A Miracle over the Pacific

Six hundred miles out beyond San Francisco’s Golden Gate Bridge, the freighter California Star rolled and heaved in forty-foot seas during a violent Pacific winter storm. As sailors scurried about reinforcing the restraints on the ship’s large metal cargo containers, two containers suddenly slammed together on the leg of a Filipino sailor, crushing and nearly severing it. The frantic sailors gave their anguished mate the best emergency treatment they could, but it was evident that he probably would not survive until the ship reached land.

I received an emergency call at my job at a Silicon Valley software company. As a reserve pilot for the California Air National Guard’s 129th Rescue Squadron, I was needed to fly an HC-130 refueling plane in support of a helicopter rescue mission. The helicopter would lift the injured sailor from the ship and rush him to emergency surgery at Stanford University hospital. Because the Blackhawk helicopter lacked the range to go six hundred miles to the ship and back, an air-to-air refueling tanker would be needed to refuel the helicopter twice each way. I looked out the window and saw rain pelting down, whipped by an angry wind. It was not a good day to fly.

We set out late in the afternoon. The flight to the freighter took more than four hours, and we were able to find the ship only with the help of electronic gear to penetrate the storm and the blackness of the night. Despite the conditions, both helicopter refuelings on the way to the ship went smoothly.

In an act of real heroism, the helicopter pilot hovered his craft over a hatch on the storm-tossed ship for six agonizingly long minutes as the critically injured seaman was brought up in a litter. The helicopter then headed again into the blustery night toward San Francisco, with the crew wearing night vision goggles. The four-hour return trip had begun.

On all of our minds was a similar rescue attempt in 1991 by the New York Air National Guard. That night the refueling hoses had not worked properly, and the helicopter had run out of fuel, forcing the pilot to ditch in the Atlantic. One of the pararescuemen had been swept away in the storm, never to be seen again.

Our next refueling went well despite the storm and the low clouds. About thirty minutes before the second refueling, however, the helicopter plunged into heavy clouds. Within seconds, my plane, too, entered the clouds. We could maintain only electronic contact with each other now. The visual contact necessary to refueling was lost.

I assumed that we would soon come out on the other side of the cloud bank, but the weather remained solid. Time crept by—we reached fifteen minutes prior to refueling, then ten minutes. Solid weather. A nagging anxiety was building in my stomach. I began to pray quite diligently, both that the seaman would hang on and that the weather would clear sufficiently for us to refuel. I suspect that other crew members were doing the same.

The five-minute mark came and went with no change in the weather. The helicopter pilot and I began to talk about our options, and I continued to pray silently. When the refueling moment arrived, we were still in the clouds.

Suddenly, the helicopter pilot called enthusiastically that he was in the clear. A few seconds later my airplane burst into the same clear area. There were absolutely no clouds to obscure our vision, and we could see all the way to the moon and stars. With a thankful heart, I maneuvered quickly in front of the helicopter, and we put out our refueling hoses so that the helicopter could take on fuel.

Finally full, the Blackhawk dropped back to break the connection with our hose and then moved out beyond our wing tip to resume the lead. At that instant we penetrated the clouds again and never emerged for the remainder of the mission. For about seven minutes—exactly the time needed to refuel—we had flown in an absolutely clear night sky. For seven minutes—just enough time to save a man’s life—we had been granted a miracle.

Upon arrival the helicopter was radar guided to the hospital, and the sailor was rushed into surgery. My family and I visited him the following Sunday, and he smiled bravely as he looked down at the bandaged stump a few inches below his hip. We learned that he was looking forward to being reunited soon with his wife and children in Manila. We gave him a copy of the Book of Mormon, and he promised to write and let us know how he was doing. Whenever I think of this sailor, I remember how the Lord made a place of calm amid the storm so that the work of rescuing a human being could be carried out safely.