Let Us Be Brave Page 2

  “Wow, where did that come from?” wondered Helen, her hands practically strangling the steering column. Then she noticed they were near Mt. Augustine on the west side. She had been looking north and east, watching for possible airplanes coming from the north over Kamishak Bay, while at the same time monitoring her plane and avoiding flying through beautiful white puffy clouds that would possibly hide nearby passing planes.

  “Helen, I smelled rotten eggs. Yuck!” said Marie. She pinched her nose closed, turned in her seat and looked to the back row. “Ssaaamm! Wow, did you eat beans last night?”

  Sam shook his head and scrunched up his nose before innocently looking back out the window.

  Helen was quiet. But I checked the AVO (Alaska Volcano Observatory) website just this morning. Augustine was only yellow. There was no remarkable activity noted along Cook Inlet. How could this be happening? She focused on the dials on her plane and made a gradual turn, staying away from Mt. Augustine to head across the open water of Cook Inlet aiming straight for Homer on Kachemak Bay. She mentally noted that Anchor Point was the closest town and that it had a small airport if she needed to land, but there were no emergency back-ups like a hospital. Anyway, all still seemed fine as the engine continued to roar and vibrate along as usual.

  Farther and farther they advanced over the open grey water of the inlet. She tried to push away thoughts of an old friend who had tried to cross the inlet with a plane full of passengers and low gas tanks. They were never found, despite their Mayday call before going down in the dangerous waters. We’re going to be okay. Everything looks and sounds fine. Yes, we’re going to be okay.

  “Guess it was Mount Saint Augustine burping, honey,” she said with artificial cheer. She tried to relax while secretly still wondering if this trip were doomed by that “sleeping” volcano. The sooner she got them to Homer, the better. She could have a mechanic look at the engine to make sure it hadn’t been fouled by ash particles.

  Patrick craned his neck to the right and looked over at the cone-shaped monolith that rose out of the water just in time to see another black plume of smoke suddenly come out of the top. The former black cloud had dissipated to grey and was heading west. It was so far away that he just thought it was interesting. He refocused on the rolling waves of Cook Inlet as it became more and more difficult for him to see the cloud as the plane left it behind.

  The tide was out, and thus the muddy shoreline was very visible between the grey-brown water and the green trees and bushes above the high-tide line. The water was relatively calm: no white caps—only small, undulating waves, just two or three feet at the most. Cook Inlet didn’t look dangerous, but it was a well-known fact that if a plane or boat went down in the muddy waters, it would sink quickly from all the glacial silt flowing in and out with some of the highest tides in the world.

  Suddenly the engine sputtered and coughed, spitting out a small stream of black smoke from under the cowling. It maintained enough power to turn the prop, but how long could it last, acting like it was just about to quit? The engine gave up with a big burst of black smoke, which caused the propeller to sputter and eventually slow. The prop was no longer whirling invisibly, but was slowly turning around on its axis from the wind of the gliding plane. Their once incredibly noisy power source was silent. Helen could hear all her passengers gasping in but not exhaling.

  Shocked, adrenalin rushing, Helen started to panic, but then mumbled, “Get a grip. You know what to do.” She focused on flipping the appropriate switches and adjusting the fuel intake levels, and then hit the restart button— no change.

  She switched the fuel intake from one wing tank to the other, just in case one of her tanks had miraculously gone dry. She hit the restart button a second time. The engine sputtered again, but didn’t start.

  “Helen, what’s wrong?” said Patrick.

  Curtly she answered, “Patrick, no questions!”

  With her voice of authority she said, “Marie, remember how I taught you to brace yourself for an emergency landing? Teach everyone what to do.”

  Marie sat there, staring, eyes big with fear and lips quivering. She said nothing.

  Helen kept the plane gliding perfectly as she tried again and again to restart. It was a good thing they were high up and had a little room to maneuver. She knew if she kept the nose down and her speed up, the wings would be able to maintain lift, enabling the plane to continue to fly and not just drop her precious cargo out of the sky.

  Helen changed channels on the radio to 121.5 megahertz, the emergency channel. “Mayday, Mayday,” she said with a shaky voice into her radio headset. “This is November 2-0-7 Lima Tango, location northeast of Mount Augustine, altitude down to twenty-seven hundred and gliding, six people on board. Experiencing engine failure, attempting restart. Mayday, Mayday, this is November 2-0-7 Lima Tango. We are going down in Cook Inlet in the area northeast of Mount Saint Augustine.”

  No one answered.

  Struggling to maintain a calm radio voice, she repeated, “Mayday, Mayday, November 2-0-7 Lima Tango going down in Cook Inlet northeast of Mount Saint Augustine, six people on board.”

  She knew they would all drown if they landed in the swift currents of the inlet; a cold, wet death would be their future, even if they survived the impact with the waves. The densely muddy water would quickly fill the plane and sink it before they could get out. Her passengers, with all their disabilities, wouldn’t even know how to open the doors, and she didn’t have enough time to teach them what to do. The chilly waters of Cook Inlet offered only a quick death for all.

  Helen realized Marie was in shock. “Patrick, help her. She has to train you. You understand?”

  “Marie, what do we do?” came the terrified voice from the seat behind Marie. He tried to reach forward to touch Marie’s shoulder, but couldn’t. “What do we need to know? Come on, Marie. Tell us!”

  “Marie!” yelled Nicholi.

  With wide eyes fixed forward, she responded in a quivery voice, “Like this! Grab the seat in front of you! Lean forward and hold on tight!” She demonstrated the proper position and then sat up again and shouted, “Everyone do it! Grab the seat in front and hold on tight!”

  Her hands were tightly clasped together, with white bloodless knuckles, as she watched the ground get closer and closer. “Helen, you ARE going to get this thing going again, aren’t you?”

  Helen ignored her sister and continued to speak into her headset, hoping Mark or someone would acknowledge her emergency calls.

  Patrick attempted to lean forward, but couldn’t get his stiff body to move.

  Lillian leaned over and whispered in a clear voice, “Relax, Patrick; you relax.” She rarely spoke, and few people could ever hear her, but with the closely spaced seating and no sounds from the prop, he heard every syllable. He struggled to relax on the inside by taking a deep breath and slowly exhaling. With all her might she forced his stiff body to bend forward. Patrick eventually was able to unclasp his thumb from between his little finger and ring finger where it normally rested and grab the back of Marie’s seat with the strength of armor. He was set. Lillian easily bent forward, but she was so small that it was actually hard for her to reach the seat in front. With arms extended, she held on tight. She wasn’t a strong girl, but she would hold on as best she could.

  As Helen flew the plane, which now was a glider, she could see off in the direction of the Homer Spit and Anchor Point. It should be easy to hear on the radio like she had in Shelikof Strait. “Mayday, Mayday,” she continued, wondering why no one answered her call for help. On the edge of panic, she struggled to maintain control of both herself and the plane. Were they all going to die? Was this the end for them all? She had to land on the beach. She had to take care of everyone. Her confidence level ebbed and flowed like waves on the shore from minute to minute. Sometimes she was positive she could do it, but then she thought if she couldn’t even make contact with another human voice on the radio, she was nothing but a failure.

 
; Helen focused intently on the nose of the plane, keeping it slightly down to maintain appropriate speed and lift ratio for the glide without losing control of the aircraft. Her gut instinct was to pull the yoke up and wish the plane back up into the sky, but her training told her to aim down and it would stay airborne longer. Using the yoke, she made small adjustments to the ailerons at the tips of the wings and with the rudder foot pedal, which allowed the glider to bank west, away from Homer and emergency help. She maintained the turn at a safe angle until she could see the muddy beaches ahead on the west side of the bay. Then she reversed her ailerons and foot pedals until the wings were level again and the plane was pointed in the desired direction for her estimated best landing. It was a delicate maneuver, and she had practiced it lots with smaller planes like her grandpa’s Super Cub, but not with the faster and heavier Cessna 207 filled with five Special Olympics athletes.

  She was amazed at how fast the altimeter was dropping. To get as much glide as possible out of the plane and make a relatively level landing on a smooth beach was the goal. She wanted to avoid the quicksand and rocky beaches of Cook Inlet, plus the trees and large rocks of the shoreline if possible. The thin-walled, relatively fragile plane wouldn’t stand a chance against the indestructible rocks and trees. Their chances were better if she could land on a muddy beach.

  Nicholi was rocking and talking to himself as he looked out the window. Like a broken record he mumbled, “We’re gonna crash—gonna crash— gonna crash. . . .” He was hoping it wasn’t true, but evidence was that they were doomed.

  Sam grasped Nicholi’s arm to comfort his best friend. “No ay. Ur ot” (No way. Are not)! he said with trumped-up confidence. He always gestured and signed a mixture of American Sign Language and Signing Exact English as he verbalized. He knew exactly what he was saying, though few people could derive any meaning from his voice. He was always loving and gentle, even if he was a gold medal masculine weightlifter. “Elen ill ix it.” (Helen will fix it.) He pushed Nicholi forward and curved his hands around Patrick’s seat back. “Ol on.” (Hold on.)

  Nicholi, ducking his head and rocking it back and forth, did as told but continued to mumble as if in a trance.

  “Thank you, Sam,” Helen said. She felt better already, just knowing that Sam trusted her abilities. She was still battling the dark thoughts that kept trying to steal her confidence. Deep down she knew she could keep the plane under control as long as the winds stayed the same and she didn’t fly into any wind shear that would throw them around or, worse yet, drop them instantly straight down.

  God, help me get us down safely . . . I can do this . . . No, you can’t. You don’t know what you’re doing . . . Yes, I can. I’m a good pilot. She took a deep breath, exhaled slowly to get control of her thoughts, and said, “Oh, Marie, check that everyone’s set.”

  Marie looked away from the rapidly approaching, grey, muddy beach to see her friends behind her. Everyone except Sam was leaning forward and holding on as directed. She yelled, “Sam, grab the seat like Nicholi! NOW!”

  He did as she commanded.

  She faced forward. “Everyone’s ready, Helen—I’ll be brave, I hope.”

  Helen tried again to adjust fuel and restart the engine, but all to no avail—no time anyway. Through the blurry, pitted windshield and the clear side windows, she could see the mud flats of the shoreline in front of them. If she was going to crash, it looked like the best spot around.

  “Helen, I don’t have a seat in front,” said Marie, her voice shaking.

  The ground was coming up quickly. “COVER YOUR FACE, MARIE!” she firmly stated.

  Marie didn’t immediately respond. She had to think about it. At the very last moment, before impact, Marie’s arms went up and she tried to hide.

  When the 207 was right down on the deck, the stall warning went off. She pulled the nose up at the last second, hoping to avoid nosing over. The landing gear first hit shallow water, cushioning the impact, before moving forward onto the muddy beach. The earsplitting sound of metal crunching and the landing gear ripping loose had everyone’s terrified attention. The gear on the right tore off first, causing the plane to turn right. Then the gear on the left broke off. The wheel-less plane proceeded to slide straight forward in the mud like a car hydroplaning in deep water. Mud and water spray splashed out the sides, and soon the windows were so grey that it was like they were in a solid-walled utility truck.

  The only visibility was straight ahead, out the cockpit window. They were headed toward a lone, large, protruding rock on the beach. It was twice the size of the Cessna.

  “God, protect us please,” prayed Helen. “Please, God, please!” The plane continued toward the rock, but as it got closer and closer, Helen realized they were sliding slightly to the left, back down toward water. It looked as if . . . yes! The tip of the wing missed the deadly protuberance by a few inches. Fortunately, there were few other large solid objects in their path on the mud flats. The terrifying loud screeching, scraping sounds and violent vibrations in the plane eventually slowed and finally died away as the plane came to a stop. All was silent except the sound of heavy breathing. White knuckles slowly relaxed and the color returned to everyone’s hands.

  “Excuse me, Helen . . . are we okay?” asked Nicholi in a terrified voice. “We didn’t die, did we?”

  People started to cry. Even Helen teared up from the shock of what they had just been through.

  Through her tears Helen said, “No, Nicholi, we’re still here. Is everyone okay? Anyone hurt? Patrick, how about you and Lillian? Check her out for me?”

  Patrick looked at Lillian and said, “We seem fine.”

  “Sam, you okay?” asked Patrick.

  “Excuse me, Sam looks okay and me too,” said Nicholi.

  Patrick looked forward at the pilot. “Helen, your head is bleeding! You hurt yourself!” he said. He jerkily took off his bandana and held it out in her direction. Marie took it, folded it up, and quickly gave it to Helen. She took the cloth and put it on the place where her head was throbbing.

  “I’m going to close my eyes for a minute, guys.” She leaned forward on the dashboard of the plane as she flipped off all the electricals with one hand and tried to stop the blood flow with the other. Everyone sat still, not knowing what to do, just trying to be good.

  A couple of minutes later she opened her eyes and said, “Okay . . . everybody out. Try to open your doors. If you can’t figure it out, Marie and I will help you.”

  Patrick looked at the door and soon started fiddling with it. Lillian reached over him and helped him pull the lever. It popped open. Helen and Marie opened their doors and found that the bottoms scraped in the deep mud as they pushed out. The sisters stepped out of the cockpit to find their feet immersed in six to eight inches of squishy, silty, grey mud. With each step, the mud tried to suck the tennis shoes off their feet. Marie grabbed Patrick’s door and pulled it open. Helen, still holding the bandana to her head, worked her way around the propeller and grabbed Nicholi’s door. She was too weak to pull it wide open, but the boys wanted out and were soon pushing and kicking it to free themselves.

  “Patrick, Lillian needs to climb over you to get out and start carrying things. Keep your seat belt on so you don’t fall out until we can rig up some way to carry you.”

  “Okay. Lillian, can you climb over me?” said Patrick.

  Lillian released her seat belt and carefully climbed over him, trying not to put any pressure on his fragile body.

  Once everyone was out but Patrick, Helen started unloading the tail section. Leaning against the plane for support, she undid the cargo net and pointed to the bags. “I want each of you to grab something and carry it to shore. Put everything together in a pile. We’re going to need absolutely everything in this plane since we don’t know how long we’ll be here. Nicholi, can you make sure everything is in one place?”

  Nicholi was leaning over the front of the plane, looking at his reflection in the windshield and making funny fa
ces at himself.

  “Nicholi, can you make sure everything is in one place on shore? It needs to be above the high tide line. Maybe in those trees.” She pointed to shore.

  He was looking at her but not responding. He had a dazed look and was in his other world, a world that didn’t include plane crashes and scary things. He often retreated to an inner world when things were too complicated for him to deal with. He started rocking back and forth, pumping intently.

  “Did you understand me?” she asked.

  No response.

  Still applying direct pressure with the bandana on her bleeding head, she leaned against the side of the plane and said, “Marie, can you do it? Make sure it’s all together on shore?”

  Marie grabbed two bags and handed them to Nicholi, disrupting his rocking and he came back to reality. “You take this one,” Marie said bossily, and he did.

  She put two more in Sam’s hands. Lillian took her one and Marie took a big orange bag out of the back. It was heavy, but she could handle it. They all started slushing through the mud to shore with Marie giving orders as to where to put everything in a pile on the dry sand. After they were dumped together, Nicholi proceeded to stack them in an orderly fashion according to a plan he envisioned in his head. Once he was satisfied, he returned to the plane after the others.

  “Helen, are you okay?” asked a concerned Patrick from where he still sat in the plane, watching everyone else working hard.

  Helen was leaning against the plane with her eyes shut. “Oh, yeah . . .” Her head was killing her, but she couldn’t let that get in the way of the evacuation from the crash site. “We have to figure out a way to get you to shore. Your chair won’t work in the mud.” She laid the cargo net in the mud beside the plane right outside his door. Then she rummaged around and unearthed her new tarp from the tail section. With one hand she opened up the plastic shrink wrap packaging and pulled out the large green 15’x30’ tarp, which she partially unfolded and placed on the net. Then she climbed inside and released Patrick’s seat belt. He immediately leaned out the door, falling in the direction of the tarp.