Let Us Be Brave: An Alaska Story of Special Olympians Uniting to Survive

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Chapter 1

Flight to the Games

Helen stopped her four-wheeler and waited patiently for the cloud of dust she had stirred up to pass in the gentle west winds. It was only seconds after she took her helmet off before the biting white sock flies and mosquitoes found her freshly bathed body. She debated putting on bug dope, but she was flying to Anchorage in a few minutes, so decided to just endure their torture to avoid the smell of chemical repellent. She pulled up the hood of her kuspuk to slow down the attack.

The shiny new quarter moon had just come up over the horizon. She wasn’t sure why, but it seemed that the weather was always more severe when the moon was full and the tides were at their high and low for the month. Nonetheless, she always checked the weather before she flew out of Pebble Lake, a mining town near the old settlement of Kanatak at the end of the Alaska Peninsula and the beginning of the desolate Aleutians.

Deceivingly innocent, nonthreatening, puffy white clouds swiftly formed around each of the distant mountaintops. If she avoided flying close to any mountains, the flight should go quite smoothly even though she had heard a storm was brewing south of the chain.

Glad I’m flying you today, she said as she approached her parked Cessna 207. She had saved up her hard-earned money from working as an Alaska commercial bush pilot for years to buy her baby. It was a beauty in her eyes, even if it was used and a little dinged up. She loved every inch of the navy and white plane, from its single engine prop to the beautiful tail flaps. It flew splendidly every time she went up.

As she slowly and meticulously went down her preflight inspection, she noted that everything seemed in order. There were no new dings or damage from her last landing on the gravel strip in the village where she lived with her younger sister, Marie. All cables, rivets, lights, in fact everything on the exterior was fine. She checked the wing tanks for fuel and decided there was plenty. Then she boarded the plane to inspect the interior. She restored the Emergency Locator Transmitter (ELT) in the tail after the test button light appropriately went on when pushed. Everything was in perfect working order.

A grey van drove toward her down the dry, gravel village road, stirring up a cloud of dust as it went and immersing her in a thick cloud when it stopped. She held her breath until the air cleared. Helen could hear cheering from inside the van before the doors even opened.

Team Pebble Lake! Team Pebble Lake! We’re the best! was repeated twice before the doors of the van burst open. It was full of smiling faces.

Looks like my Special Olympics team is rearing to go win some medals, said Helen.

You betcha, yelled Marie, Helen’s sister.

The vanload of giggling, happy athletes were bubbling with the excitement of going on a trip. Marie, Sam, and Nicholi jumped out. Lillian was slower to climb down. She always was careful. Patrick, the least mobile of the team members, sat patiently waiting for his foster dad, Billy, the driver, to climb in back to unfasten the heavy webbed straps that held his wheelchair to the floor of the van. Once the chair was free, Billy opened the back door and pushed the button to lower the ramp for Patrick to roll onto. Soon the mechanical lift had delivered the twenty-two-year-old young man to the gravel where he sat, struggling to move, but his chair had immediately become stuck in the rocks.

I’m sorry you can’t use your power chair, Patrick, but it just won’t fit in my plane, said Helen.

Its okay, coach. I’m just glad to get out of here for a change.

Okay, my Special Olympics team, bring me your duffels. They’d better be small so they can fit, said Helen.

They are, Helen. I checked, said Marie.

The team members unloaded the duffels and put them next to the rear door.

Sam, you in first. Back seat, Helen said.

The blond, stocky, nineteen-year-old weightlifter climbed in and put his seat belt on. Helen checked to make sure he secured it correctly. Good job, Sam. You got it right. Sam gave her a loving smile and caressed her cheek with his hand as she retreated out the door to make room for another athlete.

Nicholi, you next, said Helen.

Nicholi walked right up to Helen and stood too close, in her space. Excuse me. May I ask you a question? Are we going to Anchorage? he asked politely.

Helen stepped back so she could see him clearly. Yes, we’re going to the Special Olympics State Games.

Excuse me, but are the games in Anchorage? he asked again so he’d feel acknowledged, comfortable, and safe.

Yes, Nicholi. We’re going to Anchorage, Helen replied kindly. Hop in now.

The tall, slightly chubby, fifteen-year-old Indian boy climbed in and secured his seat belt independently. Helen chose not to check. She had heard it click and knew she could trust him to fasten it correctly.

Ya know, these bugs are sucking my blood. Am I soon gonna be a skeleton? asked Nicholi.

No, you’ll be just fine. Helen smiled and gently closed the door.

Lillian, your turn. You need to climb in first.

The 85-pound, 28-year-old Aleut young lady tried to get in but was too short. Billy gingerly picked her up and set her feet securely on the floor. Lillian sat on the seat, then scooted over to her side and fastened her belt without being told. Though she rarely spoke, she often surprised people with her hidden abilities.

Okay, Patrick, your turn. I’ll release your feet from the safety straps, Helen said.

Billy released the waist belt and the two double-lifted him up into the seat of the plane. Helen grunted during the lift. Patrick, you have got to go on a diet. You must have gained weight since the last time I picked you up!

I’m working on it. Working on it, I swear! I swam five laps during swim practice in the school pool this week. It was too cold, but I did it.

Good! Keep it up. I was joking about your weight. You’re perfect, she said as she secured his seat belt and made sure he was comfortable.

Billy pushed the chair to the back of the plane, and Helen opened the back door again. Billy easily folded up the chair and lifted it in.

Helen started loading all the duffels around the chair and secured everything with a cargo net and tie-down straps. It’s not going anywhere, she confidently said. She closed and secured the door to the plane after glancing again to check that Nicholi and Sam were still tightly seat-belted.

Hop in, Marie.

Twenty-three-year-old Marie had flown as Helen’s co-pilot for years. Whenever they wanted to go shopping in Naknek, they hopped in the Cessna and flew north. Helen always made sure she had a delivery of one sort or another to cover the expense of the gas, but to Marie, a shop-a-holic, it was always a spur of the moment shopping spree that she loved. They had little money to spend in the high-priced bush stores, but ownership was meaningless to her anyway. It was looking at all the different items on the shelves that made shopping fun. Helen made sure Marie had all she really needed. Everything else was eye candy, or junk, as Helen would say.

See you tomorrow at the games, Billy, Helen called as she climbed up into the cockpit. You’re staying at the Marriott by the UAA campus, right?

You bet. Wouldn’t miss it. Billy climbed into the grey van, waved at everyone, and slowly drove away in a dusty cloud.

Helen settled into her seat and put on her headset, as did her little sister. She waited until the air cleared before she started the engine of the plane. Once it was warmed up to her satisfaction, she started to taxi forward, taking her time. Before driving on the landing strip, she double-checked that the controls (tail) and wings flaps were working properly and then checked the sky for any approaching planes.

All clear to me, Helen, Marie said as she scanned the sky, mimicking her sister.

Same here. Helen taxied down to the west end of the runway and turned the plane to face the east. Wow, she thought, taking note of the windsock flapping in the easterly breeze, the wind has changed all of a sudden.

Anyone see any planes coming? Helen called out to her team over the droning engine noise. She craned her neck in all directions, looking for approaching aircraft.

Patrick and Marie responded immediately: Nope.

Then off we go to a wild weekend in Anchorage. Passengers, it’s going to be a bit noisy now, but don’t be afraid. It’s normal, she said in a very professional voice.

She put on her headset and adjusted the fuel intake throttle for take-off and released the brakes. The plane started rolling, bumping, shaking, and in general sounded like it was going to vibrate to pieces before they could get off the gravelly dirt. The bugs that had been biting, stinging, or leaching blood out of everyone suddenly ceased their physical attacks. They were hitting the vibrating glass windows in a fruitless effort to escape. They seemed to want out of the plane, as if they thought the trip was doomed even if the eating was good. The plane gained speed and started to lift a little, touched down for one more second, and then gradually up and away they flew.

The athletes had their faces glued to the windows, looking out. The tundra lakes glistened in the sunlight like jewels below. The lime green grass and vegetation were sprinkled with occasional short, spiky, black spruce trees.

Bear! yelled Nicholi.

Everyone craned their necks to try to see the big peninsula brown bear as it rambled down the shore of a large lake.

Look, Helen, two cubs too! Marie exclaimed.

Hey, over there—caribou! yelled Patrick. I wonder if Billy knows they’re there. Can we radio him their location, Helen?

And let the whole village know where they are? I don’t think so. We’ll call on the phone when we land.

Speaking into her headset, Helen said, Homer Radio, this is Cessna 2-0-7 Lima Tango. She secretly hoped Mark, a man she admired, was working.

A clear, soothing male voice came over the radio. This is Homer Radio calling Cessna 2-0-7 Lima Tango.

Homer, we just departed Pebble Lake, and are now flying north over Shelikof Strait, headed for Anchorage. Please give me the updated weather for our destination.

2-0-7 Lima Tango—Homer—current weather: wind calm; visibility one zero miles; ceiling, thirty-five hundred broken; temperature eight (degrees centigrade); dew point five; altimeter two niner niner four.

Thank you, Homer; Cessna 2-0-7 Lima Tango out, said Helen.

Hey, he sounds cute. Helen, can we go to Homer and pick up some fresh halibut and scallops to take to Auntie in Anchorage? We could check out that guy, said Marie, her eyebrows going up and down as she pointed at the radio.

His name is Mark. Sure, why not. Auntie would love it. Okay with everyone? said Helen.

There was a united Yeah! from the team.

Oh, Marie, you’ve already got a boyfriend. You need to find a guy for Helen. Maybe you can check out that Mark guy on the radio for her? said Patrick.

Fat chance of that. Mark’s locked up in his tower, the flight service station, chained to his radios and computer, said Helen. I rarely see him when we’re in Homer.

But you know his name! Is he cute? Marie said suspiciously.

Helen tried to ignore the conversation and focus on the plane. She had found Mark to indeed be cute, handsome, even a catch, but she didn’t think he was interested in her. She had caught him watching her at the last contra dance she had been to at the Homer Middle School gym, but he never asked her to dance. Maybe he thought she was a lousy dancer. Besides why would any sensible man be interested in a girl pilot that had to take care of her adult special needs sister? She figured she was always going to be single. That was the life she was meant to lead.

Well, if you can’t find a boyfriend, maybe Marie can for you, Patrick said with his eyes rolled up and a smart-alecky look on his face. If you didn’t know it, Marie’s quite the flirt. Did you see her at the last Special Olympics Victory Dance? She had three guys swarming around her like bees on honey. Your sister knows how to reel them in.

I didn’t know I had two cupids in my airplane. Go ahead and shoot your arrows. I could use a little help, said Helen. The truth was Helen had been admiring Mark, the FAA guy, for months. She hadn’t mentioned it to anyone, but he was often on her mind when she flew and heard his voice. Every time she saw him at various events, her heart raced and she could feel her face turning red. She didn’t even know if he was married, but she had noticed he never was with any other women. Marie was right; he did have a wonderful radio voice, but he also seemed to be a truly nice young man, and he looked about her age.

As they proceeded north, the ground changed from almost all lime green grass to dark patches of spruce with medium green willow and birch. There were no trees in the village where Helen lived, and she missed them. She loved a wood fire during the long winter nights.

The plane was traveling at a safe high altitude and all was going along just fine. They passed around one puffy white cloud after another and stayed far from the mountains of the Alaska Range where the rising air currents were always a hazard on beautiful sunny days, so no worries. Then, suddenly, they were engulfed in a fast-rising dark grey cloud, one Helen couldn’t avoid. It was like they were being sandblasted with fine rocks. They passed through it, seemingly unharmed except the windshield was pitted and suddenly difficult to see through clearly.

Wow, where did that come from? wondered Helen, her hands practically strangling the steering column. Then she noticed they were near Mt. Augustine on the west side. She had been looking north and east, watching for possible airplanes coming from the north over Kamishak Bay, while at the same time monitoring her plane and avoiding flying through beautiful white puffy clouds that would possibly hide nearby passing planes.

Helen, I smelled rotten eggs. Yuck! said Marie. She pinched her nose closed, turned in her seat and looked to the back row. Ssaaamm! Wow, did you eat beans last night?

Sam shook his head and scrunched up his nose before innocently looking back out the window.

Helen was quiet. But I checked the AVO (Alaska Volcano Observatory) website just this morning. Augustine was only yellow. There was no remarkable activity noted along Cook Inlet. How could this be happening? She focused on the dials on her plane and made a gradual turn, staying away from Mt. Augustine to head across the open water of Cook Inlet aiming straight for Homer on Kachemak Bay. She mentally noted that Anchor Point was the closest town and that it had a small airport if she needed to land, but there were no emergency back-ups like a hospital. Anyway, all still seemed fine as the engine continued to roar and vibrate along as usual.

Farther and farther they advanced over the open grey water of the inlet. She tried to push away thoughts of an old friend who had tried to cross the inlet with a plane full of passengers and low gas tanks. They were never found, despite their Mayday call before going down in the dangerous waters. We’re going to be okay. Everything looks and sounds fine. Yes, we’re going to be okay.

Guess it was Mount Saint Augustine burping, honey, she said with artificial cheer. She tried to relax while secretly still wondering if this trip were doomed by that sleeping volcano. The sooner she got them to Homer, the better. She could have a mechanic look at the engine to make sure it hadn’t been fouled by ash particles.

Patrick craned his neck to the right and looked over at the cone-shaped monolith that rose out of the water just in time to see another black plume of smoke suddenly come out of the top. The former black cloud had dissipated to grey and was heading west. It was so far away that he just thought it was interesting. He refocused on the rolling waves of Cook Inlet as it became more and more difficult for him to see the cloud as the plane left it behind.

The tide was out, and thus the muddy shoreline was very visible between the grey-brown water and the green trees and bushes above the high-tide line. The water was relatively calm: no white caps—only small, undulating waves, just two or three feet at the most. Cook Inlet didn’t look dangerous, but it was a well-known fact that if a plane or boat went down in the muddy waters, it would sink quickly from all the glacial silt flowing in and out with some of the highest tides in the world.

Suddenly the engine sputtered and coughed, spitting out a small stream of black smoke from under the cowling. It maintained enough power to turn the prop, but how long could it last, acting like it was just about to quit? The engine gave up with a big burst of black smoke, which caused the propeller to sputter and eventually slow. The prop was no longer whirling invisibly, but was slowly turning around on its axis from the wind of the gliding plane. Their once incredibly noisy power source was silent. Helen could hear all her passengers gasping in but not exhaling.

Shocked, adrenalin rushing, Helen started to panic, but then mumbled, Get a grip. You know what to do. She focused on flipping the appropriate switches and adjusting the fuel intake levels, and then hit the restart button— no change.

She switched the fuel intake from one wing tank to the other, just in case one of her tanks had miraculously gone dry. She hit the restart button a second time. The engine sputtered again, but didn’t start.

Helen, what’s wrong? said Patrick.

Curtly she answered, Patrick, no questions!

With her voice of authority she said, Marie, remember how I taught you to brace yourself for an emergency landing? Teach everyone what to do.

Marie sat there, staring, eyes big with fear and lips quivering. She said nothing.

Helen kept the plane gliding perfectly as she tried again and again to restart. It was a good thing they were high up and had a little room to maneuver. She knew if she kept the nose down and her speed up, the wings would be able to maintain lift, enabling the plane to continue to fly and not just drop her precious cargo out of the sky.

Helen changed channels on the radio to 121.5 megahertz, the emergency channel. Mayday, Mayday, she said with a shaky voice into her radio headset. This is November 2-0-7 Lima Tango, location northeast of Mount Augustine, altitude down to twenty-seven hundred and gliding, six people on board. Experiencing engine failure, attempting restart. Mayday, Mayday, this is November 2-0-7 Lima Tango. We are going down in Cook Inlet in the area northeast of Mount Saint Augustine.

No one answered.

Struggling to maintain a calm radio voice, she repeated, Mayday, Mayday, November 2-0-7 Lima Tango going down in Cook Inlet northeast of Mount Saint Augustine, six people on board.

She knew they would all drown if they landed in the swift currents of the inlet; a cold, wet death would be their future, even if they survived the impact with the waves. The densely muddy water would quickly fill the plane and sink it before they could get out. Her passengers, with all their disabilities, wouldn’t even know how to open the doors, and she didn’t have enough time to teach them what to do. The chilly waters of Cook Inlet offered only a quick death for all.

Helen realized Marie was in shock. Patrick, help her. She has to train you. You understand?

Marie, what do we do? came the terrified voice from the seat behind Marie. He tried to reach forward to touch Marie’s shoulder, but couldn’t. What do we need to know? Come on, Marie. Tell us!

Marie! yelled Nicholi.

With wide eyes fixed forward, she responded in a quivery voice, Like this! Grab the seat in front of you! Lean forward and hold on tight! She demonstrated the proper position and then sat up again and shouted, Everyone do it! Grab the seat in front and hold on tight!

Her hands were tightly clasped together, with white bloodless knuckles, as she watched the ground get closer and closer. Helen, you ARE going to get this thing going again, aren’t you?

Helen ignored her sister and continued to speak into her headset, hoping Mark or someone would acknowledge her emergency calls.

Patrick attempted to lean forward, but couldn’t get his stiff body to move.

Lillian leaned over and whispered in a clear voice, Relax, Patrick; you relax. She rarely spoke, and few people could ever hear her, but with the closely spaced seating and no sounds from the prop, he heard every syllable. He struggled to relax on the inside by taking a deep breath and slowly exhaling. With all her might she forced his stiff body to bend forward. Patrick eventually was able to unclasp his thumb from between his little finger and ring finger where it normally rested and grab the back of Marie’s seat with the strength of armor. He was set. Lillian easily bent forward, but she was so small that it was actually hard for her to reach the seat in front. With arms extended, she held on tight. She wasn’t a strong girl, but she would hold on as best she could.

As Helen flew the plane, which now was a glider, she could see off in the direction of the Homer Spit and Anchor Point. It should be easy to hear on the radio like she had in Shelikof Strait. Mayday, Mayday, she continued, wondering why no one answered her call for help. On the edge of panic, she struggled to maintain control of both herself and the plane. Were they all going to die? Was this the end for them all? She had to land on the beach. She had to take care of everyone. Her confidence level ebbed and flowed like waves on the shore from minute to minute. Sometimes she was positive she could do it, but then she thought if she couldn’t even make contact with another human voice on the radio, she was nothing but a failure.

Helen focused intently on the nose of the plane, keeping it slightly down to maintain appropriate speed and lift ratio for the glide without losing control of the aircraft. Her gut instinct was to pull the yoke up and wish the plane back up into the sky, but her training told her to aim down and it would stay airborne longer. Using the yoke, she made small adjustments to the ailerons at the tips of the wings and with the rudder foot pedal, which allowed the glider to bank west, away from Homer and emergency help. She maintained the turn at a safe angle until she could see the muddy beaches ahead on the west side of the bay. Then she reversed her ailerons and foot pedals until the wings were level again and the plane was pointed in the desired direction for her estimated best landing. It was a delicate maneuver, and she had practiced it lots with smaller planes like her grandpa’s Super Cub, but not with the faster and heavier Cessna 207 filled with five Special Olympics athletes.

She was amazed at how fast the altimeter was dropping. To get as much glide as possible out of the plane and make a relatively level landing on a smooth beach was the goal. She wanted to avoid the quicksand and rocky beaches of Cook Inlet, plus the trees and large rocks of the shoreline if possible. The thin-walled, relatively fragile plane wouldn’t stand a chance against the indestructible rocks and trees. Their chances were better if she could land on a muddy beach.

Nicholi was rocking and talking to himself as he looked out the window. Like a broken record he mumbled, We’re gonna crash—gonna crash— gonna crash. . . . He was hoping it wasn’t true, but evidence was that they were doomed.

Sam grasped Nicholi’s arm to comfort his best friend. No ay. Ur ot (No way. Are not)! he said with trumped-up confidence. He always gestured and signed a mixture of American Sign Language and Signing Exact English as he verbalized. He knew exactly what he was saying, though few people could derive any meaning from his voice. He was always loving and gentle, even if he was a gold medal