Holding On
Survival in cold water depends on two key environmental factors： wind speed and water temperature. And a third more subtle factor —— physical conditioning and will. With diabetes, Scagline was at the most risk. In 45-degree water, survival could range from 30 minutes to about three hours.
Sterling and Jameson hoisted themselves onto the pitching hull. Weighed down by his Gore-Tex parka, bib overalls and hip boots, Scagline couldn't lift his legs out of the water. And from their bobbing, precarious perch, his friends didn't have enough leverage to lift him.
Max frantically clawed at the slippery surface and Jameson was finally able to pull him aboard. He wrapped his arms around the dog.
No one panicked. Conserving energy and keeping positive would be crucial. “Everybody stay with the boat,” Sterling said. “It's our only chance.” They scanned the horizon for help —— there was none.
They waited. Then without warning, Max jumped off the hull and swam away. Jameson yelled for him to return, but he kept going until he disappeared from view. Jameson was distraught. At his age, and with arthritic hips, Max couldn't survive in the frigid bay.
Half an hour passed. The men were losing hope. Scagline's speech was slurring. Staring blankly ahead, he began speaking to phantoms. “I love you, Cara. I love you, Holly,” he said, as if his daughter and wife were there.
“We have to get him out of the water,” Jameson said. But how？ Shivering, stiff fingered, weighed down by waterlogged clothing themselves, they couldn't get him to budge.
“The canoe！” Sterling said. “We have to dive for it.”
Burning what little energy they had would lessen their own chances of survival —— but that wasn't a consideration. Sterling dove first, knife in hand, searching for the line that held the canoe. Visibility was zero. At first he sawed on a steel cable and came away with bleeding hands. Finally locating the bowline, he dove repeatedly and kept sawing away until he cut it.
Then it was Jameson's turn. He went under several times hunting for the stern line. When he sliced through, the canoe popped to the surface, and the two men rolled it upright. The paddles were not inside. They shoved the canoe over to Scagline, who by now could barely move his arms or use his hands. How could they get him in？ Sterling steadied one side of the canoe； Jameson got his hands under Scagline's armpits and heaved him upward. Jameson is a powerful man, but without a place to stand, each time he pushed Scagline up, he drove himself under the water. Eventually, he got his friend halfway in. Sterling grabbed Scagline's arms and pulled from the other side of the canoe. But the canoe rolled and dumped Scagline headfirst into the bay.
As Jameson yanked him to the surface, the alarm on Scagline's insulin pump went off. The cold was draining the batteries —— and with it, the diabetic's life support.
Miles away, sports guide Kurtz, who had earlier dropped off his hunting party in the high reeds at the north end of the Absecon Bay, returned to pick them up and take them to another blind in Little Bay. The view was flat to the horizon —— low islands covered with knee-high salt grass, broken only by an occasional cedar tree. Kurtz kept a sharp lookout, as is the custom of baymen, for changes in the weather or anything unusual in the water or onshore.
Scagline appeared to be dying. “Bob,” he said, “I'm slipping.”
“Don't worry, buddy,” Jameson replied. “I've got hold of you.”
Freeing the canoe and trying to get Scagline in it had taken over an hour, and Jameson and Sterling were exhausted. Sterling's fingers were stiff. With difficulty, he tied the canoe's line loosely to a two-inch metal ring on the boat, just above the water.
Scagline was now unresponsive. His limbs were rigid. Having no strength left to lift him, his buddies tied his left hand to the bow ring so he would not sink, but his head kept flopping forward into the water. To keep him from drowning, Jameson straddled the bow, reached down with his left hand, grabbed Scagline's right —— and lifted. After a while, the strain on his shoulder felt like his ligaments were ripping. He held on for over an hour.
During that time, at first unnoticed, the canoe slipped its knot and floated away. It finally lodged in the marsh grass on Egg Island some 300 yards distant —— and with it their last hope seemed to have drifted away.
Survival in cold water depends on two key environmental factors： wind speed and water temperature. And a third more subtle factor —— physical conditioning and will. With diabetes, Scagline was at the most risk. In 45-degree water, survival could range from 30 minutes to about three hours.
Sterling and Jameson hoisted themselves onto the pitching hull. Weighed down by his Gore-Tex parka, bib overalls and hip boots, Scagline couldn't lift his legs out of the water. And from their bobbing, precarious perch, his friends didn't have enough leverage to lift him.
Max frantically clawed at the slippery surface and Jameson was finally able to pull him aboard. He wrapped his arms around the dog.
No one panicked. Conserving energy and keeping positive would be crucial. “Everybody stay with the boat,” Sterling said. “It's our only chance.” They scanned the horizon for help —— there was none.
They waited. Then without warning, Max jumped off the hull and swam away. Jameson yelled for him to return, but he kept going until he disappeared from view. Jameson was distraught. At his age, and with arthritic hips, Max couldn't survive in the frigid bay.
Half an hour passed. The men were losing hope. Scagline's speech was slurring. Staring blankly ahead, he began speaking to phantoms. “I love you, Cara. I love you, Holly,” he said, as if his daughter and wife were there.
“We have to get him out of the water,” Jameson said. But how？ Shivering, stiff fingered, weighed down by waterlogged clothing themselves, they couldn't get him to budge.
“The canoe！” Sterling said. “We have to dive for it.”
Burning what little energy they had would lessen their own chances of survival —— but that wasn't a consideration. Sterling dove first, knife in hand, searching for the line that held the canoe. Visibility was zero. At first he sawed on a steel cable and came away with bleeding hands. Finally locating the bowline, he dove repeatedly and kept sawing away until he cut it.
Then it was Jameson's turn. He went under several times hunting for the stern line. When he sliced through, the canoe popped to the surface, and the two men rolled it upright. The paddles were not inside. They shoved the canoe over to Scagline, who by now could barely move his arms or use his hands. How could they get him in？ Sterling steadied one side of the canoe； Jameson got his hands under Scagline's armpits and heaved him upward. Jameson is a powerful man, but without a place to stand, each time he pushed Scagline up, he drove himself under the water. Eventually, he got his friend halfway in. Sterling grabbed Scagline's arms and pulled from the other side of the canoe. But the canoe rolled and dumped Scagline headfirst into the bay.
As Jameson yanked him to the surface, the alarm on Scagline's insulin pump went off. The cold was draining the batteries —— and with it, the diabetic's life support.
Miles away, sports guide Kurtz, who had earlier dropped off his hunting party in the high reeds at the north end of the Absecon Bay, returned to pick them up and take them to another blind in Little Bay. The view was flat to the horizon —— low islands covered with knee-high salt grass, broken only by an occasional cedar tree. Kurtz kept a sharp lookout, as is the custom of baymen, for changes in the weather or anything unusual in the water or onshore.
Scagline appeared to be dying. “Bob,” he said, “I'm slipping.”
“Don't worry, buddy,” Jameson replied. “I've got hold of you.”
Freeing the canoe and trying to get Scagline in it had taken over an hour, and Jameson and Sterling were exhausted. Sterling's fingers were stiff. With difficulty, he tied the canoe's line loosely to a two-inch metal ring on the boat, just above the water.
Scagline was now unresponsive. His limbs were rigid. Having no strength left to lift him, his buddies tied his left hand to the bow ring so he would not sink, but his head kept flopping forward into the water. To keep him from drowning, Jameson straddled the bow, reached down with his left hand, grabbed Scagline's right —— and lifted. After a while, the strain on his shoulder felt like his ligaments were ripping. He held on for over an hour.
During that time, at first unnoticed, the canoe slipped its knot and floated away. It finally lodged in the marsh grass on Egg Island some 300 yards distant —— and with it their last hope seemed to have drifted away.