A rescue boat from the Coast Guard cutter Tornado speeds out to Nick Schuyler.
Photograph by FN Adam C. Campbell, Courtesy of the United States Coast Guard
The rescue boat tries to pluck Nick off the overturned hull, but has to back off.
Photograph by FN Adam C. Campbell, Courtesy of the United States Coast Guard
The rescue boat makes another approach as Nick prepares to jump into the water.
Photograph by FN Adam C. Campbell, Courtesy of the United States Coast Guard
Nick Schuyler gives the thumbs-up upon being hoisted from the Tornado to a Coast Guard helicopter.
Photograph by FN Adam C. Campbell, Courtesy of the United States Coast Guard
Nick Schuyler is lifted into a Coast Guard rescue helicopter to be taken to Tampa General Hospital.
Photograph by FN Adam C. Campbell, Courtesy of the United States Coast Guard
The tattoo of a Celtic cross bearing the initials of his deceased friends that Nick got in their honor.
Courtesy of the author
Late Sunday afternoon, Marcia and Kristen Schuyler arrived at the home of Nick, and Paula Oliveira, in Tampa. Paula’s mother had also arrived from Fort Lauderdale. The Coast Guard had released the names of the missing boaters. The rest of the afternoon and evening became a blur of phone calls, worrying, and flipping from one news report to the next.
Paula’s mother made tea. Paula ate two crackers but could get nothing else down. She felt sick to her stomach. She did not want to upset Nick’s mother, so when she felt herself begin to cry, she pretended to receive or make a phone call and walked into her bedroom. Once she took the dogs outside and was struck by how chilly it was. How could they survive this cold on the water? she wondered.
Several times, Paula talked to Rebekah Cooper, Marquis’s wife. Rebekah seemed so strong. “They’re big guys,” she told Paula. “They’re so strong. They’re in such great shape.”
Paula tried to convince herself that they had just run out of gas. She joked with Kristen, “Nick’s going to make it out like they were on Survivor and had a little adventure. Here we are, worried sick and hysterical, and he’ll come home and make a joke.”
Kristen sent out a mass text message to her friends, letting them know that her brother was one of the missing boaters, asking them to say a prayer. She went outside several times to get some fresh air. It had never felt so cold in Florida.
Neither Kristen nor Marcia could sleep. Marcia dozed off a few times in the living room, but then she would awaken and kick the covers off of herself. “I can’t be covered and warm and sleeping,” she told her daughter, “because my son is out there somewhere, probably freezing.” Friends came by with food, but Marcia thought, I can’t eat and drink, because he’s out there with no food or drink.
She sat in the living room and clenched her fists and repeatedly said, “Come on, Nick, you can do it!” Sometimes she felt guilty because she wasn’t saying the names of the other three guys.
At 9:59, Marcia sent Nick a text message: “I luv u so much no u will b safe please stay strong u make me so proud of u!” This was Sunday, March 1. The message would not be delivered until March 5. Marcia kept the message in her phone for the next eight months.
She and Kristen kept calling the Coast Guard, seeking updates. “I’m sorry I’m such a pain, but that’s my son out there,” Marcia said at one point. The person who answered the phone was gracious each time. At one point, though, Marcia grew impatient when she was told that a cutter had to be pulled back because of twelve-to fourteen-foot seas.
“That boat can’t get out there but my son is still out there in those waves?” she said. “You’ve got to keep a boat out there.”
As scared as Kristen was, it never crossed her mind that Nick wouldn’t make it home safe. It didn’t seem like an option. She never imagined that the boat had turned over. She pictured four guys standing in the boat, getting wet, frustrated that something had gone wrong, but out of harm’s way.
She told her mother, “They’re probably in the boat, their clothes hanging over the side, drying out, and they’re calling each other dumb asses for letting this happen.”
Nick had always been a top athlete, Kristen told herself. As a kid, he practically killed himself to be an all-star. At the same time, he was a team player. Making the football team as a walk-on at USF seemed like the biggest challenge of his life.
Kristen had come to visit him in October 2005, when Nick was thinking about returning to school and trying out for the team. He had left Kent State, moved to Florida, and was painting and hanging drywall with his father. He had not played football in five years, but he painted lines on the road to mark off his forty-yard dash and jumped fences at night and ran stadium steps. When he set his mind to something, he always did it, Kristen told herself.
When Kristen had been finishing her undergraduate work at Kent State, Nick had been her personal trainer for a while. He was very intense. He made her run sprints, and if she was off her goal by a hundredth of a second, he would take her water bottle and not let her drink until she ran the designated time.
He would never settle for not completing a task, Kristen thought to herself.
Stu Schuyler went home to Tarpon Springs and glued himself to the television. He called the Coast Guard regularly. He also talked to an old high school friend from Ohio who had served with the Navy SEALs in Vietnam. “Don’t give up hope,” the friend told him. “If Nick was able to stay with the boat, if he had extra clothes that Kristen said he had taken, if he could pull himself out of the water, he could live two or three days.”
Later, Stu turned the television on in his bedroom, grabbed a picture of Nick and held it to his chest. He would doze off and wake up, hearing the wind rattling the screened-in patio. He would cry and say, “God, please help us!”
Halfway through the night, I knew I was dying. I got to a point where I wasn’t hungry anymore. I would feel like I was starving and then I wouldn’t feel hungry at all. I was so numb, my feet were so numb and painful at the same time. The pain had come back in my feet like on the first night. A sharp pain, especially in my big toes, a constant pressure. It felt like a consistent, real bad stubbing of your toe, like you ran into the couch. I felt like my feet had lost circulation, even though the water felt warm. I could barely move my ankles. My shins were shot, like a layer of skin was scraped away and then a layer under that. There was nothing there. I tried to wiggle my legs and my feet, but they weren’t moving. I had tried to hold on for so many hours with my feet and now they were done.
I was aware, but I felt weak. My skin felt wet and soft like I could cut a slice or just pinch it off. I looked at my legs. They were thin. I had lost definition, a lot of muscle. I felt my stomach. I could feel all my ribs. It felt like one of those old-time washboards. I felt my abs, little mounds, absolutely no fat, just skin and muscle on my stomach. It felt like my body fat had dropped from 9 or 10 percent to next to nothing. My job—my life—was to be fit, but I felt like my body was eating away at itself. It was looking for some way to burn fat, but there was no more fat. Now it was eating muscle. I was experiencing things I had never felt before. I thought, This is what dying feels like.
I had used the expressions so many times in my life—“I’m dead tired” or “I’m dead” or “you’re killing me”—from a strenuous workout, but that was a cakewalk compared to this. I was dying. I felt almost like a corpse. My heart was still pumping, but I’m not sure how. I rubbed and hit my chest and shoulders and biceps to try to create some warmth, but I didn’t want to use what little energy I had left.
My stomach felt like it was being flipped every single way. I felt nauseous. From time to time I got real dizzy. I kept trying to concentrate on what I was thinking about and saying to myself, Oh my God, I’m dying—please, God, help me, I don’t have much time left.
I was freezing and I kept putting my hands in the water to warm them. I prayed. “Please, God, find me. If I don’t make it out, protec
t my mom and my sister and my dad and Paula and my dogs.”
Thank God I had Will bring my winter jacket. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be alive right now. It was water-resistant and somewhat insulated. I kept going back and forth about the land. Or what I thought was land. It seemed like I was getting a lot closer and then it seemed like I drifted past it. I was to the left of it then to the right of it. It was in front of me, then behind me. I knew I was sticking with the boat.
I NOTICED SOMETHING in the water at the stern, a foul smell that lasted for about an hour. I didn’t know whether it was some kind of fish. It almost smelled like the bait we had used. It almost looked like some kind of animal’s waste, like some kind of animal went to the bathroom, like a squid. I couldn’t see any animal, but the sky was bright and it looked like there was a cloud against my feet. It almost looked like chum, broken-down fish. It looked half-eaten, half-digested. It smelled. It was thick, a milky, yolky texture. I never saw anything, not fins or tentacles, but I thought to myself, The squid’s back; no way in hell I’m going in the water. It was right there, whatever it was. I tried to lift my feet out of the water, it was so gross.
BY MIDNIGHT SUNDAY, I had been alone for almost six hours. I was awake and not awake, barely able to keep my head up. I was slouched, hunchbacked. I tried to crack my back, but it didn’t give me any relief. I was completely out of whack. My butt was causing me a lot of pain, forcing me to sit in such an uncomfortable position that I could never relax. I kept hugging the motor, my feet under a trim tab or the swim platform, constantly fighting to stay on the boat.
Every time I ended up in the water, it was an immediate shock. I jumped back onto the hull as quick as I could. It didn’t feel that bad, but there was no hanging in the water, as warm as it was. I had seen that cloud in the water and smelled that awful smell. So I sat on the hull and tried to stay as dry as possible.
The waves were five to seven feet, choppy. All you could hear were waves breaking and hitting the boat or flying against my back or hitting me in the face. I was so tired. I thought, Are these my last few hours?
I kept thinking about Will, how close I was to him. I thought about Marquis and Corey, too, but losing your best friend in your arms is a lot different. Part of the reason I was still alive was definitely because of Will. He had sacrificed himself and devoted himself to being a leader. We probably wouldn’t have had life jackets without him. I can’t imagine that the Gatorade and the pretzels worked against me. Those extra few calories coated my system and gave me just enough energy. Working with him that second day, just the two of us, I wouldn’t have wanted anyone better. The four of us had worked as best as we could, but Will had definitely helped to save my life to that point.
He always had ideas and was planning things, saying, “Let’s do this and that.” He was a good student, a smart football player. Always got his work done on time. Always attended class. Always came on time for meetings. He just said, “Yes, sir,” to coaches, or if he didn’t know something, he’d ask. He was a joy to coach. He just went out every day and tried to get better.
He always had a list of things to do. I was the same way. If we went camping, I wrote down every item we needed to bring. Everything. Food we had in the house, food we needed to buy. A very intricate list: two comforters, three pillows, dog leashes. We would never forget anything, even utensils. We always brought two spatulas, just in case. Will never came shorthanded. We’d always have enough food for two extra days. When we tailgated, we always had food for stragglers: “Here, have a beer and a brat.” He was always up for a good time.
Without Will, this night in the water seemed much longer than the first one. There was no one to talk to. Time expanded. When I thought the sun should be coming up, it was only three o’clock. I would think, okay, it’s been an hour since I looked at the watch and it would be only twenty or twenty-five minutes.
I FELT AN urge to go under the boat to see if I could find something to eat or drink. My hunger had returned. My body was eating away at anything I had left. All the fat was burned and now it was eating at the muscle. I was dying. I knew I had to make one last-ditch effort to get some water or something to eat. I knew that when you didn’t get the proper nutrients your organs got damaged, like when you were anorexic or bulimic.
I had moved past the city I saw earlier—the glow from Tampa, maybe, or a cruise ship or whatever it was—and once again it was dark. I prayed, “Please, God, find me. I won’t quit on you.” And I said, “I love you, Mom. I won’t quit on you.”
I kept remembering what Corey had said the first night: “No way in hell I’m going out like this.”
The dull repetition continued all night. I’d doze, and then a wave would shoot needles up my back and startle me awake. My cheeks were frozen. My forehead was cold. My lips felt like I had licked an ice-cube tray and ripped away the skin. I kept trying to get low in my jacket, chin to chest, the way a bird burrows into its wing. I kept adjusting my right leg, lifting it off the hull, or trying to straighten it. I had used that leg to cradle Marquis, and now it felt useless. I shrugged my shoulders and pumped my chest. I tried to turn it into a miniworkout. I would shrug my shoulders up to my ears, working my traps. I’d do that 100 times—it just burned. I’d pump my chest 50 times. Same thing with my calves. I’d flex my calves and count to 100 or 150. I didn’t count out loud, but sometimes I moved my lips just to pass the time. I did that a few times through the night, trying to create blood flow and warmth. I knew it wouldn’t be bad for me. At the same time, I thought, Don’t use too much energy. I didn’t have anything to refuel with.
SUNRISE. IT LOOKED like a bright circle coming right out of the water. It was Monday, March 2. The sky was a little overcast. It was definitely warmer at dawn than at midnight. The waves were a little less choppy and more like swells again. There was a random gust of wind every minute or so, but it was better now than before.
I WAS STILL going in and out. I was definitely delirious. My head was down, resting on my hands on the motor. I was daydreaming, right at sunrise. Hallucinating. I heard someone yelling, then I realized it was me. I caught myself.
I was on a boat and the other guys were also there, behind me. I was in my spot, at the stern, straddling the motor, facing out to sea. Marquis and Corey and Will were about ten feet behind me, toward the front of the boat. They were standing there. My side of the boat was upside down, but theirs was right side up. They stood under the canopy, driving the boat. I screamed at them. I wanted a gallon of water. “Water, water!” I yelled, long, loud, and mean. I was angry, pissed. I would yell loud and then it would get louder for a few seconds. “Water, water, water!”
They didn’t say anything. They were facing me, just their faces, not their whole bodies. I screamed, “Water, damn it!” I felt they were playing a game, ignoring me, giving me a hard time, like, “Too bad, dude, you can’t have it.”
I reached back with my right hand, holding on to the motor with my left hand, my head down, my eyes closed. I reached like they might hand me something. I could see a clear plastic jug they were going to give me. They were messing with me. They wouldn’t hand it over.
Then all of a sudden I popped my head up. I was very alert, very aware. I had never felt that way before. I thought, Oh my God. Holy shit, I’m losing it. I was getting cuckoo. This must have been the same exact thing that happened to Marquis first, then Corey, and finally to Will. And now it was happening to me.
I was frightened to a new level, if that was possible. I tried to stay awake, doing my little exercises. I forgot about being cold and hungry. I was trying to wake up. I thought hypothermia or dementia, or whatever it was, was setting in. I knew this was the first stage of drifting away. My mind was shutting down.
I WAS SEEING things, making random yells. This is what Marquis and Corey and Will had done. It wasn’t that they went AWOL or gave up. They had no idea. Their minds were shot. They lost it because of dehydration and hypothermia. And it could happen to me. It was happeni
ng to me.
Please, God, come on, come on, I thought to myself. I knew I had to get under the boat. I had to find something to eat or drink, a turkey sandwich, or peanut-butter-and-jelly or a jug of water. I thought there was a case of beer or two still stored under there. I knew I had to go under or nothing would change. I would just wait there until I died. But I knew I wouldn’t go without one last fight. I knew the elements wouldn’t kill me, but dehydration or starvation could.
I tried to stand a little on the hull and straighten my legs. My hamstrings were so tight, my posture was so bad. My back was so tight, it felt like it was in a brace. I took a look at my legs. They were very white, kind of chalky and pasty from being in the water so long. Particularly my feet. I would shift my legs to get some circulation going. I tried to stand, but all I could really do was put my stomach against the motor and try to lean forward a little to stretch my legs and back.
The sea wasn’t so rough, and the water looked a lot clearer. The waves weren’t breaking, really. They were round and they would lift the boat up and it would smack back into the water. The water was a lot bluer and clearer. It was darker in some areas, lighter in others. The sun was out. It was a lot warmer. It must have been eight or nine o’clock in the morning. While I stretched, I kept thinking about what I would do to get under the boat.
I still had the steering cable tied to the motor. I could tie off my life jacket and backpack. But where had Marquis put all that stuff onboard? I would only have a few seconds to find anything. Would I be able to see under there?
I must have thought about it for an hour. I had to get things together or this was it. I had to at least try to find something. It would only get worse. No way it would get better. I had nothing to eat, and I wouldn’t dare try to drink seawater. In elementary school, we had watched The Voyage of the Mimi in class. We’d watch a half-hour segment each day. These people were on a giant sailboat and they were out doing research on whales. Toward the end, they got in a bad storm and the boat was shipwrecked and they were on an island and ran out of supplies. The younger kid, the teenager on the boat, said, “That’s okay, I’ll drink the salt water,” and the captain said, “No, you can’t.” They built a campfire and they boiled the water, or they put salt water in a bowl and put a trash bag over the bowl, and when the water evaporated, the condensation stayed on the bag and dripped down and they were able to drink it.
Not Without Hope Page 14