Not Without Hope

by Nick Schuyler

  “Did you find my son?” Marcia asked.

  “Yes, ma’am, we did,” he replied.

  “It’s Nick? Are you sure it’s Nick?”

  Marcia screamed, “They found Nick,” then she passed out and dropped her cell phone.

  “Hello? Hello?” Captain Close said on the other end.

  Marcia awakened with a towel on her forehead. Kristen Schuyler called Captain Close back. Marcia got on the phone.

  “I know he knows his name,” she told Captain Close. “You have to make sure.”

  She feared that the survivor might be Will. He might be delirious and uttering Nick’s name instead of his own. She couldn’t bear to show up at the hospital or the Coast Guard station to greet Nick and walk in to find that it was Will. She felt guilty and selfish for thinking that way, but she was a mother who was desperate to find her son.

  “We found your son,” Captain Close assured her. “It’s Nick.”

  Paula called the Coast Guard again, just to confirm it for herself. Yes, it was Nick. Everyone was hugging and crying and later Paula noticed that Scott Miller had gone outside. He had gone to high school with Will. One of Scott’s friends, Nick, had been found, but Will had not been. Scott sat on his pickup, alone, his head down.

  Marcia, Paula, and Kristen were driven to Tampa General Hospital, where they met with Stu. On the way, Stu got a call from a friend in Ohio, Bill Lally, who had been the best man at his wedding to Marcia. Bill was watching videotaped footage of the rescue. “I’m watching your son being lifted into a chopper as we speak,” Bill said. “He looks fine.”

  “Are you sure it’s Nick?” Stu asked.

  “I’ve met Nick,” Bill said. “I know what he looks like. It’s Nick.”

  At the hospital, Stu rushed in so quickly that it felt as if he knocked the emergency room doors off their tracks. Marcia asked to see her son, the missing boater who had been found. Frantically, she decided to look for the helipad and began running down a hallway. A security guard stopped her.

  “They just found my son,” she said. “I need to get to him.”

  Just wait here a minute, the security guard said. He would find out where they had taken Nick. A few minutes later, a nurse appeared and said, “Come with me.”

  Marcia walked down a hallway into a room in Urgent Care and saw Nick lying on a bed, hooked up to intravenous tubes. It seemed as if a couple of doctors were on each side of him. It felt surreal to her. She was standing there, looking at her son, but she wasn’t there at the same time.

  She stood and watched for a minute or two, then began to make her way to Nick’s side. She touched his hand. It felt cold. She bent down and kissed him and said, “God, Nick, you scared the hell out of me.”

  “I know, I know,” he said.

  He put his hand on top of his mother’s. Marcia had tried to be strong, but now she was sobbing. Nick patted her hand, comforting her, as if to say, “It’s okay, it’s okay.”

  Marcia stood on his left side. Nick had his head turned. He opened his eyes and said, “Do you know what kept me going the whole time?”

  Does he know who I am? Marcia wondered. Is he delirious? Does he think I’m Paula and he’s about to say something I shouldn’t hear?

  “I wasn’t going to let you go to my funeral,” Nick said. “I knew it would kill you, Mom.”

  Marcia was crying and shaking. “I’m so proud of you,” she told Nick. “I’m so glad you didn’t give up.”

  She tried to hug her son, but someone in the room suggested she leave, saying it was urgent that they take care of Nick. On a tray, Marcia saw the cross that Nick had worn around his neck. She took it as she walked out.

  Later, Marcia returned to see Nick, along with Paula, Kristen, and Stu. This time Nick was giving a statement to the Coast Guard and to an investigator from the Florida Wildlife and Fisheries Commission. His eyes were mostly closed. When he opened them, Paula noticed, they rolled back in his head. His lips were crusted with salt. She could hear the dryness in his voice.

  “Hi, babe,” she said. Nick grabbed her hand and told her he loved her. She wasn’t crying, but she was nervous, both because of the officials in the room and because Nick’s eyes would sometimes roll back.

  “Kisses,” Nick said, and Paula gave him a kiss.

  They talked for a few minutes. He asked about the dogs. As Paula was leaving the room, Nick said, “Babe, come here.”

  “Closer,” he said.

  “I’m gonna marry you,” Nick told Paula.

  As she left the room, he waggled his right index finger. It was part of a goofy ritual that he performed when he was trying to be funny.

  “Feeling pretty good,” Nick said.

  Kristen noticed that Nick had been bleeding. Struggling to keep his eyes open, he asked, “Who’s in here?” Kristen said, “Hi, Nick,” and kissed him. His skin was salty and his toes felt icy. He seemed thin, pale, dehydrated, and he struggled to talk. When investigators asked him about the other guys on the boat, he shook his head, saying they were all gone.

  A few moments after Paula and Kristen left the room, there was a report on television, an unconfirmed report, that a second fisherman had been found, Marquis Cooper. For a moment, Kristen doubted her brother. Maybe he was hallucinating.

  “Nick, they found Marquis,” Kristen later told him.

  “No, they didn’t,” he said.

  “Nick, it’s on the news.”

  “Kris, no,” Nick said. “He died in my arms. They’re not going to find him.”

  When Nick arrived at Tampa General, his body temperature had risen to 95 degrees. He seemed a bit confused, but otherwise “was not in that bad a condition,” according to Dr. Mark Rumbak, the critical care specialist who examined him. There was some concern about damage to the muscles in his legs from the cold and from banging against the boat. His blood platelet count was also low.

  “The whole of his lower limbs was one big bruise,” Dr. Rumbak said. He had the hospital’s vascular experts check to make sure that swelling in Nick’s legs had not compromised the blood supply. As was common with patients in intensive care, Nicks’ legs were fitted with a cufflike compression device to stimulate blood flow and to prevent clots from forming.

  Nick’s body temperature when found had been variously measured at 88.8 to 89.5 degrees. This is known as moderate hypothermia. Sometimes doctors purposely lower to this temperature the bodies of patients suffering from stroke, acute liver failure, cardiac arrest, or acute brain injury. It was a therapeutic measure that decreased the body’s metabolism, reducing the need for oxygen.

  Nick probably could have lived another six to twelve hours in the Gulf, Dr. Rumbak said. He was not quite at the point where he was nearing death. And because his temperature had risen steadily as he changed out of his wet clothes on the cutter Tornado and wrapped himself in wool blankets, there was no need to inject him with warm fluids at the hospital. His platelet count would rise to normal levels and the bruises would heal on his legs. Still, one issue defied any exact medical explanation: How had Nick survived when the others had not?

  “I have no idea,” Dr. Rumbak said. “These people were all very fit. They were basically the same age and the same size. I don’t think most people would have survived this. I think it is a miracle in a way.”

  On the one hand, Nick had little body fat to provide insulation against the cold. On the other hand, as a personal trainer, he was terrifically fit.

  “He is well built and doesn’t have an ounce of fat,” Dr. Rumbak said. “That was probably to his disadvantage. But then again, he was so fit. One thing about football players and professional athletes, generally, they push through their pain. They just don’t stop. He’s not only fit, he’s got that mind-set that he’s not giving up.”

  Perhaps his childhood in Ohio—wearing shorts when it was 25 degrees—had made him more acclimated to the cold than the others. And it could only have helped that Nick put on a sweatshirt and winter jacket once he became sea
sick.

  “I think having this must have to some degree slowed down the loss of heat,” Dr. Rumbak said. “It must have. It’s so unusual that he would have survived so much longer than the other guys. They were all pretty much the same.

  “It’s amazing how we get prepared for something like that. Growing up near Cleveland, wearing shorts in the cold. He had been a football player. He’s a personal trainer. He’s used to going through adversity. He gets sick, so he puts on slightly warmer clothes than the other guys. In spite of that, I’m still surprised he got through it. I really am. That’s amazing.”

  There was one other possible factor that contributed to his perseverance. “He kept saying that he didn’t want his mother to go to his funeral,” Dr. Rumbak said.

  It was a misconception to think that Marquis, Corey, and Will had simply given up in the water, Dr. Rumbak said. Hypothermia can lead to delirium, along with a drop in potassium levels and a breakdown of the cell membranes in the heart until it can no longer contract, he said.

  “They were just confused,” Dr. Rumbak said. “You saw that in Titanic. They become confused and they slip away. You’re shivering and you’re so cold and eventually I think it gets into your brain and you become confused and then you just slip away. If Nick had tied them to the boat, their hearts probably would have stopped before they were found.”

  While survivor’s guilt was real and could be tormenting, there was no reason for Nick to feel guilty, he said. “I think he’s got a lot of demons now,” Dr. Rumbak said. “He think it’s his fault, and it’s not. It’s not his fault because he survived and they didn’t. He didn’t kill them. He didn’t try to end their lives. It wasn’t them or him. Their lives just happened to be shorter because they got colder quicker or whatever it was. And they would have died anyway, irrespective of what he did. I don’t know if he can accept that. Hopefully, he will someday.”

  In the hospital, they poked me, shot me with needles, and injected blood thinners into my belly to prevent clots. I had an oxygen mask on. At one point I looked at my heart rate and it was in the 120s. They put a catheter in. A guy said, “It’ll be over before you know it.” It felt like they used a drill. Finally, they gave me something for my butt: Silvadene cream. The nurse said they used it for burn victims.

  That first day I asked for a chicken sandwich and a Coke. By the time they brought it, I was sleeping. Later, I had the sandwich and a bit of lasagna and ice cream and Jell-O. The TV was on in my room in intensive care, and I saw myself getting off the helicopter. The same feelings of guilt and sadness came back. I got upset and shook my head; I changed the channel to another station. I was interested, but a lot of the things they reported were not right. They were saying the search continues and it’s not looking good for the other three guys. I kept shaking my head. “They’re gone,” I said.

  Not that they were wasting their time with the search, but I knew nobody would find them.

  “They’re gone.”

  I was a little overwhelmed. I wanted as many people as possible in my room. I had been alone so long, and now I wanted to be around the people I thought I’d never see again. I felt guilty. Why was I the one on the boat who was found? They should have been working on Will next to me. He should have been in the same room in the ICU. There wasn’t a moment I didn’t think he wouldn’t make it until a couple of hours before he passed.

  The doctor came in to check my blood pressure. I was shaking my head. “What’s wrong?” the nurse asked.

  “They’re gone,” I said.

  “It’ll be okay,” she said.

  I began to feel a little warmer. A few friends came by. Scott Miller was there. He was Will’s other best friend. They had grown up together and had been roommates in college. I told him the story quickly. He had to go tell Will’s family right after that. I felt bad for Scott. There were people so excited I had made it through, but there was a melancholy feeling, too. Scott was my friend, but Will was his best friend. One had been saved, the other was lost.

  I told the story to Ben Busbee, who still played tight end at USF. He had been there with my mother when she got the call that I had been found. Paula sat there in the room, listening. I looked over and everyone was staring at me. I felt frail and thin. I looked at my arms. They had atrophied, like after you have surgery. They were so puny. I was upset. Everything I worked for physically was gone. My wrists felt as thick as my biceps.

  I kept flipping channels. My eyes started watering. I had mixed feelings. I’d watch the TV reports, down and upset with everything going through my mind. But I would look around and feel good. My family and Paula and my close friends were there supporting me. Unfortunately, my closest friend wasn’t there, the one I really wanted with me.

  I drank tons of water. The first time I peed, I had the catheter in. It burned like someone had taken a lighter to me. My urine was dark yellow from the dehydration. A doctor came in and moved my legs around. I had bad bruises all over my legs. My ankles were twice their normal size. They were worried about my knees and whether I had torn any ligaments. I told them, no, they were just sore from banging on the boat. They worked my legs, and I kept saying, “Whoa!” My butt hurt so bad.

  The second day in the hospital, I kept watching TV. I’d see pictures of boats and helicopters. I knew they wouldn’t find anybody. I had thick socks on. My legs were swollen and hard. They put something on me, like a heating pad, to increase the blood flow in my legs. It was too tight. My legs were so tender, I didn’t want anybody touching anything.

  Two guys from the Florida Wildlife and Fisheries Commission came to my room. I told them the story over about forty-five minutes. It was very hard. Later, I ate ice cream, Jell-O, pulled pork, rice, subs, four kinds of pasta, anything I wanted. My butt was still raw. The back of my gown was open and I bled through the sheets. It took a few people to roll me onto another bed, and there was just raw burning pain, like I was sitting on a blowtorch. A week later, I would pull off scabs that were four inches long.

  I felt heavy, obese, like I couldn’t move anything. But I wanted people around me. I didn’t want to talk, I just wanted to listen. I was grateful to see others, to smell something other than myself or salt water. I was even grateful for the different pains I felt. Needles made me feel alive.

  I spoke to Will’s parents. I was dreading it, but I was the only one who knew the story. I had to tell them what had happened to their son. I told them how sorry I was. The first few minutes, it was very tough. They asked, what happened? I told them, without going into full details. They asked if the guys were drinking. I said yes, but that wasn’t the reason this happened. They questioned a couple of our choices—putting the anchor line at the back of the boat was the main one. I’m pretty sure it was Will’s dad who said, “Will knows better than that. He’s taken boating safety classes.” I don’t think he wanted to believe me. I wouldn’t have wanted to believe me, either.

  It was a twenty-minute conversation. There was a lot of quiet time. I asked, “Are you there?” Everyone was in shock.

  It was the same feeling I felt when I got into that motorcycle wreck in high school and had to face Daniel Turner’s parents. It was something that absolutely had to be done, but I was so scared. I felt defenseless and helpless. I really did all I could to help their son survive. I really did. I told them Will did everything he could to help me and without him, no way in hell I would be having this conversation with them now, not without his going under the boat to get the life jackets, Gatorade, and pretzels, not without working together.

  That was the most difficult phone call I ever made. I sat there by myself for a good five minutes, knowing there was no good or correct way to say it. Will’s parents mentioned a funeral, a memorial. His mom said she thought it was best to have it as soon as possible. That was the last thing I wanted to think about. But I realized my best friend’s parents had lost their youngest son. I knew it was awful for them. Nothing would be able to console them.

  Late tha
t Tuesday night, around midnight, they took X-rays of my feet, knees, and ankles. My legs were swollen and stiff; the range of motion was gone. My hip and groin felt completely destroyed from holding Marquis, like I had worked out continuously for a couple of days. There was no strength or flexibility left.

  I also began experiencing bad heartburn. It was getting hard to breathe. I was taking Pepcid AC, Maalox, and Tums, and they gave me an IV for heartburn, but it kept getting worse and worse. The next morning, the doctor explained that the medicine, inactivity, and the intake of salt water was causing this feeling. The more I sat up, the worse it got. I gasped for air. After a while, they gave me oxygen. It felt like someone was taking his hands and squeezing my heart. I kept telling Paula, “I can’t breathe. I feel like I’m having a heart attack.”

  That day, the Wildlife and Fisheries Commission issued a small statement. I don’t know if what I said wasn’t clear to them, or if everything got flipped around in the media. There were reports that Marquis just gave up and died. There were reports that we were drunk, that that’s why the boat flipped. Reports that we had been fighting with one another, that Corey had gotten aggressive, punching Will and throwing punches at me, and that he took his life jacket off and gave up. Reports that Will had swum off on his own toward a light. If I told anybody this, they misinterpreted it, or I misspoke, because I was incoherent at times right after I was rescued. I’m the one who saw the light and nearly swam to it, not Will.

  These inaccurate rumors were driving me crazy. I felt it was disrespectful. I don’t know anybody else who would have made it that long through those conditions like Marquis, Corey, and Will did. I didn’t know anyone else who could have survived as long as they did. I got lucky; I had more clothing.

  The nurse said, “We’re going to get you on your feet today.” I got up and it was like walking on Play-Doh. I felt an extra inch of padding on my feet. They were soft and doughy. Pain shot through my legs and butt. I felt light-headed, and after thirty seconds, they had to put me in a chair next to the bed. I was glad, though. At least I could feel my legs. On the boat my feet had gotten so cold and numb that I thought there was a good chance I would lose them.