I dropped back down to get his wife, gave her an OK and we started up to join her husband on the line and then head to the surface together. We were about six feet away from him when he let go!
Instantly the current grabbed him and he tumbled away from the line and the boat. I tightened my grip on his wife’s vest - I sure as hell wasn’t going to lose her as well - and went after him. It was the beginning of a mad, crazy ride.
He was doing nothing to try to fight the current, he was just dead weight, spinning helplessly in the racing water as it swept him away thirty-five feet below the surface. Normally I could have caught up with him in seconds but there was nothing normal about today; plus I was dragging his wife which slowed me down.
I kicked and kicked and was close to him now, but a quick glance up to the surface showed I was already halfway down the length of the floating safety line, which meant we were already fifty yards from the boat in just seconds. If I couldn’t get the three of us to the surface before we passed the end of the float line then the situation would be dire indeed.
I reached out and grabbed the waist strap of his BCD and now with his wife in one hand and this behemoth in my other I kicked hard upwards. But they weren’t helping. They both hung there motionless, not swimming, not kicking. I’d seen this many times before. For whatever reason, in a tough situation, a distressed diver will shut down and allow their instructor or rescuer to do all the work.
Under any other circumstance I would have made a fluttering sign with two fingers on my hand meaning kick but both my hands were full. I couldn’t let them go; this was life and death now. I had to get them up even without their help. I kicked as hard as I could and my legs started to cramp under the strain of pulling the 450 pounds of inert divers upwards.
I heard that sergeant major’s voice ringing in my head from nearly thirty years before, “It won’t always be easy. You do what you have to do to get through it.” He was right and at that moment I blessed him for instilling that military discipline in me. We were going to get through it; there was no other alternative. So I pushed the pain aside and kicked and kicked and powered us up.
Now we were just feet from the surface but I could see the orange float at the end of the line rapidly approaching. We had to get on that line, or we would be swept away from the boat and from safety. I swam the three of us right into it, released my grip on the lady for a second and threw my arm over the line and once again grabbed her BCD. At least we had made it to the line and we were on the surface.
All three of us were spun around by the current and were now forced horizontal as the raging water continued its attempt to tear us away from the boat. The flow was so fast and strong that the ripping water was forming waves that broke over our heads.
I needed to speak, to let them know what to do, and most importantly, what not to do. I spit out my regulator and screamed to them, “DO NOT TAKE YOUR REGULATORS OUT. HOLD THE LINE. DO NOT LET GO!”
Shocked by my yelling right in their faces they did as instructed. I coughed saltwater out of my mouth and said forcefully to the woman, “You go first. Pull your way up the line to the boat. Do not let go and do not take the regulator out of your mouth until you are seated on the boat. The crew will help you get out of the water.”
I kept my eyes locked on her as she slowly inched her way back along that long line against the raging current until she was safely at the boat.
I turned to her husband. “Our turn now. Just a couple of minutes and we’re good.” I started pulling but he was too tired to do anything but hang on. I could see he was so exhausted he could barely hold on to the rope.
I popped my head under the water to make sure it was clear below and dropped both his nearly thirty-pound weight belt and my ten-pound belt. Now he would be lighter and whatever happened he would not sink. The boat crew saw our plight and attempted to pull us in but with the current pushing against us we were still way too heavy. They had to enlist the passengers to help.
Even with all their combined strength it took nearly six minutes to get us halfway to the boat. I checked the big guy’s air. His pressure gauge was now reading less than one hundred pounds. Even on the surface his panicked state was causing him to suck down his air. Unless they could get him on the boat quickly he would run out of air and he was not responsive or cooperative enough to be able to share my tank and use my spare regulator safely.
I was extremely concerned he’d drop his regulator and with the current and wind-driven waves breaking over our faces, he’d quickly start swallowing water and become a serious drowning risk. There was only one way to get him to the boat quicker, and that was without me and my weight increasing the drag on the line.
I got Nicholas’s attention and yelled to the boat, “I’m going to let go. Have you got it from here?”
Nicholas raised his arms and gave me a big OK and knowing he was now watching my panicked diver I looked the terrified man in the eyes and told him reassuringly, “Keep your regulator in your mouth and hold on, don’t let go. You’ll be there on the boat with your wife in no time without my weight on the line.”
I clipped two straps from his BCD jacket around the rope and onto the float to secure him in case he did let go, then knowing he would be safe on the line I released my grip and was instantly grabbed by the current and I sailed away, watching the boat disappear in less than a minute. I blew up my six-foot, bright yellow safety sausage and waited as I was dragged helplessly along the western shoreline of the island.
Ten minutes later the prow of Many Waters appeared and I was onboard just a few minutes later. Finding me had been no problem; they just followed the current and looked for my yellow marker.
As I clambered up the dive steps and plunked my relieved butt down on the seat all I could think of was that it had been one hell of an introduction to teaching diving in the Caribbean.
The months went on and we settled into the rhythm of island life. No one had any pretentiousness in this land of tank tops and sandals. When we bought a second car, a beat up, scratched, purple Geo Metro for $1,800, instead of getting a “why are you driving that?” look that would have greeted us everywhere in LA, people said, “Cool. Can I get a ride?” We loved our life, and so did our doggies, Zoey and Angel, who frolicked on the white sand beaches and at low tide ran across the exposed coral reefs looking for crabs.
Life in the tropics was everything we had hoped it would be. Krista became indispensable to running Dive Safaris while I was on the boats leading three and sometimes four dives a day if we had a night dive scheduled that evening.
Twice a week we took tourists on a shark feed which was more than I could have dreamed of as we were able to interact freely with one of nature’s apex predators and for me it was a gift to be able to help people understand how important conservation is and that we as a species are a much bigger threat to sharks than they are to us.
On every dive, prior to having our divers enter the water I would give a quick briefing about the site, whether it was a wreck or a reef and let them know what they would be seeing and the dive profile; the time and depth. I’d always finish with “any questions?” It was inevitable that at least one person would sheepishly raise their hand and ask either “Are you the guy from the radio?” or “Do you do the PADI videos?” That always made me smile and it would be a big talking point on the boat as we cruised back to the dock after our dive day was complete.
We had just come in from a dive and it was late afternoon. The sun was still fairly high in the sky as I hosed down the boat and cleaned the twin Honda outboards to prevent the saltwater from eating away at the metal parts. I unloaded the SCUBA tanks two by two and lugged them over to the air fill station to get them ready for the next day’s dives.
I clamped the fill hoses on the tank stems and opened the valves. The massive compressor began its thump, thump, thump as filtered air was forced into the tanks.
As I waited for the gauge to climb to thirty-two hundred psi I looked out at th
e boat and the sparkling water. A soft trade wind blew in from the lagoon and the warm air caressed my body. I was suddenly filled with such a feeling of contentment. It was as if every force in the universe was saying, “You are where you should be.” For all the manual labor I was doing every day - the lifting, the scrubbing, the cleaning - there was nowhere else I would want to be, no person on the planet I would want to change places with.
I had walked away from success to find out if my other childhood dreams could be just as fulfilling and there, in that soothing breeze on the dock, I connected with the hopes of the much younger me and I wondered if on that rainy night in Torquay had that little boy somehow been able to glimpse this future and sense the happiness that waited for us? Did his dreams reach forward to me or was my bliss echoing backwards through time over the decades for him to pick up on and write down on his list to become a self-fulfilling prophecy? Whatever it was I thanked him for it. But within just a few days I would wish that his ten-year-old vision had seen something else and warned me of the terrible tragedy that was about to befall us and shatter our world forever.
SHELLSHOCK
We were just days away from our wedding. Krista and her mother had worked hard with the planning and even though there were only twenty of our closest friends and family invited, Krista had made sure we would all have a great time. The minister was scheduled, the catering chosen and even a steel band booked to accompany us down the aisle that would be marked with shells not flowers.
The dress was simple. Please wear white. And no long pants, just shorts and bare feet. This was the Caribbean and we were being married steps from the beach. Fun, comfort and love was all we wanted for the ceremony and for our friends.
The wedding was set for Wednesday November 1. Krista had chosen mid-week so everyone would have a chance to get there, relax for a while and make a vacation out of it. The first of our guests, my dear friend Ray DeVries, flew in on Friday October 27. It was great to see Ray, he ran a record store in Covina, California and he would bring me the latest songs from Morrissey, DMode and The Cure to play on the radio. And even though those days were behind me now, at any party or event, Ray would always be at the top of my guest list so naturally he was the first to receive and respond to our wedding invite.
The majority of the rest of the guests were flying in the next afternoon, the 28th, which unfortunately coincided with my final teaching day for a class of students. I couldn’t let them down, not after having taken them through their classroom, pool and now ocean training so it fell upon Krista to pick everyone up at the airport. I’d only miss about two hours with them and we’d all be together to watch the sunset. At least that’s what I thought.
I was driving the boat into Simpson Bay after congratulating my eight happy students on being the newest certified divers in St. Maarten when I saw Bobby and Whitney standing, waiting for me on the dock. Something wasn’t right.
As I pulled alongside the dock Bobby leapt on board and yelled at me, “Go home now. I’ll take care of her.”
I jumped from the boat and raced across the wooden planks. I saw something terrible in Whitney’s eyes. She went to speak but couldn’t and dropped her head.
It was just over a mile to our house on the hill and I pushed that little Geo Metro to the breaking point getting there in less than two minutes. Ray was waiting for me. There was no sign of anyone else.
“What’s happened?” I screamed.
“I’m sorry, buddy. There’s been an accident. They’re all at the hospital.”
I sprinted back down the stairs and sped to the hospital. It was only four miles away but the afternoon traffic was building and despite the fact I drove most of the way on the rough hard shoulder it still took me twenty minutes to get there.
I ran inside and saw Carl Harmon, a good friend and one of our guests.
“What’s happening, Carl? No one’s told me anything.”
Carl shook his head, “It’s Krista’s mom. Something’s happened to her. She’s in intensive care.”
“Show me,” I said.
I was taken into a small room and a horror show was waiting for me. I was expecting blood from a fall, a broken arm or leg, or perhaps a dozen stitches in her forehead, but not this. This was impossible.
Krista was sitting there with her father and as soon as she saw me she burst into hysterical tears. She was inconsolable. She got to her feet and buried her beautiful face in my chest and cried so hard that no words could come out. I looked at Dyle and he could only shake his head.
Lonnie lay there on the table, a drip was inserted in her left arm and a pulse monitor was attached to her finger. The steady beep, beep, beep that came from the LCD display marking her heartbeat was the only sound in the room apart from Krista’s sobs.
Lonnie had only been on island for less than three hours. How had this happened? A doctor came in and took me outside to explain.
Apparently Lonnie was fine when she arrived at our house. She changed into shorts and was sitting at the edge of our pool, her feet in the water having a beer, a Carib, when she suddenly started to act strangely. Her arms went limp and her body sagged.
Krista and her dad put Lonnie in the guest bedroom where it was cool and dark and called the paramedics. They arrived quickly and assessed the situation. They thought Lonnie was probably exhausted from the flight, and the sun and heat had caused an adverse reaction. They advised keeping her in the room with the air conditioner on and letting her rest.
Relieved at the thought that it was merely fatigue, everyone left her undisturbed to recover. Around an hour later there was a huge crashing sound from Lonnie’s room. Krista ran inside and found her mother on the floor writhing in the throes of a seizure. Krista put her hand in her mom’s mouth and yelled out for her friends to call for an ambulance.
In minutes the paramedics had returned and rushed Lonnie to the hospital.
The doctor looked at me and said, “It’s not good. It was a grand mal seizure and it seems to have done some damage. How much we aren’t sure. We have her on anti-seizure medication now and hopefully that will help.”
I went back inside the room and Lonnie now had her eyes open and was trying to talk with Krista, but she was very weak.
“Get better, Mom. We need you for the wedding,” said Krista.
It was hard for Lonnie to form words but she managed to say, “I will, don’t worry. I love you.”
We sat with her for a couple of hours but then were asked to leave so she could sleep.
Dinner that night was memorable only because of the conversation. It was all about poor Lonnie and what had happened. Dyle sat there, silent. You could see in his eyes he was lost, not knowing what to do with his wife in hospital. Krista tried to pick up the mood but we were all too aware of how she was crying inside.
We woke early the morning of October 29. Krista called the hospital right away and asked how her mother was. Instead of hearing a comforting phrase like ‘she’s doing fine’, the orderly paused as he checked Lonnie’s file, then said the words you never want to hear, “Let me get the doctor for you.”
Krista waited an eternity on the phone and her eyes opened wider than I’d ever seen them before as the doctor gave her the news. After listening all she said was, “We’ll be right there.”
The three of us, Dyle, Krista and I, raced to the hospital. The doctor led us to Lonnie’s room.
She still lay in bed but now she was in a coma and hooked up to a ventilator; an EKG machine was attached to her chest and six electrodes circled her head. I noticed that her chest rose and fell in conjunction with the hiss of the ventilator. That’s when I realized she was no longer breathing for herself; the machine was breathing for her.
The medication hadn’t worked. During the night Lonnie had suffered a series of grand mal seizures, several of which were centered in her brain. Her heart had stopped and the doctors had resuscitated her twice. Now she was being kept alive only because she was on full life support. It was
the worst news possible that we could have received.
The doctor asked us to step outside and presented us with two options.
“Lonnie Henderson is alive only because of the machines that she is connected to. Her brain and motor functions are almost non-existent. You have to make a choice. We can keep her on the machines indefinitely until her body starts to reject them which could be a couple of days, a week or even several months or we can turn the machines off.” He shook his head sadly. “That’s all that can be done.”
“Can’t we fly her back to America for treatment?” pleaded Krista.
“I’m afraid that without all the machines she wouldn’t even make it to the airport. This is exactly the same treatment that she would be given in the USA. It is what has happened to her body that is the problem, not any lack of the right medical equipment or medication.”
Dyle sat there silently as Krista spoke again with a question I knew she dreaded asking.
“Is there any way she could get better? Anything at all that could be done?”
The doctor shook his head, “No. I’m so sorry. The grand mal seizures were so severe that she has no chance at coming back from them.” He took a beat as if this was consolation, “And she would never be the same if she did.”
We all sat there silent in total disbelief, caught up in a waking nightmare.
“Let me know what you decide.” The doctor got up and left us alone.
I reached out and held Dyle and Krista’s hands.
“You two have to make this decision. She’s your wife and your mother. I’ll support whatever you say,” I told them.
No one spoke for ten minutes, instead tears were our words.
The doctor returned and sat down with us.
“I have an idea,” he said. “I can only imagine how hard this must be so perhaps this will help. If we turn the machines off she will stop breathing right away and will be gone almost as soon as we push the button. I can see why you don’t want to do that. There is a way we can give Lonnie a chance and she can live or…” He was hesitant to say the word, “die on her own terms.”
World in My Eyes: The Autobiography Page 48