The Last Dive

by Bernie Chowdhury

  Gatto scrambled down the ladder to act as a human buffer so that none of the three men in the water would get struck by the boat. Gatto shouted, “Okay, cut Chris out of his gear.” He reached down and pushed Chatterton away from the boat. “I’ll make sure the boat doesn’t hit you.”

  Chatterton sawed away at Chris Rouse’s shoulder harness. The knife was sharp and cut through the thick nylon strap quickly. Chatterton ducked his head below the water and grabbed Chris’s waist belt. With one smooth pull, Chatterton disconnected the quick-release buckle. He then yanked on the crotch strap that was attached to the bottom of Chris’s harness in back and to the waist strap in front. After a few pulls, Chatterton managed to undo the buckle that held both the crotch strap and the harness in place on Chris’s body. He worked Chris’s left arm free of the other shoulder strap and then pushed the harness with its attached tanks and equipment away so that it would not hit Chris. The tanks floated on the surface, supported by the air in the buoyancy compensator. Gatto tied off the rope in his hand to the ladder so that the tanks would not float away.

  Chatterton threw Chris Rouse’s limp body over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry and struggled up the ladder. Kohler stepped onto the ladder’s bottom rung, which was beneath the water, and braced himself so that he could give Chatterton a boost with one arm. Gatto grabbed Chatterton and helped him up the ladder. When Chatterton made it to the top of the ladder, he got purchase on the railing, then stood upright on the swim platform and dumped Chris’s body into the boat. It landed with a dull thud. Chatterton scrambled over the stern, keeping his eyes fixed on Chris Rouse. Kohler ran up the ladder, and McDougall swam from the trail line to the ladder, so that he could climb up in full gear.

  Chrissy Rouse was still lying on the wooden platform, his head cradled in Barb Lander’s left arm. He shook his head and started screaming again, his voice muffled by the regulator in his mouth. He spit out the regulator and shouted out, “Something … something … fell on me … inside the … the … the … wreck. I was … pinned! Help! … Help!” While the rest of Chrissy’s body lay limp he shook his head and screamed repeatedly for help.

  Lander looked into Chrissy’s dilated eyes. He was only a few years older than her son. She tried to establish eye contact with him, to help calm him down. As she looked deep into Chrissy’s terror-filled eyes, she spoke firmly, trying to break his thoughts and get his attention. “Chrissy. Chrissy! You’re on the Seeker. You’re on the Seeker! We’re giving you help! Stay calm.”

  Chatterton, leaning over Chris Rouse on the Seeker’s deck, thought for a quick instant of his battle experiences in Vietnam, where he had served as a field medic with an infantry division. During combat, he had treated several injured men at once, and his training and experience as an Army medic returned to him. He blocked out of his mind the screaming coming from Chrissy, who lay only a few feet away.

  Chatterton quickly positioned Chris’s body, then checked for breathing and a pulse. He shouted out, loudly, “Victim has a weak pulse, no breathing. I am initiating CPR. Call the Coast Guard and request an immediate evacuation.”

  Steve Gatto kneeled beside Chris’s body, prepared to assist Chatterton with two-man cardiopulmonary resuscitation if Chris’s heart stopped beating.

  Captain Dan Crowell was already on the wheelhouse deck, looking down at the scene on the Seeker’s stern. He was waiting for information from Lander, Gatto, Yurga, Packer, or Chatterton as to either of the Rouses’ condition. When he heard Chatterton’s pronouncement, Crowell ran into the wheelhouse, grabbed the radio’s handheld microphone, and urgently spoke into it. “Mayday. Mayday. This is the vessel Seeker, calling U.S. Coast Guard. Two divers facing imminent loss of life. CPR started on one. Requesting immediate evacuation by chopper. Repeat: Mayday. This is Seeker to Coast Guard. Imminent loss of life. Requesting immediate chopper evacuation. Please acknowledge.”

  While Crowell was on the radio, Chatterton felt Chris’s pulse stop. The former Army medic called out the situation as John Yurga stood by, taking notes. Chatterton began heart compression, which alternated with Gatto’s deep breaths into Chris’s mouth: One breath was followed by five heart compressions, then one breath, then five heart compressions, in an exhausting ritual to sustain life. Chatterton had worked as an anesthesiologist after leaving the Army and he noted the fast changes to Chris’s body caused by the massive number of bubbles forming. Each compression was meeting with more and more resistance, and Chatterton knew that Chris’s blood was clotting. Even Gatto’s breaths were meeting with resistance, although Gatto made sure he had Chris’s head tilted back so that his airway was unobstructed by his tongue. Chatterton thought about intubating Chris, but he knew the problem was not in getting breaths into the airway—the problem was in Chris’s lungs. They were now overwhelmed with nitrogen bubbles that his body had absorbed with each breath during the dive. Now, the nitrogen had come out of his tissues, had entered his circulatory system, and was being carried to his lungs for elimination during breathing. But there was too much nitrogen, and it had formed bubbles that overwhelmed Chris’s ability to breathe it out. His blood had turned to sludge. Heart compressions couldn’t move the blood, so even if the lungs could be filled with air, there was nowhere for it to go.

  When the two men had been at CPR for some time, Richie Kohler kneeled down to relieve Gatto and assist Chatterton with the CPR. Between compressions, Chatterton asked Kohler, “When did you do your CPR course?”

  It was over a year since Kohler had done the lifesaving class, and his certification had now legally expired. Chatterton did not hesitate when he heard the date of Kohler’s certification. “Don’t touch Chris. Your CPR is expired. Go over and get information about what happened from Chrissy. And write it down.” To administer CPR without a valid certification could have serious legal consequences for Kohler.

  Kohler went over to Chrissy, and motioned to Packer for the clipboard and pencil. Packer went over to Chatterton and Gatto, his diving buddy. Packer relieved Gatto.

  McDougall climbed over the top of the Seeker’s ladder and into the boat. To his right, Chatterton was working on Chris Rouse. Chrissy’s howling was muffled by the oxygen regulator, but still McDougall knew how grave the situation was. He took his tanks off at the foot of the ladder. Quickly, he tossed his mask into an open box, then did the same with his fins. He lay the tanks down so that they would not crash into Chatterton, Packer, and Chris Rouse. And then he kneeled down to help. Chatterton knew that the state trooper’s CPR training was current and he directed McDougall to relieve Packer and perform the breathing.

  A few feet away, on the wooden platform, Chrissy still clung to life. His mind had trouble processing the situation, and he ranted like a madman, “My dad … my dad … came … in … and got … me … out. I… was … trapped. It … felt … like I was … going … going … to … be eaten. Monkeyfuck! Monkeyfuck! It was a Monkeyfuck! The monster got me. My … dad … saved … me. We couldn’t … we couldn’t oh, Monkeyfuck! We couldn’t … find … deco … bottles. Help! Help! The monster’s got me!”

  As Barb Lander—the only woman on board, whom Chris had poked fun at earlier that day—attended to Chrissy, the young man asked between screams, “How’s my father?”

  Lander looked over at Chatterton, who was still performing chest compressions on Chris. Chatterton saw Lander looking at him. He stared somberly at her. Then, Chatterton slowly shook his head. He knew that for all intents and purposes, Chris had died when he said, “I’m dying. Tell Sue I’m sorry and that I love her.”

  A wave of exhaustion hit Chatterton. He looked from Lander to Steve McDougall, who was still clad in his rubber diving drysuit as he continued to breathe into Chris’s mouth, trying to force air into his lungs. Even though Chatterton thought Chris Rouse was already dead, it was their obligation to continue CPR and to do all they could to try to keep the man’s vital functions going until they were either relieved by a higher medical authority or a doctor declared him offici
ally dead. They would not fail their fellow diver.

  “Your dad’s okay” was the reassurance Lander gave Chrissy. Why tell the boy that his father lay dead only a few feet away? Why burden him with the horror that his plight had probably killed his father—who had overextended his dive time and died trying to rescue his son—now, when he needed to fight for his life?

  Chrissy had lain still for a while, but now he started ranting again. He complained of burning pain, then of feeling nothing, then of pain again. There was nothing Lander, Kohler, Gatto, or anyone else could do right now. And then Chrissy shook his head violently back and forth and cried out with an anguished scream, “It hurts too much. PLEASE GET A GUN! SHOOT ME! PLEASE!”

  From the wheelhouse deck, Captain Dan Crowell called out, “Okay, the Coast Guard’s on their way. We’ve got to secure everything on deck and get ready to get under way. You know the drill!”

  Kohler, stunned by what he was seeing and had just heard from Chrissy, rose to his feet and stood next to the younger Rouse and then went to check that all equipment was tied down.

  On board the Coast Guard rescue chopper, the pilot spotted the Seeker in the distance and alerted his Search and Rescue swimmer to be prepared. The SAR swimmer nodded solemnly. He would be lowered onto the Seeker by cable from the winch system, and would not have to jump into the water.

  On the Seeker’s wheelhouse deck, Captain Dan Crowell engaged the Seeker’s propellers and headed the boat northeast, into the 20-knot wind, as he was ordered by the Coast Guard. Because of the sea conditions, Crowell followed a compass course of 320 degrees. The helicopter followed the Seeker and hovered above the boat’s stern while lowering the swimmer.

  When he was on board the Seeker, the rescue swimmer quickly assessed the situation in front of him on the boat’s stern deck. He looked at Chatterton, then at Chris Rouse’s slate-gray face and lifeless eyes. He pointed to Chris Rouse, pronounced, “He’s dead!” and walked toward Chrissy Rouse, who was moving his head.

  Chatterton was stunned at the finality of the pronouncement. He had seen death before, both on the battlefield and on the dive boat. But he had hoped for some effort on the Coast Guardsman’s part to attend to Chris. Chatterton knew from his Army medical training and battlefield experience that the Coast Guardsman was only one person, with limited resources. The medical term for his quick decision was triage, which was developed during the First World War to treat wounded combatants: You attend to those who are definitely living first—Chrissy Rouse fell into that category—and put aside those like Chris Rouse, whose lives you probably cannot save even if you attend to them immediately.

  The swimmer took from his waist pouch a waterproof radio. He spoke into the radio and requested that the helicopter drop a basket so that Chrissy could be airlifted to a hospital. “Put on your life vests!” the swimmer barked to everyone on the Seeker. “Prepare for basket drop!” Everyone scrambled to obey orders.

  Above the Seeker, the helicopter moved in closer, and a metal basket was lowered to the tossing boat. On board the Seeker, the helicopter-induced wind turbulence caused soda cans, paper wrappers, bags of pretzels, lines, and cooler lids to be whipped around the cluttered stern of the vessel in spite of Chatterton’s and Kohler’s earlier efforts to secure all loose objects. Water spray whipped everyone’s faces, no matter in which direction they turned.

  The basket was lowered and allowed to touch the Seeker’s metal railing to discharge the powerful static electricity that would severely injure anyone who came into contact with the basket before the charge was dissipated.

  Chrissy Rouse was paralyzed from the nipples down and had to be carried to the basket. While he was being hoisted upward, Chatterton leaned close to the SAR swimmer, so that the man would be able to hear him over the roar of the Seeker’s engines and the noise from the helicopter. Chatterton pointed to Chris Rouse. “You’ve got to take him.”

  “We can’t risk another basket drop for a dead guy!”

  “Are you a medical doctor?”

  “No.”

  “Then you can’t tell me he’s dead for certain! You’ve got to take him.”

  “NO!”

  “Look, the kid thinks his father’s still alive. We’ve been telling him that so that he keeps on fighting to live. He’s got to see his old man on the chopper with him, otherwise he’ll know he’s dead!”

  The swimmer stared at him. “Do you have any idea how risky a basket lift is? We just can’t do it for a dead guy!”

  “I was an Army medic in ’Nam. I know all about dust-offs! Nobody’s shooting at you here! Stop fucking around! Get this guy off the boat! NOW!”

  The SAR swimmer knew they were wasting valuable time that could be better used in getting the crippled diver to the hospital. The swimmer turned from Chatterton and spoke into his radio. “Requesting a second basket drop,” he shouted.

  When both Rouses were on board the helicopter, the line was dropped down one last time. Instead of a basket at the end, it had a thick, padded strap. The SAR swimmer put the strap around his waist, secured it, walked over to the Seeker’s transom, and stepped up onto the wooden rim of the hull. He looked upward at the spotter, pointed his right index finger upward, and waved it in a circle. The helicopter rose. To Kohler, Chatterton, Yurga, McDougall, Gatto, and Packer, it appeared that the SAR swimmer stepped off the stern and was flying. The swimmer dangled from the helicopter as it flew upward and away while the spotter winched him back on board.

  As Chrissy Rouse was flown off by Coast Guard helicopter to the hospital and a recompression chamber, those left aboard the Seeker were mentally and physically exhausted. One of their number was now dead, and another clung at the very edge of life, his survival still in doubt. It was all divers’ biggest fear: that some event, or combination of events, would ultimately turn their most beloved activity into the instrument of their deaths. In a rough and unforgiving sea, the divers on the Seeker had a long ride home.

  11

  Eulogy

  OCTOBER 12, 1992. ABOARD A COAST GUARD RESCUE

  helicopter, flying northwest toward New York City from the dive

  boat Seeker, 60 miles off the New Jersey coast.

  CHRISSY ROUSE STILL STRUGGLED for life as the Coast Guard helicopter sped him toward a recompression chamber. Chrissy was unaware that his father’s lifeless body lay not far away. According to John Chatterton’s watch timer, one hour and twenty-seven minutes had elapsed from the time Chris and Chrissy surfaced to the time the helicopter arrived. That precious time allowed the nitrogen bubbles to continue to expand inside the Rouses’ bodies. Although the helicopter was moving as fast as the pilot could coax it, several hours would elapse from the time that Chrissy surfaced to the moment that he would be put under pressure in a hyperbaric chamber.

  The helicopter was heading to Bronx Municipal Hospital, also known as Jacobi Medical Center. Glenn Butler, the former commercial diver, was the safety director of the recompression chamber facility. While Chrissy was en route to his facility, the Coast Guard apprised Butler that two injured divers were being flown in for treatment, and gave a summary of their symptoms. Although he did not know the exact details, Butler had enough information to tell that the case was severe, involving a significant amount of omitted decompression. He marshaled his staff resources and braced himself for a long, grueling treatment. After Butler had put his staff on alert, waiting for the arrival of the helicopter, he called his old boss, Dr. Bill Hamilton, the physiology expert who had been part of the team at Ocean Systems that exposed Butler and other divers as their human guinea pigs inside a hyperbaric chamber, testing new gas mixtures and decompression schedules. Hamilton agreed to be on call for consultation with the bends cases coming in.

  When the helicopter touched down on the landing pad at Jacobi, medical personnel rushed Chris and Chrissy into the emergency room, where they were met by a medical team including doctors, Butler, and his staff. Chris was ashen white, his body already rigid, and there was nothing
that could be done for him. A doctor officially pronounced Chris Rouse dead at 13:48, or 1:48 in the afternoon. Only six hours earlier he had been joking with Barb Lander and the other divers on the expedition, teasing Barb about not doing the dishes that piled up in the Seeker’s sink. Now he was gone.

  Chrissy still did not know his father was dead; the gurney that held Chris Rouse’s body was quietly wheeled away to the morgue. As nurses worked on Chrissy, recording his vital signs, hooking him up to intravenous liquid, and cutting away his diving underwear so that they could put him into a cotton hospital gown, Butler asked Chrissy what happened so that the medical team could figure out how best to try to save his life. “Were you diving mix?” Butler asked, referring to a helium gas.

  “No. We couldn’t afford it,” Chrissy said. “We were on air. We were very narced.” (Chrissy used divers’ slang for narcosis.)

  Chrissy was paralyzed from the nipples down and now felt little pain. Butler assessed Chrissy’s speech and concluded that the diver was in pretty good shape, considering the circumstances, because he was still able to think dimensionally, to put cause and effect together. This was an important piece of information for Butler because it indicated that Chrissy’s brain had not yet been overwhelmed with nitrogen bubbles. But the other information Butler heard was not good: The two divers, breathing air, had gotten trapped inside a U-boat, managed to free themselves and get out of the wreck with no gas left, and then had made a direct ascent to the surface. Butler was aghast. No decompression. He knew that such a situation could possibly have been successfully treated if there had been a recompression chamber on the dive boat and if Chrissy could have been gotten into the chamber almost immediately. But under the current circumstances, successful treatment after such a delay was a daunting task.