The ghost in the office

The ghost in the office/ By Claire Safran

“Believe them or not, ghost stories carry a thrill, a chill, a fascination that is centuries old. This is the story of a modern-day apparition. It did not haunt the dark corners of an old house; it moved along the corridors of a streamlined office building. It was seen and heard by a group of average people who never thought the supernatural would happen to them. Whether it did actually happen or whether they imagined it, the effect on these men and women was real –terribly real.”

            Nick Ramon looked up from the papers on his desk and listened. There it was again. The sound of footsteps moving slowly past his office. A door opening along the corridor. Then the creak of a chair, as if someone had just sat down.

            Nick was working late again, anxious to finish a report. An hour ago everyone else had left the offices of the Community Development Corporation (CDC), a social-service agency in Brownsville, Texas. Had somebody returned?

            Pushing back his chair, Nick paced down the corridor, looking into each one of the suite’s ten small, windowless offices. They were empty –just as they’d been all those other times that he had heard noises. The front and back doors were locked. When Nick looked out of the window of the reception area, he saw only his car parked in front of the long, low slung building of office suites.

            “You’ve been working, too hard,” Nick told himself. Executive director of the CDC, Nick is a well-educated, level-headed man used to dealing with the hard facts and figures of low-income bousing construction. He knew that buildings creak, even fairly new ones like this, sighning with the wind and groaning as walls expand and contract with changing temparatures. Eventually, he felt sure, he’d find an explanation.

            A few months later, in October 1981, Nick ran a fund-raising festival in a Brownsville park, and afterwards he, his wife Karen, and four others returned to the office to stack the festival equipment and count receipts. It was close to midnight as they sat around the conference table. Suddenly Nick felt a presence, as if somebody was approaching the room. He remembered locking the entry door, but there, framed in the open door way, was a smoky, grey-black apparition. “ It was more than 180 centimetres tall,” he says. “ I could make out the thin oval of its head, the shape of shoulders; then it went straight down. If it had arms or legs, I couldn’t see them.”

            Nick blinked, but the apparition was still there. He glimsed the astonished face of his friend Ruben Quintanilla and asked, “Did you see that?” Ruben nodded. But the figure he later described was undefined, more like a shadow. When they looked back to the doorway, the apparition was gone. The group made a quick search through the offices, but found nothing.

            The next day Nick asked a collegue tp stand in the doorway and take different stances. The fluorescent lighting is the same day or night in those windowless offices, but the men could not recreate the spectre of the night before.

            The following day Nick called a staff meeting. Matter-of-factly he asked, “Have any of you had experiences here that you felt were unusual?”

            Quickly, half a dozen hands were raised. For three hours the staff members talked of sounds, of a strange cold that lingered in a back office, of a dank, musty smell –“Like sulphur,” someone said. “Like a dead person,” said another. Estela Von Hatten, Nick’s secretary, had felt someone standing behind her, only to turn around and find no one there. Yolanda Garcia had been in the women’s toilet when the walls seemed to move –and then a roll of toilet paper flew around the corner and hit her.

            Local lore. Brownsville sits at the border of two cultures, North American and Mexican, and many of its citizens accept the idea of life at the edge of two worlds, this one and the next. Stories are told and retold of restless spirits. When there are strange sounds, people say that a house has “problems.”

            None of the people at CDC had a ghostly experience before the organization had moved to its new quarters in June 1978. Since then half of them had been seeing and hearing strange things that the other half did not. Were they more “receptive?” they had felt embarrassed about telling others. Quietly, two or three secretaries had confided in one another, seeking reassurance that it was only a mischievous little spirit. Now they weren’t so sure. Nick had described the apparition as “greyblack,” and in ghost lore, that meant an evil spirit.

            Once it was admitted to and talked about, the strange activity seemed to increase. One day Yolanda felt the seat of her chair begin to shake. “Estela, come here!” she called in panic, and when Estela tried the chair, she felt the vibration too. Then the empty chair began to move, and the women ran from the room.

            Because the toilet was next to the “strangely cold” back office, the women began going to it in pairs, never alone. Before, staff members willingly worked overtime. Now nobody wanted to be alone in the office.

            As 1981 ended, Father Tim Ellerbrock was asked to come and bless the building. “ Let us pray for any lost souls wandering the world,” he told the staff. Then the priest went from room to room, blessing each office and sprinkling it with holy water. At the women’s toilet, he drew back. Was it propriety, or had he, too, felt something? Father Tim would say later of his visit, “I could sense a sad presence, something not at peace.”

            For some weeks after Father Tim came, there was calm. But early in 1982, at a barbecue in the rear car park after office hours, Ruben’s wife, Dalia, happened to glance over towards the building. “ Look!” she whispered to Ruben. She described a mist, “something trying to take shape,” at the back door. Ruben saw nothing, but he heard noises, “like someone picking up chairs and dropping them.” When they looked again, an office chair that had not been there before was framed in the doorway. “ He’s sitting there watching us!” Dalia whispered in horror. Then a bright light suddenly flashed in the corridor. The party ended.

            Unfinished business. “ The power of suggestion can be awesome,” says Nick Ramon. What he knew was logical struggled in his mind with what he was certain he had seen. He continued to look for explanations. Pulling away a ceiling panel, a staff member probed under the building’s roof. An electronics expert went over every bit of the building with a detector. They found nothing. Nick questioned Andy Cortez, the owner of the building. Cortez had long wondered why earlier tenants had moved out of that suite so quickly.

            If there was indeed a ghost in the office, whose spirit was it? The builing stands on the edge of the Media Luna, or Half Moon, section of town, site of a bloody battle in the 1846 – 48 Mexican—American war. A few years before, when a river-bed was being widened, skeletons of soldiers had been unearthed. Was one of them haunting the office? Some people believe ghosts are spirits of those who died suddenly and still have unfinished business in this world. Nick wondered about the building’s first owner, who was killed in a car crash, and the tenant who had shot himself to death in the car park.

            From the beginning Nick had worried about what would happen if word of the ghost spread. What would people in his profession think? Yet as morale fell and work suffered, he could no longer keep the story from his board of directors. When he finally told them, he could feel their scepticism. But the board gave him a vote of confidence. “We know you’ll find a way to handle this,” they said.

            But what could Nick do? An uncle in San Antonio told him about a local medium and psychic healer. Feeling sheepish, Nick went to see her. The woman placed her hands on his head. “Whatever is there has been there for a long time,” she told him. She advised him to place crucifixes in the offices. “And tell the staff to pray,” she said.

            New beginning. Nick had drifted away from his faith, but now, each morning before work, he recited the 23^rd psalm, “The Lord is my shepherd…” Slowly he built a new inner strength. He started to work late again. When he heard footsteps, he would look around, but he wouldn’t allow them to chase him from the office as before.

            “It knew that it could no longer terrify me,” Nick said. Instead, it seemed to turn against the other staff members who were still frightened. Now the strange events usually took place when Nick was away. A woman saw a shadow move past her, go through a wall, and then come out again. Organ music was heard. Someone else, shaken and scared, told of a cold hand that moved down her back.

            By the spring of 1982 nerves were rattled; friends snapped at one another. As head of the office, Nick had to act. In May he made a decision: they would move to new offices. Publicly, he talked about the need for more space. Privately, he hoped the move “would give people something positive to think about.”

            But as the staff busied themselves with the move, word of the ghost spread, finally reaching a local newspaper reporter. The story, published on a steamy day in June, brought crowds to stare at the haunted offices, and strangers came forward to say that they too had seen the phantom.

            Some wanted to contact the ghost, find out what it sought and put it to rest. Nick gave his permission for a retired US Army colonel to spend a few nights at the office. The colonel felt the ghost’s presence, but when he was unable to get it to speak, he grew frustrated. “If you don’t want my help,” he finally shouted, “then go to hell!” Immediately, he felt a cold terror and, even after he fled the office, the fear kept its grip. A week later he suffered a heart attack.

            Then a Brownsville preacher arrived at the offices, said a prayer and stamped his feet forcefully on the floor. He explained that he was trying to crush the head of a serpent, a form that Satan is said to take sometimes. Returning the next day, the preacher took off his shoe to display two punctured marks on his heel. “A snakebite,” he said.

            During the staff’s last week in those troubled offices, Nick called his people together in the conference room. They held hands around the table and prayed. “We are here at CDC to help the less fortunate,” Nick told them. “And we have to work as a team. Let us think good, positive thoughts. We are off to a new beginning.”

            On moving day, a few minutes after five o’clock, Nick and a co-worker were taping the last cartons when they heard a crash in the back office. They looked at each other. Another crash. Without a word, they left, closing the door and turning the lock on a haunted time.

            The ghost has not appeared to the new tenants of those offices. Nor has it followed Nick and his staff to their new offices, although it has left its mark on all of them. Nick has rediscovered his faith. His people now work together with a special intimacy; they have faced the unknown together. They have quarrelled and learnt how to forgive. They will always remember the moment of communion, when they held hands and prayed together.

            Was there truly a ghost who worked overtime? Buildings do creak and groan. Sounds do carry in the night. And shadows can become substance. Yet more than a dozen people believe they heard ghostly sounds and saw eerie sights. Whether it was a ghost or not, a spirit touched and changed their lives.

”We learn to walk by stumbling”

                                                                                                            -Bulgarian proverb

“I can’t let them die!”

“I can’t let them die!” – By William Barker

“Fifty people watched in horror as a family of five fought for their lives in the raging river.”

            Wes Maree jammed on the brakes of his silvery-grey Mercedes. Ahead a crowd of people and a police van blocked the narrow Norvalspont Bridge.

            “Looks like an accident,” he told his wife, June. “Perhaps we can help.”

            He stopped the car at the edge of the road and with June and their children, Nina, 6, and Don, 5, ran on to the bridge. About 50 people were leaning over the railing, staring at the mighty Orange River seething below. Almost directly under the bridge, where rocks and rapids churned the brown flood to a frenzy, a man and woman were waist-deep in the water, holding two children above the waves. Further downstream, the water breaking repeatedly over her head, a woman clung to a rock of the river.

            The group had been in the river. For over an  hour, trapped on a raised area of the riverbed they’d been exploring by the sudden rush of water that swept downstream when the automatic sluice gates at the Hendrick Verwoerd Dam were unexpectedly opened.

            We’re going to stand here and watch that family drown! Thought Wes I can’t let them die!  June read the thought in his eyes. “No, Wes,” she pleaded. “You have children too.”

            “I’m going in,” he said, and raced down the steep bank, scrambling through a barbed wire fence. God, you must help me, he prayed –and plunged into the flood.

            Battling the waves. The ice cold water took his breath away. When he started to swim, he realized his running shoes were slowing him down. He tore them off and slung them on to a strand of barbed wire just above the waterline. As he swam away from the bank, the fierce current took hold. Afraid it would sweep him downstream past the trapped group, he swam at a sharp angle upstream. It would mean swimming much further than he had planned, but it was the only way to reach the stranded family.

            Wes had turned 40 five months before, but he still remembered the techniques of breath control he had used playing water-polo as a teenager. Each time his head broke clear of the water he took repeated lungfuls of air, clamping his mouth shut before the waves broke over him again.

            After five minutes he was still only a third of the way across the river. Discouraged, he felt the beginnings of doubt. Even if I do manage to reach them, how will I get them all back?

            Suddenly, Wes was swept against the sharp edge of a huge submerged concrete block left behind after the construction of the bridge. Fumbling about for something to hold on to, he found a heavy steel anchor ring, he gripped it tightly, water cascading over his back, drew himself up and stood, knee-deep in the river.

            Wes could see the group more clearly now. The man was about 20 years old, slightly built, grim faced as he struggled to keep upright. His arms were locked with those of a small, dark-haired woman. Between them, her arms around the man’s neck, was a little brown-haired girl. About the same age as Nina, thought  Wes. On the woman’s hip was a toddler, her blond curls plastered down by the water.

            June was watching from the bridge. I must help him, she thought, or I’ll never see him again.

“ Hang on there.” She hunted around for a rope, a bucket, anything she could throw to Wes to help keep him afloat. Then she saw a yellow yachtsman’s life-jacket, bobbing on the end of a nylon fishing line, that bystanders had earlier tried to throw to the stranded group. if I can swing it far enough upstream, thought June, it might reach him. She grabbed the line and hauled it in.

            Below, Wes was beginning to get his breath back. He looked up and saw June 15 metres above him swinging the life-jacket towards him. Good girl, he thought. With that life-jacket I can make it.

            Wes snatched at empty air as twice the jacket swung by, tantalizing close. The third time, June swung it out as far as she dared. He grabbed it.

            After he slipped the jacket on, June used the line to lower a rope that a newly arrived bystander had brought. Wes knotted one end to the anchor ring in the block, the other to the life-jacket. Now he could float free, paying himself out on the rope. He plunged back into the water.

            The current soon carried him within a few metres of the group: Martin Koekemoer, 24, his sisters Erika, 9, Valarie, 22, and her daughter Jenecke, 3. “I’ll take the baby first,” Wes called. But as he reached for the child, she screamed in terror and clung to the woman’s neck almost throttling her. Wes turned instead to the older girl. “Wrap your arms around my neck,” he said. Erika nodded, her face blue with cold. Hand over hand, Wes pulled the two of them through the water, straining his throat muscles against the pressure of her arms. At times he was able to stand, but the riverbed was gouged into channels and repeatedly they plunged below the surface.

            Breathing when he could, Wes kept hauling on the rope. Through the little girl’s arms he felt the shivers that were convulsing her body. “Just hold on and we’ll be all right,” he told her. And to himself, Hang on there. It can’t be much further now.

            Reaching for another arm’s length of rope, his hand hit the concrete. He pushed Erika up on the block. “Hold on. I’m going back for the others.” Turning again into the flood, he began to wonder if he had the strength.

            But as Wes again neared the rest of the group on the rock, he could see the water level dropped to Martin’s knees. The police had finally got word to the controllers of Escom, near Johannesburg, to shut off the sluices by remote control. “I think the three of us can make it now,” Martin called out. “ Please help Beatrice.”

            “We made it.” Wes started downstream, trying to plot a route through the brown maelstrom between him and Beatrice Koekemoer, Martin’s 19-year-old wife, 30 metres away. She had stopped screaming, and her head lolled forward. She’s going,  thought Wes. There’s no time.  Then, buffered by rocks, he let the waves carry him through the deeper water towards her.

            Beatrice was still conscious, her hands locked around the rock by fear and cold. Wes pried her free, put her arms around his waist, and began to haul her upstream. “ Not far now,” he kept saying. “Just a few more minutes.”

            The water level continued to drop and upriver Martin and Valarie, carrying Jenecke between them, had begun to wade cautiously through the swirls and eddies towards the concrete block where Erika now stood.

            Wes had been in the water for over half an hour, and the constant battle to breathe was taking its toll. His legs trembled with the cold, and each haul on the nylon rope brought a spasm of pain from his bruised palms. Beatrice’s arms slipped repeatedly as he lost his footing, swam a few strokes with one arm, then struggled to his feet again. Please God, not much longer.

            As he broke clear of a wave, Wes saw that Martin and Valerie, with their precious burden, had reached the block and wrapped in blankets June had lowered, were calling encouragement. He heaved forward, and with half a dozen fierce pulls on the rope, he, too, reached the block. He pushed Beatrice to safety and then hauled himself up. June was waving to him from the bridge. He raised his arm and grinned. We made it.

            The water fell steadily and within half an hour the drenched survivors were able to walk over the rocks to the riverbank. Where Wes had left his shoes on the strand of barbed wire at water level. He now found them two metres off the ground, on top of a barbed-wire fence.

           

Editor’s note:In May 1984, the South African National Water Safety Council gave Wes Maree their Recognition Award for Bravery, and two months later, the Jaycees awarded him a certificate for distinguished service.

Quote of the day

“When a man assumes a public trust he should consider himself as public property.”

                                                                                                                                    --Thomas Jefferson

“We want to live!” – Joseph Blank

            ’It all began as a lark – a joyful adventure in wild Alaska. But as the young couple faced starvation in the arctic winter, it turned into a nightmare in survival.”

            On the ninth day of their terrifying trek through the unhabited wilderness of Alaska’s Kenai Peninsula, Denise Harris silently cried out, Why me? Why Roger? Why are we being put through this awful misery? They were without food, their clothing was always wet, and frost-bite was blackening their toes.

            It had begun as an adventure. More than an adventure –a dream of gold and freedom, and the joys and peace of living in the wild. Denise, 20, and Roger Lewis, 31, had headed for Alaska in the spring of 1979 in search of oppurtunity, challenge and wide-open, beautiful country. They settled in a little house in Seward, on the northen rim of the Gulf of Alaska. Their landlord had a lease on the abandoned Sunny Fox gold mine, about 80 air kilometres from Seward. With gold’s price soaring, the mine could be holding considerable wealth. The landlord wondered if Roger and Denise would like to go out there, begin reopening the road to the mine and obtain ore samples. If the operation succeeded, they would each get five percent of the net profits. They grabbed the offer.

Plastic Cocoon.

On October 31,1979, they left Seward in a landing craft loaded with a house trailer, earth-moving machinery, tools and supplies. The party included Nuka, a stray mongrel that had adopted Denise and Roger, and a powder man to do the rock blasting. The landlord assured them he’d fly out in a few weeks to replenish their supplies and pick up ore samples.

            Denise and Roger found an abandoned shoreline cabin for themselves and left the trailer 6.5 kilometres away, to the powder man. Roger commuted to the mine site by kayak. Denise cooked, laundered, baked bread and handcrafted Christmas gifts.

            A month passed. Winter started to clamp down. The plane with the promised supplies didn’t arrive. The couple’s only contact with the powder man was by kayak; yet now the protected lagoon over which Roger had paddled froze solid. They saw no trails cutting through the mountain terrain. Except for occasional beaches, the coastline was sheer –mountain dropping almost vertically into the water.

            Around december 20, after seven weeks, they were near the end of their food. How could they survived the long winter without help?

            To the south was the open gulf, and Roger reckoned he could paddle the kayak towards the Portlock timber camp, 95 kilometres away, in the hope of encountering some fishing boats. He wanted to go by himself, but Denise was afraid to be left alone. She cried until Roger relented.

            They left the powder man a note and loaded the kayak with supplies and Nuka. The moment they began riding the undulating swells, Denise felt raw terror. The kayak, only 75 millimetres above water, seemed tiny and vulnerable. Before darkness fell, they pulled on to a beach, set up their two-person tent and heated soup on a small, self-starting stove.

            At the end of the fifth day, after they had travelled about 50 kilometres, a storm moved in with two-and-a-half metre waves. They beached the kayak at Gore Point, a treeless spur of land that jutted into the gulf, and set up their tent against a cliff about 30 metres from the water. The wind and rain slashed at their nylon shelter. Inside, they waited for the storm to abate, at first unaware that the rising waves were chewing up the beach and creeping ever closer.

            By 2.30 the next afternoon, the waves were only two metres away from them. They crawled out of their tent and moved it to a ledge about a metre above the beach. But the waves kept creeping up the cliff, so they moved still higher, to a small, cave-like formation of boulders, leaving their supplies on the lower shelf. Rain doused them from an opening at the top of the formation, and Roger decided, “I’m going down for some plastic to seal off that hole.”

            ‘No, don’t go,” Denise pleaded.

            Ignoring her, he descended and grabbed the sheet of plastic. Then a great wave crashed into their refuge; suddenly, he was swimming and gasping for air. Then the wave receded. “We’ve got to get higher,” Roger shouted. Still holding the plastic, he pushed Denise through the opening in the boulders, then followed with Nuka. He spread the wet blanket over them and encased them, head to toes, in plastic.

A step for a cake  

            By daylight the storm had diminished; but half the kayak and most of their equipment had been lost in the waves. Denise and Roger tied a rope between the two upright paddles and hung out their wet clothing. They spent most of the day huddled together in the tent.

            On the following day, a wolf appeared and began tugging at a T-shirt on the line. Angrily, Roger asked Denise to pass him the rifle. He put a shot into the animal’s back. Still alive, eyes glaring, the wolf rolled down the slope to the water’s edge. Roger vainly waited half an hour for it to die, then fired another shot. It missed. Moving closer, he pelted the dying wolf with rocks until the animal turned its head; then he charged and hit it with a small axe. He held the head underwater until the wolf was dead.

            Roger skinned it and cut slices of meat to warm on the stove. A haunch went to Nuka. After they ate some, Denise packed the remainder of the nearly raw meat in a plastic container.

            The next morning, Roger brooded over their plight. They had seen no vessel, heard no aircraft. The kayak was damaged beyond repair. Their only way out was to climb steep Gore Peak and trek northwards through the snow.

            They sorted through their possessions, filled two duffel bags with necessities and began their climb. About 30 metres above the beach, Denise slipped and lost her grip on her pack. It rolled into the sea. Gone were the tent, stove and remaining food. Now they had only a single wollen blanket, a foam pad, the rifle with its three bullets, a small saw, a small compass, and a few odds and ends.

            That afternoon they reached the crest of Gore Peak and began working their way around it. As Roger grasped a projecting rock, it suddenly loosened, and he tumbled downwards. I am going to die, he thought. His fall was broken briefly by a narrow ledge. Then he slid down an ice field towards a 150-metre precipice. The thought of Denise, alone, made him spin around, and he frantically dug in his heels. He stopped less than 10 metres from death’s edge. Hampered by a painfully bruised hip, he made his way back to Denise. She could say nothing. Her eyes were wide with fear.

            At dusk they scooped away some snow at the base of a spruce tree. Roger cut boughs with the saw.denise spread the pad over them. They lay down, pulled up the blanket and spread several layers of boughs over it.

            Sleep was never sleep. They were wet and cold. They prayed and wept. The pain from the frost bite blackening their toes was unrelenting. Starting another day was torment. Their stiff clothing crackled with each movement as they reached for tree limbs to pull themselves erect. Then the worst: pushing their swollen feet into waterproof boots that now were severa sizes too small. They packed the duffel bag. Roger hoisted it to his shoulder and mumbled, “Let’s go.”

            Roger sometimes thought about the rewards for survival. I’m going back to that café in Seward where Harold makes that wonderful German chocolate cake. This step is for Harold. This step for that cake.

Talk to God

            On the tenth day, their way north along the coast was blocked by a frozen waterfall about 45 metres high. It had to be climbed. Roger chipped out hand-and toe-holds with his hunting knife, then, with Denise following he slowly worked his way up the slippery slope. The ice eventually gave way to an impasse of snow-covered rocks. To his right, about six metres away, Roger saw two bushes that would get them within reach of safe walking terrain.

            He groped towards the bushes. Just as he clutched a branch, he heard a sharp cry; Denise was rolling down the ice. She hit bottom and lay there for a few minutes in a daze. She started up the slope again, but made it only half-way before slipping back to the bottom.

            She lay there, crying. “Roger, come down here and help me. I’m weak.”

            He didn’t see how he could help her, especially with the burden of the duffel bag. But if he left the bag attached to the bush and they couldn’t reclimb the falls, they were surely lost. “I’m not coming down. You have to get back on your own.”

            “I can’t, she screamed. “Throw down the blanket! I’m staying here.”

            “You do that and you’ll die. I’m not throwing down the blanket and I’m not coming down. We’ll die separately.” His heart ached for her. “Try again. Try!”

            For half an hour they continued the exchange of pleadings and refusals. But with Roger exhorting, Denise finally began to climb again, clawing into the ice holes with fingers that soon became bloody. And then she was reaching for Roger’s hand, looking up into his face. He was grinning, but it was the grey, anguished grin of a marathon runner tottering across the finish line.

            As the days passed, the pair turned more and more into themselves. Death was on their minds. Plodding on, Roger talked to God. Why have you allowed this to happen to us? Some day someone will find what is left of our bodies and he will never know who we were or what we went through. Why?

            Once, Roger asked Denise, “What would you do if you found me dead one morning?”

            “I’d let myself die alongside you.” She scrutinized Roger’s face. His cheeks were sunken, his skin devoid of the colour of life.

Worst moment

              About the 15^th day, Denise began to change; she determined to fight the idea of death rather than accept it. In particular, she focused on her mother, on the times she had become angry and shouted at her. I have to tell her how much I really love her.

            To Roger, however, the suffering had become senseless, pointless. “Perhaps we shouldn’t try any more,” he told Denise.

            “I’ll keep on, even if I have to crawl on my knees. So what, no lower legs. Can still have babies. Go to the cinema. Lots of things. I’ll crawl if I have to.”

            “All right. I’ll crawl with you.” He realized that now she was the stronger of the two, and he admired her.

            One morning, during a break in their robot-like plodding through the snow, Denise told Roger, “If we’re going to go on, we need food. Tomorrow  we should kill Nuka and eat her.” Tears dripped from her eyes. Roger demurred. “No, no. Let’s wait and see. There’s always a chance I’ll spot a moose of a goat..”

            On the following day, Roger saw some ducks on a near-by pool. As he raised his rifle, Nuka also saw the birds and, barking, dived into the water. The ducks flew away. Roger realized that if they encountered a moose or a goat Nuka would innocently repeat her action. The dog was a liability. He told Denise, “ Tomorrow we’ll have to do it.”

            The next morning, January 9, was the nineteenth day since they had left the cabin. The time had come. Roger pulled Nuka towards him and petted he affectionately. Then, hating what he had to do, he plunged his knife into the dog’s heart. Nuka gave Denise a startled look, and died.

            Frantically, they skinned the animal, Denise ate a part of the warm liver. Roger swallowed a piece of the heart, but gagged on the second sliver. Weeping, Denise cut the remaining meat from the bones. Then they took the carcass to the edge of the gulf, said a prayer and threw it into the water. It was the worst moment of their ordeal.

            About two o’clock that afternoon they reached the edge of a cliff that dropped into a large inlet. Suddenly, a loud whirring sound broke the long silence, and an orange-and-white Coast Guard helicopter appeared above them. The couple waved and screamed, but the helicopter flew on until it disappeared/

            Dumb with dismay, Denise and Roger stood staring at the empty sky. Finally, Roger said, “They could be looking for us.” Working with a kind of panic that produced new strength, he cut down spruce boughs and laid them out in a snow-covered meadow to form a huge green SOS.

            Four days earlier, the landlord back in Seward, who claimed his own pilot had been delayed by bad weather, telephoned bush pilot Bill DeCreeft and hired him to check on the trio. A heavy snow prevented DeCreeft from taking off in his twin-engine amphibian. On the following day, he located the powder man, who told him, “I made it across the ice to their cabin nearly a week ago. They took off in their kayak a while back –perhaps three weeks. Must be dead by now.” DeCreeft flew along the coast for a time, but saw no sign of life.

            The powder man had reported the missing couple to the Coast Guard. The next day they informed DeCreeft that half a kayak and some strewn clothing had been sighted at Gore Point and that they would proceed to search the coastline.

            DeCreeft decided to join the search. He was flying slowly, with no pre-arranged flight plan, near Gore Point, scanning for boot tracks, at the time the helicopter missed the couple. Just as Roger had completed his work and was standing in the middle of the O,DeCreeft spotted the SOS. He made a slow sweep, wagging his wings. Roger shouted, fired his remaining three bullets, and fell backwards into the snow in excitement.

            DeCreeft contacted the Coast Guard. About an hour later the helicopter was hovering above the meadow. A door opened, a basket was lowered, and the couple was hoisted to safety. In the cabin Denise and Roger wept and hugged the crewmen, and tried to say “Thanks.”

            That night the weather began closing down. Blinding snowstorms and hysterical winds made low flying nearly impossible for most of the next two weeks.

            Denise and Roger would spend six weeks in the hospital for treatment of frost-bite, malnutrition and exposure. Denise would have to have parts of six toes amputated, Roger parts of four toes and outer sections of both feet. The day after they were hospitalized, a visitor asked them, “What do you want to do now?”

            They looked at each other and smiled. “We want to live!” they chorused. “Just live!”

“Decision is a sharp knife that cuts clean and straight. Indecision is a dull one that hacks and tears and leaves ragged edges behind.” –J.McK