Today, on the 68th day till my Coast Guard retirement, I will tell the tale of how I lost half of my middle finger on my right hand (as shown in the photo during a re-enlistment flight). Some of yall know the story intimately, as you were there (cue Curtis, Delton, Kenn, Bill, Keith, etc.). Some have heard tell of it around Helo Shops and campfires late at night. And many of you who have seen it in person have, to varying degrees, made fun of it, and in return, been flipped off by all its stubby glory. But few who were not there that fateful night have heard the full story, until now. The sea was angry that night my friends. Like an old man returning his soup at the deli. I had the Ready Flight Mech at Air Station New Orleans that warm June evening in 1998, and I lay awake in my bunk, itching for a good SAR Case. Little did I expect, it was about to happen. The distress call came in at 2am...4 people in the water 150 miles out in the Gulf of Mexico. Their 50 foot sailboat, victim of a whale strike, sunk beneath them in a matter of minutes. They had time to don life vests, make a desperate radio call, and abandon ship woth the hope that someone was listening. Someone was. Coast Guard Group New Orleans heard them and relayed the Latitude and Longitude to us. We launched into a storm that Michael Bay would have put into a movie, and headed into the abyss. As we flew on scene we were buffeted by headwinds and down drafts, requiring our pilots, (Dave Scott and Tim Grimes) to call upon all their skills and training just to keep the helo straight and level. Believe me when I tell you, they must have been channeling the spirits of Saints Orville and Wilbur that night, such was their determination and focus. And so, with all of us sweating bullets, the 150 miles creeped by like sorghum molasses draining from an old tin can. But onward we pressed, though the night be dark. Onward we pressed, though the storm closed in. Onward, to save those poor souls in the gravest of peril. As we arrived on scene, it was like somthing out of Noahs flood. The sea raged as Leviathans arose from the deep, and Zeus himself awoke to hurl down his thunderbolts. The angry faces in the black on black storm clouds mocked and jeered, almost daring us to continue in. But onward we pressed, until we were able to spot them through our Night Vision Goggles. Images of green on green showed 4 people, half drown and clinging to the flotsam that was once their sturdy vessel, now reduced to timbers and so much debris. We, as a crew, agreed that 4 quick and efficient Direct Deployments would be the best way to retrieve the forlorn survivors. As we began our approach, their heads lifted and with hope returning to their faces, their eyes said it all. The Coast Guard is here! We are saved! ASM1 Bob Hannaford, a seasoned Rescue Swimmer of many a tale of his own, was rigged and ready at the door. I lowered him to retrieve the first survivor, and we were made acuity aware of just how angry the seas were that night. The Gulf was spitting out solid 20 foot waves, with swells that could swallow a house. Bobs mask and our visors were the only thing protecting our eyes from the stinging spray as it ripped off the white caps. But with years of training and the lessons learned from aircrews who came before us, we dug deep and effected the first rescue. As I put Bob in the water a few feet from the survivors, he snaked out and grabbed the neediest one. A quick loop of the quick strop, a thumbs up, and a roll of the hoist control later, and they were both hoisted on board. One life saved. 3 to go. The next two rescues went in the kind of adrenaline filed blur that, to this day, I can only recall brief glimpses of. But what I do recall was some of the most skillfull flying and inspired swimming I have been witness to in my 20 year career. My crew was at the top of their game, and I was content to ride their wave of excellence. 3 lives saved. 1 to go. As Bob was preparing to go once more into the breach, near tragedy struck. A piece of the broken mast came crashing down on the last survivor, rendering him unconscious. With no time to discuss, save a glance between the Rescue Swimmer and I, I cued in the pilot with two words. Free Fall. A quick risk calculation, and he simply said, Do it.. Quick as a thought, we hovered into position and Bob dropped into the inky blackness of the waters below. For a long heartbeat that seemed to stretch for hours, he was gone. And another, as the sea boiled where he just plunged in, refusing to give up its prey. And then, a hand broke the surface and, with the strength of Neptune himself, our Rescue Swimmer made for the last of the survivors. Untethered from the helicopter, I knew we would have to utilize the Rescue Basket to retrieve them. I quickly checked the bales for stability and the flotation pads for security, then rigged it to the hoist hook and lowered it to the Swimmers awaiting arms. In one fluid movement, Bob positioned the unconscious man into the basket, and gave me the Thumbs Up signal to hoist. Everything was going smoothly, until a major swell began barreling towards us, just as a huge draft of air beat down on us from above, sending the Helo screaming towards the swell. As the basket rode the wave up and we descend, a large amount of hoist cable slack was suddenly in my hand. But as soon as the pilot pulled the collective and saved us from entering the water, the swell moved on, and the cable slack went taunt. I dropped the cable and fell backed into the cabin, as the shockload threatened to overturn us in the air. The pilots corrected for the unusual attitudes, and again, saved us. Once things settled down and we took stock, we got set to retrieve the survivor, still dangling in the spinning basked below. It was a moment later that I realized during the mayhem, a loop had formed in the cable, and as it quickly disappeared, so did my finger! Then the pain hit. (Here, I will take a break so you can wince. I know I did!). Over the sound of the rotors and the storm, the pilots heard me yell Holy $#! T! I just lost a finger!. The Co-Pilot looked back white eyed, and on seeing me holding the stump of what was left of my right hand middle finger, he began talking about making preparations to transition to forward flight. But with a survivor hanging below and our Rescue Swimmer still in the water, that wasnt an option. With a spurt of blood and a new throb of pain, I let go of my now truncated finger, pulled a zip tie out of the leg pocket of my flight suite, applied a makeshift tourniquet, and continued hoisting. I managed to get the basket, unconscious survivor and all, up and shoved into the back of the helo, and sent the bare hook back down to retrieve our Rescue Swimmer. About 3/4 of the way up, with a grinding of gears, the hoist began to give out. But with the swimmer now hanging 70 feet above the waves, we had little choice but to keep going. 3 feet from the rail, the hoist boom began to fold, and with a screech of tearing metal, it seperate from the aircraft with the swimmer still attached. I threw myself to the deck, trusting my gunners belt to keep me from tumbling out of the aircraft, and, with the hand that just lost the finger, I reached out for Bob. Our hands locked in an iron clamp, and I said a silent Thank you to whatever force guided our grip in that instant. With what reserve strength I had left in me, I managed to pull him up enough to grip the door rail. Together, we struggled to get him on board, disconnected from the now useless hoist that, just minutes earlier had been used to save 4 lives. After incident investigation revealed the shock load of the cable going taunt was just too much for it. On the flight home, while Bob and I checked out the survivors (and he also checked out my hand) we shared an unspoken moment that connects us to this day. We flew home knowing that this was a SAR Case that would last a lifetime. My finger was never recovered, and I assume it went overboard durring our unusual manuvers. I was taken to the local hospital with the surviviors, stitched up, and sent home the next day with a bottle of pain killers, a bandaged hand, and one hell of a story. Now...that was the story I used to tell girls in bars, back before I met Emily. What really happened was this... I was conducting a routine inspection on the Main Rotor Head of the helicopter on the hanger deck when someone turned the Tail Rotor. Since the Tail is connected to the Main Gearbox, that turned as well. And as the Main Rotor Head is connected to the Gearbox...well, you get the point. Cue a crunch of bone as the hole I was inspecting closed on my finger, and you can guess which won out in the fight between me and the steel bushings. Anyway, cue the blood spurt, the Holy $#! T! I just lost a finger! yell, and the general freaking out of everyone there. They got me on a helo and flew me to the hospital (to this day I think I hold the only distinction of being my own first SAR Case). 3 and a half weeks later, as I could now accurately count to with my right hand, I was back to work, flying and turning wrenches. They re-wrote the Maintenance Procedures so it wouldnt happen to anyone else, and for about 15 years, anyone who has gone through A School has heard the story, told as a cautionary tale. I hope yall dont mind me having a bit of storytelling fun, but I figured you might like to have the entire So what happened to your finger? experience. And Dave and Tim, I sure hope yall dont mind, but as two of my favorite pilots from back in the day, yall are officially added to the Bar Story version of this. ;)
Posted on: Tue, 26 Aug 2014 11:42:37 +0000
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