The procedure came back to me, those dozens of times we’d practiced them in training. I went through the steps in my mind, my hands automatically guiding the cyclic in minute moves. The steel gray water came closer and closer, rolling with sickening undulations that threatened my sense of direction. I fought to keep the horizon in sight as the airspeed slowed to less than eighty. I squeezed the trigger to inflate the floats. There was a loud bang on both sides of the helicopter as nitrogen exploded into each of the floats, expanding them along the length of each skid. I brought the helicopter’s nose up and felt the skids touch water. This is it, either this thing will float or I’m about to go under. I’d never felt so alone in my life.
The swells were a good three feet high and it was all I could do to keep my eyes above them. I threw the fuel shutoff valve, shutting down the engine and pulled on the rotor brake to stop the blades. I hoped the tiny craft would stay afloat until Drake could circle around and get me. Had he heard my Mayday? Did he have any way of plucking me out of the sea without endangering himself and his passengers? I didn’t think so.
As I repeated my radio call a wave, higher than the rest, crashed against the side of the aircraft. The whole thing leaned precariously.
Okay, Charlie, think. This thing probably won’t hold until someone gets here. I jettisoned my door. If the aircraft went down I sure as hell wouldn’t be able to push against the throbbing sea to get out. I unbuckled my harness and made sure my survival suit was zipped to my throat. I remembered to reach back to the center post between the front two seats and activate the emergency locator transmitter.
Another wave rocked the ship.
“I’m in the sea, I’m in the sea,” I called out over the radio. As a third wave tipped me dangerously toward the passenger door a small shriek slipped out. I prayed that Drake, the Coast Guard, or someone out there was getting this.
I climbed across and pushed open the passenger door stepping gingerly onto the skid. There was a life raft in the cargo compartment, just behind the rear passenger door, a brilliant place to store something a pilot would need to reach quickly under emergency conditions. I’d be sending a letter to some egghead at some factory when I got out of this—if I could get to the raft first.
I gripped the door frame with my left hand and edged my way aft. Another wave sent the ship rolling and the door slammed down on the back of my hand. Tears sprang to my eyes automatically and I almost lost my only grip on the slick surface.
Take a breath, Charlie. Don’t let go. A momentary picture of the depth of the cold gray water popped into my head. Specks danced before my eyes. “No!” I shouted to the sea. My fingers grasped for the cargo-door latches. They were just beyond my reach.
I opened the back door and was able to use the door jamb as a hand hold. I edged aft again until I finally reached the cargo door, pulled it open and grabbed the raft in its red carry bag. The effort threw me off balance and I toppled backward into the icy water.
The impact and the surprise took my breath away. By sheer luck a strap on the raft became snagged on my wrist. I reached out and hugged the package to my chest with my right arm, wrapping the left around the aircraft’s skid.
Now what? Survival instinct told me that I’d be better off inside the aircraft, as long as it stayed afloat. I clambered back up onto the float and in through the passenger door, panting with the effort.
I gripped the life raft packet with one hand and the edge of the seat with the other.
Once the ship rocked back level I yanked at the oversized zipper on the raft’s carry bag. A bright red plastic handle popped free. It would inflate the raft with one good yank. Outside, Charlie. Don’t do it now. I threaded my arm through a carry-loop on the end of the bag. If I had to bail out of here I better have this thing with me.
For the moment the aircraft bobbed placidly on the water, like a kid’s bathtub toy left behind.
I picked up my discarded headset. “Does anybody copy?” I shouted into my microphone. “Mayday, mayday, mayday, does anyone hear me?”
Fuzzy static came back. I had no way of knowing whether a voice went with it or if the thickening weather was responsible. I tried again with the same result. Just as I was about to changes frequencies to try for a clearer channel, I looked up.
A huge wave, higher than the cabin.
It crashed over the helicopter, rolling it over. My world became milky gray as the wave engulfed my little cocoon. As the helicopter hung by the floats, upside down on the surface of the water, I was thanking myself for jettisoning that door. I pulled my upper torso through the opening, dragging the life raft with me. I rested my elbows on the now-inverted floats for a second, gasping for air and spitting out water.
Almost in slow motion the sea began swallowing the aircraft as the pop-out floats broke away from the helicopter. I felt the flotation of the survival suit take over as the helicopter sank out of sight into the murky depths. I swallowed panic, refusing to think about the depth of the cold water, the vastness of the open sea.
I gripped the life raft bundle in my arms, working to get my bearings. A wave swept over my head, plastering my hair to my face. The bundle threatened to pull me under. Get some air in that thing, Charlie. I raked the wet hair out of my eyes with my free hand, blinked away salt water, and groped for the red handle on the raft. My first pull fumbled weakly as my muscles turned to liquid.
Harder! Dammit!
I summoned my strength and gave it a real yank. The reaction knocked me backward. The raft whipped into full buoyancy in about a half-second. My arm slipped from its hold on the bag, though, and I found myself ten feet away from the bobbing yellow pillow. In the gloomy light, it looked like it was floating away from me.
“No!” I shouted. I swam for it and managed to grip one of the nylon web handles on the side. Another swell lifted me and the raft and plopped us back. I scrabbled to get a grip over the fat, rounded edge of the little boat, working with both arms and both legs until I finally managed to throw myself over the edge to safety.
Relative safety, I reminded myself as another wave doused me. Twilight was coming on fast. I better figure out what to do next if I was to survive this night.
Strapped to the inside of the raft were a few emergency supplies—a bailing scoop, two flares, a signal mirror, a waterproof poncho the size of a deck of cards, small first aid kit and a packet of desalinization tablets. I put the scoop right to work while I tried to figure out what to do with the rest. It would be senseless to use the flares until I had good reason to think someone might be out there to see them. The roll of gauze and two aspirin could wait until later, and the waterproof poncho would be pretty useless if the survival suit failed.
Scared and miserable, I hunkered down. It was going to be a long night.
The mind does funny things when the situation looks hopeless. Mine flitted through events of the past few days, dabbled in fantasies of being home on our deck in Albuquerque sipping margaritas in the sunshine, and truly wanted nothing more than to be warm and dry in bed with Drake.
The sky deepened to pitch black and the sea became an oily-looking black pit, dipping me up and down in my yellow craft which now looked more like faded gray. I concentrated on not thinking about it, or about the beautiful JetRanger now lying at the bottom. It was all I could do to concentrate on this minute in this little raft; I couldn’t deal with the contemplation of my environment. I didn’t want to think about how long I’d been out here. The longer the better, I reasoned. It would mean help could be coming along any time now.
My watch was waterproof but I couldn’t see it in the absolute blackness. By now Drake knew I hadn’t followed him to the airport, but unless he’d received my radio call, he wouldn’t know where to find me. The aircraft’s ELT might be signaling away merrily, if it worked under water. I had no idea.
A gust of wind caught my attention and I hurriedly stuffed the emergency supplies back into their waterproof pouch attached to the wall of the raft. More gusts whipped at my head and a light rain began to fall. In the distance a bolt of lightning tore through the air and the rain finally got serious. I pulled the survival suit’s hood over my head and ducked under the poncho like a turtle going into its shell. My eyes tingled but I wasn’t going to give in to tears. Not yet.
The squall roared overhead and the rain drilled a steady staccato on my plastic fashion wear. I felt wavelets around my boots and realized it was filling the raft with water.
Shit.
I groped for the bailing scoop and worked to stay up with the downpour. The rain continued to come in waves, heavier then lighter, stronger, weaker. Bailing gave me something to do, even as I struggled and slid on the slippery rubber. I caught myself once, reaching over the edge to dump water, nearly being upended over the edge.
My hands had gone numb, my boots were squishy with water, and my eyelids wanted to close. Just burrow under the poncho and go to sleep. I struggled against it. Drowsiness was a sign of hypothermia. I couldn’t let myself give in.
I moved around, bailed water, set little tasks for myself like counting the seconds between lightning flash and resulting thunder. The storm was moving away and I read that as a positive sign. The rain gradually dwindled to a sprinkle but the roar of the wind grew louder. I pushed my hood back and blinked away moisture. Did I see lights?
My arm continued to bail water automatically as I scanned the sky. Glints off the raindrops made visibility tricky. I wiped at both eyes. Yes, something out there flashed.
The regular strobe of an aircraft light. It crossed from just off the left side of my raft to my right. “No, don’t go on,” I yelled. “Wait!”
The flares.
I crawled to the pouch of emergency goodies. My numb fingers fumbled into the pouch, finally coming up with one of the sticks. My eyes didn’t leave the flashing strobe. Circle back, circle back. The little prayer repeated through my head as I tried to remember the instructions for the flare. A heavy red arrow pointed toward one end. I aimed it away from my body and pulled. The slender tube spat out five fireballs.
Please see them. Something warm ran down my face as I whispered the words.
For a minute I didn’t dare look. I imagined the lights flying on, some light plane unaware of me. I squinted my own tears back and looked again. Now there were three lights, the white strobe, a red and a green. The red was on my right. He was headed toward me. I grabbed the other flare, ready to use it if the aircraft veered off course. But it didn’t.
It came steadily toward me and I realized part of the roar I’d been hearing was the sound of twin turbine engines. An intense light shone down on the water, moving too slowly. The whop-whop of rotor blades beat the air.
“Aim over here!” I yelled. I stood up and waved my arms madly.
Gradually the light came closer, sweeping back and forth across the rolling water. I popped the other flare, sending the signal flames in the direction the helicopter should take to reach me.
The beacon light landed on me.
I nearly landed face-down when I attempted to jump up and down in the raft, so I crouched on my knees and kept waving my arms. The rotor downwash nearly flattened me as the yellow RAF Sea King hovered directly overhead. I couldn’t look directly up into the blinding light, but voices carried clearly down to me. Orders were shouted and a sling winched down.
“To your left, to your left,” a voice shouted up to the crew.
It was Drake’s voice.
I looked up and saw him just above me, riding the rescue sling and waving arm signals to the men above. It felt like forever, but he finally touched me.
“Oh my god, Charlie, are you okay? We were frantic.”
“Pretty good, actually,” I answered, sounding like we’d just bumped into each other at a cocktail party.
With the last vestiges of this morning’s makeup running down my chin and my hair plastered to my face, I’m sure I was a sight.
“Oh, baby, I should have never flown ahead. I should have kept you in sight,” he said.
“You couldn’t have known,” I said, burying my face in his neck. “It turned out okay.”
“Here, we gotta get you up. Step right here. Okay, let’s get this behind your waist.” He directed me on how to get into the sling then made a cranking motion for the men overhead to reel us in. Being treated like a salmon had never felt so good.
I held my breath on the ride up, dreading the very idea of another plunge into the water. After a quick scramble to get ourselves out of the sling, Drake directed me to a seat against the bulkhead. The rescue team slid the door shut and the pilot transitioned smoothly forward, heading for dry land. That’s when the shakes set in.
By the time we reached the airport three blankets had begun to warm me, but mostly it was knowing that Drake and I were together again, both alive and well, that kept me going. I was ready for a huge dinner, I realized—right after a bath and dry clothes. I wasn’t ready for what awaited me.
A dozen or more reporters rushed toward the RAF helicopter the minute we opened the side door. Microphones probed at us like unrelenting feelers and questions flew.