19 - together and apart

“Hey-lo, Mindanao, this is Jeanie Abordo reporting live from General Santos City, about two kilometers from Sarangani Bay. Our MindaNews Weather team in Davao has confirmed a 6.4 magnitude earthquake originating on the Celebes Sea floor late yesterday morning. The ensuing tidal wave has flooded Mindanao’s southwestern coast and most of Sarangani Province. Water has also washed out the coastal road. However, water levels are expected to recede throughout the day even though aftershocks are still expected in the coming weeks. Officials from the International Red Cross and local military operations recommend that all citizens seek higher ground and stay away from any exposed power lines. With more on the latest news, Mya Amores is at the Red Cross Emergency Center in South Cotabato.”

“Thanks, Jeanie. Here in South Cotabato, government agencies are mobilizing for a massive medical operation. In the wake of the flooding throughout the Sarangani province, local groups have teamed up with military search and rescue operations to provide land-based aid, such as this Emergency Rescue Center.

Let me emphasize, the Cotabato Center is not a Hospital, but a volunteer-staffed First Aid Center providing food and shelter for those in need. Additionally, Red Cross officials urge private citizens to stay put and let trained personnel handle any and all rescue operations…”

Of course, natural disaster was nothing new to the Philippines; it was the constant variable. In 1911, Taal Volcano erupted, killing 1300 through asphyxiation and mudslides.  In 1976, a Celebes Sea tsunami inundated Moro Island with water and killed 8000. In 1990, a 7.8 magnitude earthquake killed 1600. In 1991, two tragedies rocked the Philippines: Mount Pinatubo erupted in June, burying the northern Philippines under tons of volcanic ash and killing 1000. In November of that same year, a flashflood hit Leyte and killed another 5000. In 2006, the side of a mountain collapsed and destroyed the village of Guinsagon. 1100 villagers were buried alive. In 2011, tropical storm Sendong hit northern Mindanao and killed 1000.

Still, the Pinoy spirit marched on as neighbors offered helping hands to pull friends and family from the rubble.

Today would be no different as the news droned on and people grew ever more restless. Many, such as Mr. Soliman and Mr. Sanchez, decided the time to take action was now.

“You know what?” said Mr. Sanchez, “I’ve been worrying about my neighbors in Baluntay all night.”

 “Me, too,” said Mr. Soliman, “We should stop by the Academy and make sure everyone’s okay.”

“I think so, too,” said Mrs. Soliman.

“We’ll paddle out so we don’t get weeds tangled in the rotor.”

He moved to the front of the boat next to Mr. Sanchez and took the left side while Mr. Sanchez took the right. Paddling was light and easy as the natural slope of the hill pushed the boat towards the sea. It wasn’t long until they reached the Academy. Mr. Soliman dropped anchor.

“Hello there!” Mr. G’s voice echoed in the stillness.

“Good to see you!” shouted Mr. Soliman.

“Good to be seen!” said Mr. G.

All seven survivors anxiously rose to their feet.

“Oh,” said Mr. Soliman, “I don’t know that we have enough room for all of you.”

“Take the children first,” said Mr. G.

Mr. Soliman looked around for a moment. There were four children oon the roof and the small rowboat barely fit the three adult passengers it already had.

“Are you safe and secure here?”

“I guess.”

“I don’t want to split you guys up. I’ll go and find some help.”

“I can stay here,” offered Mr. Sanchez.

“No, I can’t split us up either.”

“Then what are we doing here?”

“We’ll look for more help. This boat is just too small to carry that many passengers.”

Joy’s lips curled in disappointment. As she leaned back on her heels, her back collapsed softly against Rosie’s cold legs. Rosie draped her hands across Joy’s neck. Everyone’s shoulders were slumped. To Mr. Soliman, the whole group looked downright pitiful.

“It’ll be best this way,” he said, “I promise, I’ll get you some help right away.”

The two men rowed the boat toward the Bay as Mrs. Soliman turned to look back at the people on the roof. Joy drew an arm across her face and wiped the snot from her nose.

“It’s just killing me,” said Mrs. Soliman.

“I know,” said her husband, “but watching them just makes it worse. Turn back around and face the front.”

Mrs. Soliman did as her husband told her and refused to look back again. All seven survivors huddled together on one corner of the roof and watched as the boat disappeared through the trees. When there was nothing left to see, they all sat down and waited. Meanwhile, the little rowboat neared the bay.

“There’s Baluntay,” said Mr. Sanchez, “I can tell from the clump of trees standing beside the motorcycle dirt pad.”

“Where are the houses?” asked Mrs. Soliman.

“They’re all gone.”

The water moved swiftly as the current dumped the tiny motorboat into the bay. Logs clogged the harbor.

“We’ll never get through it all,” said Mrs. Soliman.

“I see a clearing up ahead. If we can just get to that point, we can use the engine.”

While Mr. Soliman and Sanchez were pushing their way out to sea, the USS Carl Vinson was putting the finishing touches on night operations and getting ready for a new day. All four Black Hawks returned to the carrier overnight. In the early morning light, the Black Hawk crew gathered in the briefing room. Lieutenant Commander Blackburn stood in front of a large wall map of Mindanao’s southwestern coast.

“We’re concentrating all our efforts on the western coast today,” said Blackburn as he circled the coastal region some distance from the bay.”

Specialist Gomez raised his hand.

“Yes, Gomez?”

“Sir, begging your pardon, but our Black Hawk unit is stationed in General Santos City, yet none of us are covering that area.”

“That’s an affirmative, Specialist Gomez. I know most of you have loved ones living around Sarangani Bay, but there are several areas of critical concern right now. Until we take care of those areas, we cannot even begin to concentrate on the Bay itself.”

Gensan, Alabel, and Baluntay were all nestled in the relative safety of the cove and at a higher elevation than the forward coast. The highly developed resort areas of Maasim in the west and Glan in the east (which both sat at the leading edge of the Sarangani Bay inlet) had been hit hardest of all.  In certain circles, there were immediate concerns over the international press and their detailed coverage of damage to the tourist hotspots. To the locals, it always seemed that way. After all, to the Filipino higher-ups, there was nothing worse than an ungracious host.

“The Army convoy has been assigned to the quadrants including Kiamba and Maasim in the western portion of Sarangani, just like yesterday. We’ll work our way down the coast, concentrating on Gumasa and Glan. Crews will continue to plot areas for PCG rescue teams until you receive further instructions.”

“When do we expect to search the bay?”

The Lieutenant Commander paused for a moment. The soldiers waited in silence.

“We expect to get to the eastern portion of Sarangani either late tonight or early tomorrow…”

A low but quiet murmur filtered through the crowd as the crewmembers talked among themselves. Even the usually reserved Ralj Licayan cleared his throat as a voiced objected to the day’s flight plan.

“Alright, men,” said Gonzo, “we’ve got our orders. Let’s head ‘em up and move ‘em out.”

The men geared up and did double time to their Black Hawks. After pre-flight inspections, the  Black Hawk convoy headed east into the morning sun.

“You were awfully quiet back there,” Ralj said to Gonzo.

“The commander knows what he’s doing. Our families aren’t the only ones who need our help out there.”

The Black Hawks buzzed over a mass of fishing boats as they skimmed the coast. They peeled off one-by-one and began plotting their quadrants again.

Receding waters revealed rooftops and offered new places to stay as survivors used rooftops to migrate towards dry land. Private Kesuma, who was familiar with Maasim, noticed the changing landscape of survivors and hangers on.

“Gunny,” he announced over the headset, “these are new survivors down there.”

“What do you mean, Private?”

“Those people weren’t down there yesterday.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, Gunny, I’m absolutely sure.”

“Master Sergeant Licayan, can you do another fly-by for me?”

“Sure thing, Gonzo.”

Master Sergeant Gonzalez surveyed the coast as the Black Hawk circled back on its own path. He finally noticed the subtle changes to the landscape. The water had stopped top of the beach road, where it met the tree line. People were gathered on the balconies of the hotel’s second or third floor. Groups of small fishing vessels were picking up passengers and ferrying them out to the passenger barges waiting a few hundred meters offshore.

“USS Carl Vinson, this is Black Hawk Convoy Leader. We’ve got a couple of new situations down along the coast.”

“Can you clarify, Convoy Lead?”

“Aye, aye. The water receded overnight and everything but the beach seems to have take care of itself.”

“Taken care of itself how?”

“The locals are performing their own rescue operations. Fishing boats and ferries are extracting anyone and everyone in harm’s way.”

“Alright, Gunny. Let me consult with the other mission commanders and I’ll get back to you.”

“What should we do until then?”

“Stay on course with the current mission.”

“And what, exactly, is the current mission, Commander?”

“Evacuation triage.”

Ralj shot a dirty glance towards Master Sergeant Gonzalez as he switched his headset to internal communication only.

“Gonzo, we’re wasting our time out here.”

“We’ve got our orders, Licayan.”

“We’re the biggest airship out here and we’re flying in circles, plotting useless coordinates. By the time PCG or the US Navy reacts, everything will have already changed.”

Ralj pulled gently on the control stick and the helicopter reeled down and to the right.

“USS Carl Vinson, this is Black Hawk One. We’re headed inland over a lot of tree cover, so we’re dipping down for a better look. We’ll transmit an update you as soon as we return to our regular altitude.”

“Copy, Black Hawk One. We’ll wait to hear from you. Over and out.”

Ralj continued until he was about forty meters above the water. Then, he zipped directly east, towards the inlet. Gonzo just nodded and remained silent as he eased back into his seat as the Black Hawk buzzed across the flooded landscape, cutting inland towards Gensan and the eastern portion of Sarangani.

From a distance, all looked relatively calm and quiet, but as the crew peered out their windows, they saw the carnage. Rooftops and treetops were just about the only ones to poke their heads out of the water. Even a full day after the tsunami hit the coast, the main highway connecting General Santos City to downtown South Cotabato was clogged with traffic. About half of the vehicles were abandoned, but the other half was still filled with passengers, using the cars as makeshift shelters. The traffic moved nowhere. Then again, there was nowhere to go. The Black Hawk must have passed over a couple hundred hangers-on. Every person below raised their hands to shield their eyes from the brilliant light of the sun, just to see the silhouette of an assault helicopter passing by overhead. They’d seen the same thing the day before, too. Not a one of them lost faith, though. They knew the routine.

Still, all four members of the Black Hawk crew were helpless. They were not the rescuers. They were the searchers. As they watched people peering up towards the sky, there was nothing they could do. Worse yet, there was no telling how many lives were already lost.

When they reached the bay, it was filled with that same log jam Mr. Soliman’s tiny fishing boat faced. Ralj eased back on the control stick once again and headed north past Baluntay.

“Jesus,” exclaimed Private Kesuma, “it’s worse than I imagined.”

“Yeah, we’ll head towards Our Lady Lupita and see if it gets any better.”

A single break in the trees pointed the short distance up Academy Road. A small tarpaper island stood alone near the newly carved shoreline. There were the survivors, huddled together with some of their arms wagging in the air. Ralj leaned his left arm out the pilot side window and gave a thumbs up. Brian Rudie flipped a thumbs up back to Ralj.  

“Let’s send a basket,” said Licayan, “We can drop the whole group in a safe zone.”

“We’re not picking up these people,” Gonzo replied, “you know the commander will have all our heads. How about we drop a rescue raft instead?”

Licayan nodded.

“Private Kesuma,” ordered Gonzo, “I need you to attach a rescue raft to the life basket with some rope. Specialist Gomez, you’ll drop in and help deploy and load the raft.”

Private Kesuma clipped the rescue raft bundle to a 10-meter length of Marine rope and secured the opposite end to the life basket. He tossed the bundle into the basket as Gomez situated himself into place. Gomez and Kesuma exchanged thumbs up and the winch slowly unreeled as the basket descended.

“Alright, basket’s away. Easy, right…hold…hold…easy right…”

Licayan made the minute adjustments to the control stick as Kesuma gave directions. The survivors huddled together as rotor wind buffeted the water around them, stirring the trees in an outward circle.

“Hold for touchdown,” said Kesuma as the life basket landed in the shallow water at the center of the building. He motioned Brian Rudie back to the group as he stepped clear of the life basket and unloaded the raft. He unsecured the Marine rope and held it in his hand as he pulled the trigger. The raft unfolded and floated beside him. Then, Specialist Gomez grabbed an armload of floatation jackets and handed them out to everyone. Brian helped inflate every jacket as he fit them into place around the children’s necks. Then, Specialist Gomez helped the seven survivors into the raft and set it loose. With a wave, the large, orange raft was off. Then, he coiled the Marine rope and clipped himself into the basket again. With a wave, Private Kesuma reversed the winch and reeled Gomez back to the Black Hawk. All seven survivors waved to the helicopter as it began its ascent. Soon, it had cleared the trees and was headed west again, leaving the survivors to their own.

“What do we use as oars?” asked Rosie.

“The good Lord gave us all two hands for a reason, so start paddling.”

Mr. G. leaned his chest upon the inflated side rails of the large, circular raft and paddled with all his might. The children joined in one-by-one.

“Be careful, everyone! We don’t want anybody falling into the water.”

“Oh, we’re okay, Miss Rosie!” said Juvie as her body balanced precariously on the raft wall.

Rosie couldn’t do much but worry as all four children leaned over the sides of the boat and paddled their hands through the rolling water. They followed that same wide path of newfound creek that was once called Academy Road. Everything was going smoothly until they passed that familiar clump of trees.

“Ohhh!” said Joy, “Where’s our village?”

However, Joy’s words came out as more of an exclamation than a question. It was as if she called for everyone’s attention to the matter-at-hand. Their homes were gone. Rosie laid the palm of her right hand along the middle of Joy’s spine. Joy ignored her as her eyes tracked the location of the empty lot as the raft passed it by.

“Hmph,” said Juvie with a dismissive grunt. She paddled harder, urging the rescue raft towards still waters. The raft rumbled over a series of rocks like a bicycle riding whoop-de-dos through the woods. The raft pushed through a tangle of trees before landing in the bay. Just like earlier with Mr. Soliman and Mr. Sanchez, a giant flotilla of deadwood stood in the raft’s way.

“What now?” asked Juvie.

Brian snapped a couple of sturdy branches off a floating tree and handed them out to the children.

“Just keep paddling,” he said, ‘we’ll get there.”

“Where are we going?”

“I don’t know, exactly, but we’ll know when we get there.”

Goosebumps rose along the surface of everyone’s arms and legs as a brisk wind blew over the bay and across their faces. The breeze was cold by Filipino standards. Since everyone was still sopping wet, it only exaggerated the coldness. The first thing they needed was a warm place to stay. School gymnasiums, firehouses, and city malls throughout the province had all been set up as Rescue Centers. Now, they were ready and waiting. Now, it was just a matter of finding one.

Meanwhile, a little further out to sea, the little rowboat was headed the opposite direction, looking for solutions of their own. Mr. Soliman had set down the motor and the boat idled through the flotillas of timber and tin roofs.

“Hello!” called a voice.

A little girl balanced herself precariously on two different logs, waiting for someone to come to her rescue.

“Hello!” called Mr. Soliman. He turned the boat around and piled around the drift of wood. Meanwhile, Mrs. Soliman and Mr. Sanchez used the oars to create a clear path.

“Hold on, we’ll be there as quickly as we can!”

The motorboat stalled as ten and twenty meter logs blocked the way. Mr. Soliman turned the boat about and steered around the logjam.

“We’ve got to find a way through,” said Mr. Sanchez.

“Just be patient, I’m working on it.”

As the girl crawled from log-to-log, they bobbed and rolled under the uneven pressure. As she moved across the logjam, the logs floated every which way. Soon, one log spun backwards and dumped her into the Sea.

“I can’t swim!” she called out.”

“I should go in after her!” said Mr. Sanchez.

“No! It’s too unsafe. Just keep pushing logs out of the way. It’s all for the best.”

The little girl’s head bobbed along the water’s surface, disappearing and reappearing from view.

“Hold on!” shouted Mr. Sanchez, “we’re coming to get you!”

They pushed the boat through the logs. As the girl moved along the floating piece of wood, it rolled gently in the water. Constantly, she was fighting to keep afloat. However, the higher she pushed herself on the log, the more it turned. As the motorboat reached the log where the girl was holding on, Mr. Sanchez flipped over the side of the boat and headed for the girl.

“What on earth?” called Mrs. Soliman.

Mr. Sanchez paddled between two logs until he was within arm’s reach. He reached over the log and attempted to pull the girl over. It bobbed unsteadily in the water as surrounding logs pinched the two in place. Mr. and Mrs. Soliman sat there and watched.

“What should I do?”

“I have no idea!” called Mr. Soliman.

“Can you come get us?”

“I don’t think so – not now.”

Mr. Sanchez leaned back in the water and looked towards the sky. He decided on the only way to save the girl. He took two long, slow breaths before diving below the surface and swimming under the log.

During the first few moments he opened his eyes, he could only see smoky brown water. One bare foot kicked him in the ribs. The other kicked him at the base of the neck. He reached out and pushed her away and then darted to the surface. He inhaled deeply and looked about. The girl’s arms flailed about helplessly beside him. He pushed her away again and then came up behind her and ringed an arm around her neck.

“Shhhh,” he whispered calmly, “now you’re safe and sound. Just let me do all the work.”

Her body fell limp as she expelled several mouthfuls of water. He held onto her with the onoe hand and backstroked with the other.

“Where are you?”

“Over here!” called Mr. Soliman.

“Don’t move!”

Mr. Sanchez made his way to the boat and handed the little girl up to Mr. Soliman. He and his wife quickly reached over and pulled the girl into the fishing boat. Her body scraped against the outside lip and left a long, red scar.

“Oh! I’m so sorry!” said Mrs. Soliman, but the girl was too weary to feel the pain now. Mrs. Soliman laid the girl across a blanket and folded it around the girl. The girl simply tucked her face into the fold of the blanket and tried to keep warm.

Mr. Soliman quickly pulled Mr. Sanchez to safety, too.

“Sorry, but we don’t have any more blankets.”

“I’m alright,” he insisted as he wiped the water from his brow.

Hello!” called an old woman. She, too, was stuck in a flotilla of trash. She had found a piece of plywood and used it as a raft. Mr. Soliman carefully navigated around the trash and came alongside the plywood. This time, Mr. Sanchez remained inside the boat as he leaned over and helped the woman into the safety of the rowboat.

“Hello! Over here!” called one.

“Hello!” called another. Then, there was another and another. It was an eerie, empty sound. The growing crowd of survivors continued to call out. The growing number inside the boat pulled those outside the boat to safety. Soon, though, people were squished together – some on the seats, some sitting on the wet boat floor.

“We can’t take one more,” said Mr. Soliman.

“I agree,” said Mr. Sanchez, “but I know a place where we still might be able to get a boat.”

“Alright, you lead and I’ll follow.”

Mr. Sanchez drove the boat to a passenger ferry floating far from shore. As he neared, he waved a hand high in the air. A young boy, who appeared to be a porter, waved back.

“Hello! Do you have room for a few more?”

“We have plenty of room!” said the boy, “come around to the boat ladder.”

Mr. Sanchez idled the boat as it neared the ferry and Mr. Soliman tossed a towrope to the porter. The boy brought the rowboat right up to the ladder and began unloading survivors.

“Do you have any extra rafts or life jackets?”

“Hmm, let me check.”

The porter ran to the upper deck, only to reappear with an armload of life jackets.

“We don’t have any boats, but will these old life jackets do?”

“They sure will! Give your captain our many thanks.”

“Will do,” said the porter as he loaded the rowboat with life jackets. The strangers gave thanks to their rescuers as they stood at the railing and watched Mr. Soliman put a foot agains the ladder and push off. Mr. Sanchez turned the boat around and sped towards shore.

“Where are we headed now?” asked Mr. Soliman.

“I figure we’re looking for anyone who needs to be found.”

A large, angular wake spread out behind the tiny rowboat, showing the way to shore. Mr. Sanchez piloted the boat through the floating debris and headed towards the sound of the nearest voice of distress.

.