"Deliriously Happy"
As the sky began to lighten, around 6 a.m., the Silverwoods got their first good look at their surroundings. The reef, mostly submerged beneath a few feet of water, snaked to the horizon, where a patch of palm trees was just visible. Nearby, the boat's shattered remains bobbed on the swells. The vast Pacific glittered all around. And high overhead, Jean saw something streaking across the clouds.
"A plane!" she cried. It proved to be a bird. But about 20 minutes later, another dot appeared in the sky -- and this time it was a French navy jet. Everyone cheered. Ben shot up a flare, and the plane began circling. Another hour passed, then two. The little kids dozed, while Jean and Ben passed the time collecting useful flotsam; they found bottles of water, cans of Coke and a vial of painkillers, but John could hold nothing down. "Where are they?" he asked, over and over.
Finally, around 9:30, a motorboat approached, carrying seven stout Polynesians. They loaded the life raft -- with John still inside -- into the boat, and made room for the rest of the family. None of the men spoke English, but the leader made the sign for "helicopter." Jean shouted, "Hurry! He's dying!" and the boat set off for Manuae, eight miles away.
The island, it turned out, was inhabited by a single family -- an elderly couple and 14 of their children and grandchildren, who lived in a collection of tin-roofed shacks. The islanders made an urgent call on their radio to the rescue center in Papeete, then offered the family dry T-shirts and warm hugs, and presented Jean and Amelia with black-pearl necklaces. They laid out a feast, with crepes, raw fish and coconuts, and kept Camille and Jack distracted with kittens and turtles.
Once the French realized there was a medical emergency, they mobilized as quickly as possible. Still, distances are long and resources scarce in Polynesia, and it took until noon for the copter to arrive. The medics quickly stabilized John, then flew him and the family to Bora Bora; from there, a jet rushed John to Tahiti. By 5:30, he was on an operating table, gazing up at a team of surgeons. "I was so deliriously happy," he says. "I knew my wife and kids were safe. And I knew the pain was about to be gone."
The doctors amputated John's leg below the knee. If he'd arrived 40 minutes later, they told him, it might have been too late. It took six days of dialysis before his kidneys, damaged by the infection, could function on their own, and another five days of recuperation before he was strong enough to return to the States.
The family flew back to LAX on July 7, and John was transferred directly by ambulance to Scripps Memorial Hospital in La Jolla. There, doctors determined that his knee was damaged beyond repair. To heal properly, he would need a more radical amputation. Four days later, a surgeon sawed through the bone just above the knee. Another infection soon set in, with fevers that left him delirious and despairing. He didn't leave the hospital until July 27.
That night, unable to climb stairs, he slept in the living room of his sprawling house near Rancho Santa Fe. The next morning, he woke to find Jean snuggled on one side of him, Camille on the other. Outside the windows, sunlight was sparkling on the dozens of citrus trees he'd planted in the yard. "My improvement," he says, "began right then."
John started a course of rehabilitation, and by late September, his leg had healed enough to be fitted with a state-of-the-art prosthesis. It has a microprocessor in the knee joint that adjusts the hydraulics to match his gait. Such a contraption requires long practice to master, and a year after the ordeal, John, who has not yet returned to work, figures he's about halfway there.
To this day, he wonders what went wrong off Manuae, whether the charts were off, the autopilot was buggy, or his own calculations were flawed. He still has some "phantom limb" pain -- the mysterious discomfort that many amputees feel in their missing part. But he is learning to hold his other phantoms at bay. For a time, he couldn't stand to look at the ocean; on a seaside camping trip, he awoke in a panic at the sound of waves. In February, however, he manned the tiller on a half-day jaunt sponsored by a handicapped sailing group. "I had a ball," he says. He's already planning to buy a new boat.
Remarkably, the other Silverwoods are open to the idea. Although Jean still suffers from anxiety attacks, she managed a Carnival Cruise to Mexico last winter. The kids report no nightmares or flashbacks -- quite the contrary. "I learned that, under pressure, you can do anything," Amelia says.
"Since the accident," observes Ben, "we're all a little nicer to each other." His father continues to marvel over Ben's actions during the crisis, which recently earned him the Boy Scouts' top medal for heroism.
For John, the rewards are unmistakable. Over lunch, he gestures around the table at his family. "Sure, I lost a leg," he says. "But look what I've still got."
As the sky began to lighten, around 6 a.m., the Silverwoods got their first good look at their surroundings. The reef, mostly submerged beneath a few feet of water, snaked to the horizon, where a patch of palm trees was just visible. Nearby, the boat's shattered remains bobbed on the swells. The vast Pacific glittered all around. And high overhead, Jean saw something streaking across the clouds.
"A plane!" she cried. It proved to be a bird. But about 20 minutes later, another dot appeared in the sky -- and this time it was a French navy jet. Everyone cheered. Ben shot up a flare, and the plane began circling. Another hour passed, then two. The little kids dozed, while Jean and Ben passed the time collecting useful flotsam; they found bottles of water, cans of Coke and a vial of painkillers, but John could hold nothing down. "Where are they?" he asked, over and over.
Finally, around 9:30, a motorboat approached, carrying seven stout Polynesians. They loaded the life raft -- with John still inside -- into the boat, and made room for the rest of the family. None of the men spoke English, but the leader made the sign for "helicopter." Jean shouted, "Hurry! He's dying!" and the boat set off for Manuae, eight miles away.
The island, it turned out, was inhabited by a single family -- an elderly couple and 14 of their children and grandchildren, who lived in a collection of tin-roofed shacks. The islanders made an urgent call on their radio to the rescue center in Papeete, then offered the family dry T-shirts and warm hugs, and presented Jean and Amelia with black-pearl necklaces. They laid out a feast, with crepes, raw fish and coconuts, and kept Camille and Jack distracted with kittens and turtles.
Once the French realized there was a medical emergency, they mobilized as quickly as possible. Still, distances are long and resources scarce in Polynesia, and it took until noon for the copter to arrive. The medics quickly stabilized John, then flew him and the family to Bora Bora; from there, a jet rushed John to Tahiti. By 5:30, he was on an operating table, gazing up at a team of surgeons. "I was so deliriously happy," he says. "I knew my wife and kids were safe. And I knew the pain was about to be gone."
The doctors amputated John's leg below the knee. If he'd arrived 40 minutes later, they told him, it might have been too late. It took six days of dialysis before his kidneys, damaged by the infection, could function on their own, and another five days of recuperation before he was strong enough to return to the States.
The family flew back to LAX on July 7, and John was transferred directly by ambulance to Scripps Memorial Hospital in La Jolla. There, doctors determined that his knee was damaged beyond repair. To heal properly, he would need a more radical amputation. Four days later, a surgeon sawed through the bone just above the knee. Another infection soon set in, with fevers that left him delirious and despairing. He didn't leave the hospital until July 27.
That night, unable to climb stairs, he slept in the living room of his sprawling house near Rancho Santa Fe. The next morning, he woke to find Jean snuggled on one side of him, Camille on the other. Outside the windows, sunlight was sparkling on the dozens of citrus trees he'd planted in the yard. "My improvement," he says, "began right then."
John started a course of rehabilitation, and by late September, his leg had healed enough to be fitted with a state-of-the-art prosthesis. It has a microprocessor in the knee joint that adjusts the hydraulics to match his gait. Such a contraption requires long practice to master, and a year after the ordeal, John, who has not yet returned to work, figures he's about halfway there.
To this day, he wonders what went wrong off Manuae, whether the charts were off, the autopilot was buggy, or his own calculations were flawed. He still has some "phantom limb" pain -- the mysterious discomfort that many amputees feel in their missing part. But he is learning to hold his other phantoms at bay. For a time, he couldn't stand to look at the ocean; on a seaside camping trip, he awoke in a panic at the sound of waves. In February, however, he manned the tiller on a half-day jaunt sponsored by a handicapped sailing group. "I had a ball," he says. He's already planning to buy a new boat.
Remarkably, the other Silverwoods are open to the idea. Although Jean still suffers from anxiety attacks, she managed a Carnival Cruise to Mexico last winter. The kids report no nightmares or flashbacks -- quite the contrary. "I learned that, under pressure, you can do anything," Amelia says.
"Since the accident," observes Ben, "we're all a little nicer to each other." His father continues to marvel over Ben's actions during the crisis, which recently earned him the Boy Scouts' top medal for heroism.
For John, the rewards are unmistakable. Over lunch, he gestures around the table at his family. "Sure, I lost a leg," he says. "But look what I've still got."