the beach as the hikers carried the water and blankets back to the Highlander. Inside the Dolphin, Strange pulled out his switchblade and sliced away Tobeck’s wet shirt and pants. He swaddled him in blankets. Started oxygen. He was worried about Tobeck’s erratic heartbeat. Other hospitals were closer, but Strange wanted to get Tobeck to Stanford Medical Center, with its trauma and shock unit. He called for heat, and Creech obliged, opening a vent that brought hot air off the engine directly into the cabin. Alexander was already wrapped in blankets. He leaned toward the vent, let the air swirl around him. He stopped shivering. The blankets and air began to warm Tobeck. The purple in his face steadily faded, replaced by pink. His heart was quieting. The Dolphin raced past the Golden Gate, over San Francisco, a million lights twinkling below. They flew down the Peninsula, veering over the glow of Stanford Stadium, where the first football game of the season was underway. Blood coursed back into Tobeck’s arms and legs. He looked up toward Alexander, sitting a couple of feet away. Tobeck stuck an unsteady hand out through his blankets. Alexander took it and, for a few moments, held it in his own. His friend, he knew, would be OK. At Stanford, Alexander was examined and released. Tobeck was admitted for cardiac tests. Ultimately, doctors found no damage to his heart and he was released the next day, Friday. The men say they will forever be indebted to Bouchard and Kimber, the hikers, and to the Coast Guard rescuers aboard the Dolphin. Ultimately, though, they believe they were graced that day at Kehoe Beach by divine intervention. They believe God answered their prayers by placing Bouchard and Kimber on the beach and by sending the Dolphin to save them. Since the capsizing, the men have shared their story with friends and church members.
Made in california- 2009 better newspapers contest
See Capsized, pg 46