After graduating he was transferred back to New Orleans and flew on over 150 SAR missions during the next four years and even received the Air Medal during a tropical storm when he was left on a shrimp boat for fifteen hours. A stint in Puerto Rico followed, then it was back to Elizabeth City, where he became a rescue swimmer instructor. Now it was Randy who was sizing up candidates, and he knew the best swimmers were not necessarily the fastest ones, but those who were the most committed and showed it through endurance and dedication.
After instructing for a couple of years, Randy was picked for a program that allowed him to go to college full-time to earn a bachelor of aeronautical science degree, and he also got married. In the beginning of 2010 he was sent back to Elizabeth City and shortly thereafter became a father. The coast guard life had been good to Haba, and now he was going to earn his pay by putting his life on the line for total strangers.
• • •
Crouched by the open cabin doorway of the Jayhawk, Randy squinted through the windblown rain and looked down to where the helicopter’s spotlight illuminated the survivor being shoved around by the waves. The rescue swimmer attempted to get a feel for the way the waves were washing under the survivor and realized these were some of the most confused seas he’d ever seen. He suspected there was a strong current from the Gulf Stream, and he mentally prepared himself to fight both that and the towering seas.
The roar from the wind mixing with that of the rotors made it nearly impossible for Haba to talk with hoist operator Michael Lufkin, but they had previously discussed how to conduct the rescue. Randy clipped the cable and the sling, or “strop,” to his harness. If the rescue went as planned, Randy would be lowered to the survivor, get him in the strop, and come up with him. Randy would wrap his legs around the survivor to ensure he or she didn’t slip out of the sling.
Lufkin, kneeling by the cabin door, wore a gunner’s belt around his waist that extended to a secure point on the opposite cabin wall to keep him from falling out the door should he slip. One leather-gloved hand gripped the cable, while the other hand held a pendant attached to a long wire cord that controlled the hoist. The cable, suspended from a steel arm extending from the airframe above the door, was composed of woven steel strands and was only about three-eighths of an inch in diameter, yet was strong enough to hoist eleven thousand pounds. The dozens of individual strands gave the cable its durability and strength, but they also presented a weakness. Individual strands had been known to break by rubbing against the aircraft or another object, and although this did not usually mean the cable would break, it could lead to fouling, or “bird-caging,” in the spool. Should the cable become stuck while the rescue swimmer was in the water, the stranded swimmer would be in as much danger as the survivors and perhaps even at greater risk if he was unable to reach the life raft.
• • •
Steve positioned the aircraft in a hover just a bit aft of the survivor. The rotor wash kicked up foam and thick bands of spray, making it look as if the survivor were in the middle of a tornado.
Although the helicopter was equipped with an automatic hold feature that would keep the aircraft at a fixed distance above the sea, Steve couldn’t use it because it would send the helo rising each time a wave approached, and dropping when it passed. It would be impossible for Lufkin to do the hoist with the aircraft fluctuating any more than it already did from the wind gusts. So Steve held his altitude by looking at the horizon and continually checking his vertical speed indicator, trying to keep that as close to zero as possible.
While the commander was working the levers that controlled the helicopter’s movements, Jane continually scanned the ocean, particularly on the left side of the aircraft because no one else would be looking that way. So far no rogue waves had materialized, but every now and then she’d give an alert, such as “Larger one coming from the left,” and Steve would increase altitude slightly to keep that cushion of twenty-five feet above the tallest of waves.
In the cabin Lufkin said through the radio in his headset, “Swimmer is ready and at the door.”
Steve acknowledged and gave the okay for deployment.
Lufkin tried to stay as calm as possible, knowing he would now be doing two things at once: lowering the swimmer while telling the pilots exactly where he wanted them to move the aircraft during the deployment. His words had to be precise as the pilots would be scanning their instruments and the seas around them and would be unable to see the rescue swimmer much of the time.
Michael tapped Randy on the chest, the signal that he was ready, and the swimmer responded with a thumbs-up.
“Deploying the swimmer,” said Michael.
Randy pushed off, and Michael started lowering him, saying, “Swimmer is outside the cabin, swimmer is being lowered.”
Michael now knew just how strong the winds were. Haba went sailing aft of the aircraft, and Lufkin had to crane his neck just to keep him in sight.
Down went Randy, making contact with the water about forty feet behind the survivor. He immediately started swimming, but a wave dropped out from under him, and the cable violently jerked him back twenty feet, almost ripping his mask off. The next wave blindsided him, crashing into his back while he was in an awkward position. So much adrenaline was surging through Haba that he didn’t feel any pain despite that later X-rays revealed a compressed vertebra with a hairline fracture. In the water, he was more mad than anything else, and he cursed to himself, realizing they had lost valuable time.
Michael also cursed as he worked the cable, lifting Randy out of the water before another wave could slam into him. Over his headset he explained to the pilots what had happened and said he was repositioning the swimmer, telling them to ease the aircraft “forward, ten feet.”
Hanging at the end of the cable, Randy knew how hard it must be for Lufkin to time the descent in such conditions. The wind was so strong it felt as if the swimmer were sticking his head out of a speeding car.
“I could not wear my NVGs and do the hoist at the same time, so I had to rely on the fixed spotlight shining directly downward, which only gave me a small viewing area. Waves would appear out of the dark from different directions, and I had to make a split-second decision when to lower the swimmer again. When I saw what looked like a lull after a wave had passed, I pressed the pendant and Randy was back in the water,” recalled Michael.
This time Randy was within a few feet of the survivor when a breaking wave and a wind gust pushed the helicopter upward, causing the swimmer to be jerked beyond reach of the drifting mariner. Randy gave Lufkin a thumbs-down to indicate the need for more slack in the cable to combat the unexpected gusts.
On the third attempt the rescue swimmer finally reached the survivor. Randy could see that it was a man, still conscious but quite pale and exhausted-looking.
Randy removed his snorkel and shouted, “Are you hurt?”
“I’m okay,” croaked the man.
“Is there anyone else in the water nearby?”
“Don’t think so.”
Haba was relieved to see that the man was not only coherent but calm. Far too often swimmers have to subdue panicked survivors who, instead of following the rescuer’s direction, claw or fight them.
“Okay, here’s what we’re going to do!” shouted Randy, holding on to the survivor’s arm. Before he could explain, a breaking sea avalanched on the two men like a pile driver, pushing them downward, into a swirling vortex.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
LIKE WE’VE FLOWN BACK IN TIME
Lufkin held his breath, searching for the men in the foam. It was next to impossible to hover in the same place with the varying wind gusts. Over his headset he spoke to the pilots: “Left, ten. Okay, now forward fifteen.”
The neon rescue helmet appeared directly below Lufkin. It was one of the best sights he’d ever seen.
Below, Randy took a gulp of air and started to put the strop around the survivor, worried that in the dark another wave would separate him from
the man. Randy cinched the strop up tight and hollered, “We’re going up together! Keep your arms down on the sling. I don’t want you falling out!”
Randy looked up toward the helo thundering overhead and signaled that they were ready to be retrieved. Lufkin started retracting cable, and soon the two men left the waves and were greeted by the howling wind, blowing them aft of the helo and spinning them.
Using his gloved hand, Michael, lying on his belly, held the cable as steady as he could. His big fear was that the cable could swing so far aft it would become jammed behind the open door. He kept retracting cable, and soon the men were at the door. Leaning out of the aircraft, Michael grabbed the harness on Randy and used all his strength to pull the two men safely inside.
In the back of his mind Lufkin wondered why the two men felt like the weight of three. Looking at the survivor’s immersion suit, he had his answer. Water had collected in the feet and legs of the suit. That thing must have a hundred pounds of water in it, Lufkin thought. Then he moved to the door, continued updating the pilots as he had been all along, and with a sigh of relief finally said, “Swimmer and survivor safely in the cabin. Door is now closed.”
The survivor was John Svendsen.
• • •
The C-130 flown by Mike Myers and Wes McIntosh was almost back to Raleigh when over the radio Sector informed them that the first survivor had successfully been hoisted. Roars of applause and cheering erupted on the plane. “It was utter elation,” recalled Myers. “Our hearts had remained with the crew of the Bounty, and it was beyond nerve-racking to not know if they went down with the ship. But when we heard that helicopter crew had just arrived and already plucked one out of the sea, that gave us hope for the rest of them.”
Once Wes and Mike had safely landed and refueled the plane, they entered the airport’s flight-planning room. Someone asked, “Were you the guys out there with the Bounty?” Mike and Wes were taken aback; they were used to flying in anonymity, with no one outside the coast guard knowing what they did. Mike answered, “Yes, that was us. But how did you know?” The person pointed up at a television set. On it was a photo of Bounty, and a reporter was saying how the ship had sunk in the hurricane. Both C-130 pilots knew this case was turning out to be unlike any other, and they stayed glued to the television set, waiting to see if there was more news of survivors, prepared to fly again if needed.
• • •
The faint light of dawn filtered through the rain and clouds, and Steve Cerveny guided the helicopter into a wide turn, heading toward Bounty. On the way they saw another couple of lone strobe lights and hovered over them with the searchlight, determining the survival suits were empty. When they arrived at the ship, Jane thought, This is surreal, it’s like we’ve flown back in time. Randy Haba had a similar reaction; he had seen many foundering vessels, but never a tall ship with three enormous masts. He hoped he would not have to be lowered to the ship, noting the tangled rigging fanning out from the vessel.
A blinking strobe light in one of the masts caught the attention of the aircrew, and Steve lowered the helo to forty feet for a better look. Within seconds it was clear that the strobe was on an empty survival suit, and the aircrew continued scanning the ship and the surrounding wreckage for survivors. As they fanned out into ever-wider circles, they saw another empty survival suit but no people.
Five minutes later Jane radioed the C-130, “We’ve searched the ship and the surrounding debris and there are no survivors.”
The pilots on the C-130 acknowledged, then guided the helicopter to the nearest life raft, which was about a mile away. The raft’s orange canopy was not inflated, and no one was on top of it or under it. Jane started getting worried. Where are they? Surely there has to be more than one person alive. They hovered over the raft, hoping a head or an arm would pop out from beneath the canopy.
“No survivors in raft we are over,” said Jane to the C-130. “It is one of ours.”
“Roger. The other three rafts are lined up in almost a straight line to the east. They are about a mile apart.”
“Okay,” said Jane, “we are proceeding to the next one.”
This raft was also a coast guard raft. Again they hovered over the raft, and again no signs of life. This is bad, thought Jane. There were sixteen or seventeen people on this ship. They can’t all be gone.
The Jayhawk moved on to the next raft. This one had a red canopy, fully inflated. Steve put the helo in a hover, slowly descending to thirty feet above the seas. He was worried his hundred-mile-per-hour rotor wash would flip the raft, but quickly realized that with such strong winds most of the swirl created by the rotors was being blown aft. The raft looked stable, and he took that to be a good sign: maybe there were people inside weighing it down. But there was no sign of life below, and he thought, Please, not another empty life raft, somebody else has to be alive. A second later a head popped out of the doorway and a survivor started waving. All four aircrew members breathed a sigh of relief.
• • •
Randy had decided against staying on the hook for the next rescue and would instead do a harness deployment, in which he would detach from the cable and swim to the raft. Michael Lufkin relayed this to the pilots, got the okay from Steve, then began putting Randy in the water.
When the swimmer hit the water, about forty feet from the raft, he unhooked and started knifing toward the little vessel as fast as he could. Without the cable on him he became aware of a strange sensation. The waves were going one way but the current was going the other. The current was so strong that if a wave didn’t break directly on Randy, the moving water would propel the swimmer right over the wave top.
Randy arrived at the vessel in just a few seconds. Using handles by the doorway, Randy pulled the top half of his body into the raft. Panting and out of breath, he focused on the faces inside. A bunch of wide-eyed people looked back at him.
“How’s everyone doing?” asked the swimmer.
Silence.
“Are there any injuries?”
The survivors just stared at him.
Randy tried a new approach. “Does anyone have trouble swimming?”
A man who was hunched over in the center of the raft struggled to sit up and looked at Randy. It was Doug Faunt.
Randy looked back at him, asking, “Are you ready to go?”
“Yes, I’m ready.”
“Okay, relax and I’ll take care of the rest.”
Randy backed out of the cavelike shelter of the raft and into the howling wind and crashing seas. He waited at the doorway as Faunt, weighed down by his water-filled survival suit, inched to the door. When Doug got his first leg out of the raft, the water drained into the foot area, swelling it to three times its normal size. He flopped into the water and floated on his back. Randy wrapped his right arm around Doug’s chest and started paddling with his other arm, using his flippers to thrust himself away from the raft. The swimmer kept glancing from the aircraft to the surrounding seas and back again, trying hard not to get blindsided by any big combers. One big wave came thundering in on the men, and Randy decided to swim through it rather than risk its breaking directly on the survivor.
Up in the helicopter Michael Lufkin began lowering the basket, watching in alarm as the wind sent it shooting fifty feet behind the aircraft. He brought the basket back inside, added weight to it, then told the pilots to move forward, deciding it best to let the basket hit the water in a spot where the waves would carry it to the swimmer.
“Okay, basket is in the water,” Michael said over the headset. Then he did a double take while looking at the basket. Instead of being pushed by the waves, the basket drifted into and over the waves, away from Randy. To make matters worse, the weights he’d just added made the basket sink rather than ride on the surface.
“Current took the basket and the weights aren’t working,” said Michael. “I’m going to bring it back up and remove the weights.”
Once that was done, he directed the pilots to a new
hovering spot and let the basket hit the water just a few feet from Randy.
Despite the proximity of the basket, the swimmer had to drag the survivor through two large waves to avoid their cascading white water. Faunt swallowed considerable seawater before Randy stuffed him into the basket.
When Faunt was hauled into the aircraft and flopped out of the basket, he broke out into a wide grin. “I saw John Svendsen,” recalled Faunt, “and I shouted his name, telling him I sure was glad to see him. I had been worrying about John and Dan, knowing how dedicated they were to the ship, the crew, and their responsibilities. I was afraid they would get caught up in their duties and not get away from the capsized Bounty fast enough.”
Randy had watched Faunt be hoisted, and he figured he would try to save time by swimming back to the raft, which had now drifted almost two hundred yards away. He was swimming directly into most waves and helped by the current, but sometimes a large comber would slam him from the ten o’clock position and other times from the two o’clock side, driving him underwater. His progress seemed to take forever, and he realized he’d have nothing left in his tank if he continued this battle. Randy looked up at the helo and signaled to be picked up.
Once back inside the helicopter he cupped his hands by Lufkin’s ear and shouted that six people were still on the raft but that no one appeared badly injured. “After we get the next survivor in the aircraft, just air-taxi me back to the raft! The current is unbelievable!”
“I know,” said Michael, “it carried the basket the opposite way of the waves!”
The idea for an air taxi—where Randy would be carried just above the tops of the waves rather than lifted into the helicopter—would save precious seconds. Jane had been updating Michael and Steve, telling them they only had twenty minutes to bingo time, and Michael had been thinking air taxi just as Randy had.
Rescue of the Bounty: Disaster and Survival in Superstorm Sandy Page 20