Chapter 2
South Beach
0230
Hours
Seaman Andrew Patterson cursed the
darkness and tried in vain to shield his eyes from the stinging pricks of the
icy weather. His battle lantern did little to cut the darkness and he shifted
it slowly from left to right as he tried to focus on the diffused images the
feeble beam of light illuminated. Behind him four other golden beams wavered
through the sleet and rain like ghostly apparitions drifting above the sand,
shifting from left to right locking on anything that remotely resembled a
survivor. Even in the near total darkness he could see the foaming caps of the
towering breakers as they rose in slow motion out of the depths and exploded
against the edge of the continent. In spite of the wind, the staccato rumbling
from the surf reverberated across the beach and off the bluff almost a half
mile to the east. Patterson pointed his light toward the endless rows of
driftwood that marked the highwater line. What appeared as an arm and a leg,
covered in torn clothing, protruded from the sand about ten yards in front of
him.
“Oh crap…” Anxiously,
he staggered toward the spot, his breathing increasing as adrenaline began
pumping into his veins. He grimaced as he hesitantly tugged on what he thought
was a foot attached to a leg. Snap. He immediately jumped backwards and dropped
the object in a knee-jerk reaction.
“Good grief. Stupid driftwood”.
He took a deep breath and blew the
air out of his lungs filling his cheeks in the process then lowered the lantern
with his left hand and rubbed the moisture from his eyes with the other
hand. The two-way radio he carried
crackled.
‘Mobile
one…station.’
He fumbled with the radio in the rain, his clumsy bulky gloves
making it awkward to handle, he shouted to be heard above the roar of the
tempest. “Station…Mobile one, go ahead”.
“Andy…what
have we got down there.”
“I can barely hear you Chief in this wind. I
don’t have a good feeling about this. I can’t see a blasted thing. Visibility is almost zero. Any word from Matt
and the 303 or the Marc Eagle. ”
“Negative…”
Chief Adams
clinched his jaws so tight his back teeth began to ache. His height and frail
look belied his physical strength; his sun and wind burned face evidence of
many years exposed to the harsh conditions often found along the Pacific
Northwest coast. Anguish filled his dark green eyes and lines of strain etched
into his face from the long night leading to this moment. His khaki uniform was
a wrinkled mixture of untidiness, his longer than regulation hair was tossed
about his head in a tangled mess. He gazed out the window into the blackness
and cursed to himself.
“They gotta
be out there somewhere. What happened Matt? Come on, where are you?” Whispering
half aloud he gazed out the window toward the boathouse no more than sixty feet
away yet barely visible through the torrents of rain and wind.
Patterson shielded his eyes from
the blowing sleet and rain as he continued to work his way down the beach. A
few yards later, he noticed a dim red reflection maybe seventy-five yards ahead
of him just above the water’s edge. He ran toward it. With each step his boots
dug into the sand then slipped back making it difficult to move forward with
any kind of speed. Twenty yards later the cold, wet, sand smacked him square in
the face and he cursed out loud again as he wiped the grit from his mouth and
rolled to a sitting position. He shined the light at his feet to see what
tripped him. It was an orange ring buoy mostly buried in the sand. Stenciled
across the arch of the buoy was the station’s name, UMPQUA RIVER and CG44303. He
brushed the sand off the radio and again fumbled through his heavy gloves to
transmit.
“Oh
man....Station…mobile-one…I‘ve found one of oh three’s ring buoy’s, Chief…”
Before he
could finish, BM3 Mike Rogers caught up with him and passed by kicking more
sand into his face. Rogers ran another thirty yards before stopping and paused
for a few seconds his lantern shifting left and right into the darkness.
“Over here,”
he shouted, and the others rushed to join up.
Within thirty seconds the five were huddled together breathing heavily
after running on the sand.
“Listen...”
“What?
Listen? I can’t hear a blasted thing in this wind.” Patterson grumbled in
frustration.
“Wait.
Listen. There,” his partner pointed down the beach. “Hear it.”
Patterson
cocked his head to one side trying to catch the elusive noise, but the
hollowing wind drowned out everything. He stepped forward another seven or
eight yards and cocked his hand across his right ear to help gather the faint
muffled drone. Yes, it was unmistakable.
He heard it now; the high pitch steady whine of a runaway engine.
“Oh Crap!”
Patterson muttered as the five of them began sprinting toward the sound. One
hundred yards later, the faint image of a white hulk with dark gray decking
began to appear.
Patterson
fumbled with the radio again. “Station,
mobile-one. Chief we’ve found the
303. They’ve rolled up on the beach
about a half mile south of the south jetty.”
They ran to
the water’s edge and stared in disbelief at the bulk of the 44foot lifeboat,
which was lying on its side like some great, white, metal behemoth wallowing
stranded on the beach wedged partially in the sand and partially afloat.
With each new swell, an explosion
of foam erupted over and around the hulk causing it to lunge slightly to one
side. One engine was running at full throttle causing the starboard propeller
to flail in the shallow water and throw a geyser of foam and spray mixed with
sand into the bitterly cold night air. A dent bulged into the hull and the
paint was scrapped off to bare metal in places. The coxswain’s flat was smashed
almost to the console. The center mast bent to one side, yet the national
ensign attached to it flapped defiantly in the wind.
Rogers
shouted straining to raise his voice above the combined decibels generated by
the storm and the wounded motor lifeboat.
“Randy! Shut that stupid engine off before it blows up. The rest of you
start looking around for survivors.”
He shined his
light toward the surf line a few dozen yards off the beach. With a hateful
vengeance, the Pacific continued exploding with an unbridled nightmarish fury
like he had never seen in his six years of Coast Guard service and twenty-eight
years of living along the edge of the continent. He and the three others spread out around the
hulk shining their lights in a desperate attempt to locate any of the crew.
“Matt, Allen!”
Randy struggled to maintain his
balance in the icy water as he waded waist deep to the floundering 303 and
climbed into the coxswain’s flat timing his entry after the last surge engulfed
the hulk. He found, then pulled the throttle back to neutral, and hit the
engine kill switch. Everything was suddenly quiet without the roar of the
engine. Stumbling over the leaning vessel, he opened the hatch to the forward
compartment and awkwardly lifted it from the unnatural sideways position to
check for survivors below. The compartment was a shamble but no one was there.
A moment later he checked the rear
compartment with the same result. Next, he climbed to the highest point on the
wounded vessel and shined his light in a slow arch across the sands and the
surrounding foam. Nothing.
“What
happened out here?” he whispered aloud.
0245
Hours
‘So, this is what it’s like to die.’ Matt’s
mind drifted in and out of consciousness. It is so easy, not frightening at
all, nothing like what he imagined. There is no bright light, no fear only
calmness like a friendly voice called death was beckoning him home to a better
place, like a restful fatigue where he drifted into a heavy sleep. “Why fight
it?” The seducer of death taunted him.
A crazy mixed up world could
certainly get by with one less occupant. This was so much better, so much
easier. As he drifted, suspended between life and death a struggle of wills
fought a war within his subconscious mind, he did not know how or why, but he
knew from the depths of his soul, he had the option of continuing this ride
deeper into this realm, or returning to the conscious world in which he resided
only moments before.
‘Just
let it go...’ the seducer kept repeating over and over with its appealing
call.
It was so tempting, so restful. His fatigue
like a great heavy fog was so great it engulfed him. His resolve wavered. It was all too
appealing, too easy and too seductive.
As he spiraled deeper into unconsciousness, confusion invaded his mind,
and fear began to grip at his chest.
It was like a dream, where he knew
it was a dream but could not wake up, he wanted to run, but could not move.
Fear and panic began to take hold. He choked and gagged. He struggled to awaken
from his nightmare, he struggled to grasp for that last moment of life before
its warmth faded into a cold oblivion. He was afraid to let go of what grasp of
reality he still retained and as he spiraled ever deeper into the realm of
death, he fought for a clear picture upon which he could focus. He needed
something, anything, that was important to him he did not want to give up. His
mind searched through the confusion.
A wave of fear more powerful than
the storm that shoved him into this realm overwhelmed him so much so he could
not focus on life, but because of this fear he knew he had experienced enough
of what death offered to him and he knew he wanted nothing of it. His time to
die was not now. He longed for the realm that was another world, his world, an
imperfect world but one of life and purpose, and one in which he could make a
difference, one in which he had already made a difference, a place where his
life was left undone with more to do. It appeared so distant it was but a faint
glimmer, but the flickering of life he recognized within his soul convinced him
it was time to end this seductive dance. It was time to fight back from this
realm of lost souls, and climb again into the domain of life. He would not die
today, not willingly anyway. It wasn’t his time. He chose to fight, to live. He
grasped at whatever uncertain fate destiny has molded for him.
“Over hear,” Patterson yelled
forcing his voice to carry across the roar of the storm. He dropped his lantern
whose light bounced and rolled across the damp sand, then he ran into the icy
waters high stepping the last three steps before the surge lifted him and took
his breath away with its freezing grip. He fought panic and choked on the salty
water as he inhaled a portion into his lungs. He was barely able to stand
against the surge and almost lost his balance when another foaming swell
collided against his chest, throwing the floating body he was attempting to reach
into him. He struggled to control the limp figure tripping and falling several
times and with each plunge, the frigid water forced him into an uncontrollable
gasp. The survival-suit the floater wore was heavy with water and he felt his
strength wavering. Another surge almost ripped them apart but just as he lost
his grip another set of hands grabbed him by the arm and the floater by the
back of the collar and together, they lumbered to higher ground just outside
the waterline and collapsed.
Matthew Jacobs
coughed and gasped for air and became aware of the pain that burned into him
from his lungs. The men around him
carefully rolled him onto his back and he grabbed Patterson’s forearm gasping,
choking, desperate for air. Blood gushed from his forehead where a two-inch
slash split his scalp.
Nausea gripped his insides, and a mixture of
seawater and gastric juices ran across his chest and onto the sand. He gasped
for air again then vomited again, expelling more seawater along with the slimy
fluids from his stomach. In his semi-conscious state terror images haunted him,
images he could not understand. They were not of death itself, but the
mechanism by which death forced its self upon him.
“Hang in there Matt.” Patterson
shouted. He again fumbled with the radio with wet, numb hands.
“Station, mobile one. Chief, we’ve
found Matt! He’s banged up big time.
Unable to ascertain the full extent of his injuries. We need a chopper down
here pronto for EVAC to nearest hospital. We are unable to transport from this
location.”
“Standby
mobile one.” The Chief snapped to the
comm watch, “Get North Bend on the line and tell them we need a chopper ASAP.”
“I’m way
ahead of you Chief.”
0300
Hours
North
Bend Coast Guard Air Station
“Commander
Reese, we need to get a chopper airborne.” The comm watch calmly spoke as the
darkened communications center of the Air Station North Bend hummed with
activity.
“Who is on
the line?”
Airman Joe Rogers, a sandy haired,
freckled faced young man, grumbled, “Chief Adams up at Umpqua River.”
Commander
Reese took the phone, “Chief Adams, Commander Reese, what going on up there?”
“Commander
we’ve got a missing trawler and one of my 44’s is rolled up on the south beach
about a half mile or so south of the jetty. Not sure what happened yet. Two of
my crew are missing, and one is injured on the beach and cannot be transported
except by air. I know the conditions are dangerous, but I need you to get a
chopper up in this storm?”
“You got it
Chief. Have your shore crew fire off a couple of red flares when they hear us
so we can pinpoint them. We’ll be on site in no time.”
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| Internet Stock Photo |
Reese handed the phone back to the comm watch, “We’ll
take the HH52 -1369, get the crew up now and let’s go.” He stepped into the
ready room and pulled on a flight suit then lifted his helmet off the rack, it
bulging dark visor reflecting the greenish florescent light that hovered
overhead.
0325
Hours
The world around Matthew Jacobs
flashed between fantasy and reality, with his ability to distinguish between
the two a foggy roar interspersed with a momentary view of a face, an image,
and dream. Confusion filled his thoughts as he fought to retain at least an
inkling of consciousness. The gasping and choking haunted him, grabbed him and
shook from him any chance of rest. It was like he was in a violent liquid
grinder with panic all around as he tried to find his equilibrium. A face
flashed into his thoughts…it was a young woman…he recognized her…but now…no she
was gone…where…why…there was nothing left but fear and confusion. Matt opened
his eyes but could not focus and a new chilling vision filled his mind as
perceived images of bug-eyed demons surrounded him.
‘What is this howling monster staring down?’ Everything was draped in a red glow. Faces
with large bulging dark eyes hovered over him, their voices muffled by the
wind. The rain and sleet pelted his face, he tried to speak, but no words came.
He tried to move but his body was locked in concrete. His ribs felt like a
pointed vise was crushing them, and he was numb with cold. His world turned
dark again as the monster swallowed him and the faces with the bulging eyes
floated around him. Everything slowed to a crawl. The face spoke something to
him, but he could not understand. His
eyes would not focus, his mind would not clear.
Patterson lit
another flare which bathed the area in a bright red glow and placed it on the
sand about forty yards in front of the chopper to give the pilot another
reference point to focus on in the void, then ran to the side and spoke to the
airman inside.
“Are there
any others?” the airman asked.
““No…they’re
all gone, vanished. It’s like the sea swallowed them.”
“All right.
Contact us again if you find anyone.”
“Will do.
Reedsport Regional has a team waiting for you.” Patterson, reached inside and
grabbed Matt by the arm. “Hang in there Matt. These guys are the best. They’ll
get you out of here. You’re going to be okay.”
Matt lifted
his arm at the elbow and weakly grabbed Patterson’s hand, then, closed his
eyes. Patterson stepped a few yards away and lifted his hand thumbs up to the
pilot who lowered his visor to shield his eyes from the glare of red light.
The HH-52A engine began to whine
faster and faster until the blades were but just a blur humming in the tempest,
blowing sand into the faces of the ground crew, then it slowly lifted into the
gale and shuddered against the wind, pivoted to the left and tipped slightly
forward, gained altitude and within seconds was fading into the distance.
Patterson motioned to the other
four men, who gathered shoulder to shoulder, and watched the chopper recede
into the void.
“Come on guy’s, let’s keep
looking.”
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