The First Arctic Rescue: part 2
Can hardly work my fingers. Gone this far… Back on wing, into the plane, I leaned over the seat reaching behind the ferry tank. Couldn’t feel with my fingers. Leaned in further to look. Yeah. Got it! Pushed my weight back onto the seat. The plane was tilting – water covering floor under panel and well above ankles back on the wing. Quick now – but be careful. No slipping. I looked to see if I had a hold of the grip. Stepping carefully, I pulled the plastic bag containing toys and chocolate into the raft. Plane tilting more, I knew I couldn’t stay where I was. Horizontal stabilizer would catch the raft as the plane sank. What to do? Get in raft and push away? Water will suck my body heat in no time, even through the bottom of the raft. Got to get on another piece of ice – larger – just about any of these will do. Can’t paddle – fingers probably fall off if I do.What’s this? Come here. A small piece of ice – maybe eight feet in diameter – was drifting towards the plane. Ever so gently, I was able to step on this piece as it approached, holding tight to the stabilizer as I did so. I crouched down in the middle, giving a push against the horizontal stabilizer which was by then angling upward as the nose of the plane began slipping below the water’s surface. I had to be very careful as my hands and feet had no feeling. I couldn’t tell, without looking, at what I was holding or stepping on to. Frostbite and loss of fingers and toes occurred to me, but my immediate concern was to get on a fairly large piece of ice, with raft and survival suit, ELT in hand, without getting any more of me wet. The small piece I was riding on drifted five feet or so before bumping into a piece large and stable enough to support me and my gear for the duration. I held the line from the raft, stepped onto the bigger piece, about 35 feet across, and pulled the raft with survival equipment to the middle.
I knew I ought to do something about my hands and feet, and figured getting into the survival suit would be best. First, I couldn’t help watching G-JUNE nose slowly over, tail pulling quickly out of sight, into the dark waters. With hardly a ripple to mark her exit, there was no time for remorse. Don’t stop. Got the survival suit out of its bag. An easy task made almost impossible with no feeling in my fingers. I placed the ELT in the raft, the suit flat on the ice. Unzipping was a real problem. I had to keep looking to see if I was gripping the tab, concentrate on grasping tightly, pull, then try again. Two or three times before I got it open. Pulled my shoes off, stuffing one leg and then the other into the suit. Hauled it up to my waist. Heavy. Left arm in. Over the bulky sleeve of my down parka – very difficult. Painfully tight around the forearm. Then the right arm, tougher since being stretched taut over my left shoulder. Getting both arms in, I felt like the Michelin Man. Zipping the suit to my neck was impossible, I couldn’t zip it above chest level. The pain in my arms was rapidly becoming an issue. My hands were still without feeling, and the blood was probably being cut off below my elbows. I had to do something about my hands and feet, and somehow get the ELT working, which I surely couldn’t do trussed up as I was. I had to get out of the damn thing. I pulled the zipper back down all the way, after a couple tries. In reaching to push the suit off my shoulder, I was pulling it even tauter across my back. I couldn’t get it off. With the pain in my arms and hands and feet, and the terrible feeling of confinement, I probably came closer to panic then than at any other time since first laying eyes on G-JUNE.
I presumed the ELT would be essential in effecting my rescue. Don’t stop breathing, you stupid fool. Got to get out!! No ELT, no possible rescue! Okay, stop struggling. Breathe easy. Think yoga and twist your spine. Not all at once, slowly. Tony Curtiss as Houdini gradually twisting out of strait jacket. Not all at once. Think of looking a little further around, don’t rush. Further, further, a little more, keep twisting more – THERE!! The suit popped off my shoulder. With relief, I pulled myself clear and let the suit hang from my waist. Hands under parka, sweater, I tucked them in my armpits. Chest was warm. I rubbed my hands under my pits and squeezed them tight under my arms.Getting into the raft, I fixed the canopy over the rafter-tube. Cozy. Next I took care of the ELT, still hindered slightly by my less than dexterous fingers. Come and get me – whoever you are. I’ll be waiting! My feet were still without sensation, and I figured I now had time to work on them. Off came the suit, followed by the wet socks. Feet were definitely white, and the toes were somehow even less colorful. I had two pair of heavy wool socks I had used to cushion the ELT inside the survival suit. Before putting them on, I rubbed my feet, taking care with my toes. I couldn’t feel them at all. Socks on, both pair. At least my feet were now dry. Suit back on up to waist. Thought I heard a noise – like a hoarse whistle. I climbed back out of the raft. Looking now, I saw how stark the scene was - a dreamscape, with gray overcast sky. Blocks of ice, in every direction, bobbing and drifting against and away from each other so slowly as to seem almost motionless. Jagged edges, strips of flat water nearly black, ice dusted with colorless snow. A few squalls falling grayly from the puffy bottoms of ashen clouds. In marked contrast was the brilliant blue of the blocks of ice illuminating from below the surface of the still water. The wonderful color called to mind a song our children, Mairead and Jack, had sung in the car back to Boston. I couldn’t remember the name of it, but I could hear them singing: “Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens,/ Bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens,/ Brown paper packages, tied up with string,/ These are a few of my favorite things,.”
Hearing that song in my mind helped soothe my spirits. Even though the sea was flat calm, an occasional swell would pass and lift the pieces of ice five or six feet higher. I was on a stable platform, but I couldn’t help wondering about rough weather. A slight breeze was just starting to be felt, and seen to ruffle the raft’s canopy almost silently. The uncanny quiet and amazing solitude surrounding me indicated an almost absolute peace that contained immeasurable energy, which, coupled with the alien environment’s seemingly infinite indifference, could finish me in a twinkling. I heard that noise again – more hoarse than whistle. Couldn’t tell how close, or from what direction. Didn’t know what it was, just that it seemed to be some sort of animal, reminding me of polar bears. Was I incorrect in recalling they stalk the far reaches of ice floes in search of seals and fish, and would actually track man? Not worth dwelling on. Better to hear the kids singing. And shake my feet around. Remember to turn the ELT off shortly after dark. Save the battery. What luck! I had two paperback detective books in my parka. I got back in the canopied raft to try a bit of reading. I knew I might not be invulnerable to serious paranoia for long out there, especially if I let my mind run wild. I have to admit that it was hard concentrating on the book, though. Must have read that paragraph three or four times before realizing the girl is trying to sneak
What’s that? ‘That’ was the sound of a low flying jet approaching. I looked out just in time to see a Gulfstream III pass directly overhead. The jet sped to the east, almost to the horizon, before turning to the right and beginning a wide circle around me. I hoped the crew were picking up my ELT and tightening the radius, as they continued to circle. The second time the G-III passed to the north, I saw a helicopter coming out of the west on a course that took it a few miles to the north also. On her third pass, the Gulfstream was close enough for me to see the red swallow-tail flag, with white cross, on her tail. The chopper was barely above the eastern horizon, and seemed still to be heading away. On the jet’s fourth pass, I knew they had me, because they had dropped to about 500 feet and were circling me. Looking out to the east, I saw the helicopter turning until he was heading right at me. As the chopper neared, its main rotor sent snow whirling from the ice so furiously that I had to turn away. I was waiting for the storm to settle before turning back around, until I realized that he was not going to set down on the ice completely, which made sense. I ducked my head, shielding my eyes with my hand, and headed for the chopper. The pilot had set it lightly on the skids on a piece of ice next to mine. The co-pilot was at the boundary between the two, and offered a hand across the small gap.
As I was helped into the helicopter’s large bay, I looked up over my shoulder and saw the sleek G-III wag her wings, and then roll out on a westerly heading. On board the chopper, I sat on a canvas seat folded down from the bulkhead. The pilot looked at me – amazement evident in his eyes. He let go of the collective long enough to signal thumbs up, which I returned immediately. My face felt like I couldn’t get the smile off, even if I wanted to. I didn’t. How was it that I was picked up so quickly – about 70 minutes after ditching? When Big Gun and I switched to the emergency frequency, 121.5, both the G-III and the Bell 212 were monitoring that frequency on their back-up radios. The G-III happened to be heading for Reykjavik, and was almost halfway over the icecap from Sondrestrom when the emergency conversation began. The jet’s track would have taken her very near to my position, anyway. The pilot cancelled his request to climb to 35,000 feet, and upon reaching the east coast of Greenland, descended out of 29,000 to 1,000 feet, which altitude he held while heading for my position. By then the crew was receiving the signal from my ELT, so they took a bearing right for me. The chopper had been chartered to drop two Eskimos off in Angmagssalik, a village about 20 miles south of Kulusuk, when the crew heard Big Gun and me come on 121.5. They made their drop and hurried back to Kulusuk for fuel. From there, they headed in my direction as determined from Big Gun’s last citing. Big Gun did not know help was on the way until after we lost radio contact. For the jet, I am grateful to the Royal Danish Air Force. For the chopper, my heartfelt thanks to Greenlandair. When the chopper brought me back to Kulusuk, I was certainly tickled, despite the pain just beginning to creep into my toes (a good sign). I will never forget the looks on the faces of the Eskimos and the Danes who were at the airstrip when I got off the helicopter – it was as if they had seen a ghost! Torben Dahl later told me he had been in Greenland for twenty-two years, and in that time quite a few planes had been forced to ditch in those waters, but none of the pilots had ever come out. Buzz Gaffuri, of Big Gun radar and with whom I had been talking on the way down, certainly knew that stat. I’m sure glad he kept even the hint of it out of his voice. Well, here’s hoping that in the future any pilots dropping in out there have as much good fortune and/or Divine Intervention as I had. I can’t possibly express the gratitude I feel for all the people who helped me in my need, and while I was their guest on the island of Greenland. Thank you all very much!!
The End
Brad Donahue was a pilot and writer from Massachusetts. He maintained that he was the first pilot ever rescued from ditching in the North Atlantic. While at work spotting schools of tuna, the single-engine Cessna he was flying lost one of its wing supports, and crashed into the Atlantic Ocean near Martha’s Vineyard on August 18, 1987. His body was never recovered.