Prologue...
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| Keith Bridgman Image - CG44331 on the Umpqua River Bar |
Sometimes events and opportunity pass our way and we
fail to grasp the moment until years later.
The months and years I spent at U.S. Coast Guard Station Umpqua River,
so long ago, were no exception. In recent years I am finally beginning to understand how the emotions, personal connections, and the
chance happenings I experienced then, touch me now.
In so many ways I’m not the same person I was then. Even
so, I realize more than ever that I would not be who I am now if not for those
days. As middle age evolved into those
first vestiges of old age a desire inside to return to that place, to touch
base again with a part of my past began to burn into my life. It took a decade for those desires to find a
path that lead back to Winchester
Bay
During my tenure at Umpqua River
It was a sense
of adventure we sought, but more often than not our lives consisted of routine,
mundane work dictated by long hours of
port and starboard, or maybe at best, two out of three duty
rotation. Even so, more often than we
dared to discuss…circumstances carried us into that realm of high adventure and
the searching inexperienced-lives that we were, became young men forced to deal
with difficult and sometimes tragic life and death situations. Although we never considered ourselves
‘elite’, under challenging circumstances we performed our job well, and whether
we wanted to admit to it or not, we did so with a sense of purpose and duty.
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| Internet Image - CG44303 Breaker Drills |
They
call them Wave Warriors these young people who challenge the treacherous
waters that collide with the edge of a continent. For good reason as the
coastline of Oregon and Washington Pacific Northwest .
This is the First-Person account of my initial experience chasing the waves across the Umpqua
River Bar. (Check out the video at the end)
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November 1973....
November 1973....
“Standby one!”
United States
Coast Guard Motor Lifeboat CG44303 rolled to starboard as it coasted to a stop less
than two hundred yards from the mouth of the Umpqua River Bar as Myron Dale replied to a radio call from the lookout tower.
The forty-four foot surfboat gleamed brilliant white in the foggy dim of the morning light. Deep echoes rumbled from within the twin diesel engines as they settled into idle. Coasting to a stop the 303 turned broadside to the swells and rolled along its central axis, bobbing and whipping left then right then bow to stern. It was a typical November winter day on the bar in 1973, overcast dreariness where a diffused layer of fog hovered suspended above the main channel to boil against the abruptly angle ridge that formed the eastern wall of the river channel. Multiple rows of twelve to fifteen foot breakers collapsed across the narrow three-hundred yard gap separating the ends of the north and south jetties. The surge rolled heavily well inside the channel away from the main surf action.
The forty-four foot surfboat gleamed brilliant white in the foggy dim of the morning light. Deep echoes rumbled from within the twin diesel engines as they settled into idle. Coasting to a stop the 303 turned broadside to the swells and rolled along its central axis, bobbing and whipping left then right then bow to stern. It was a typical November winter day on the bar in 1973, overcast dreariness where a diffused layer of fog hovered suspended above the main channel to boil against the abruptly angle ridge that formed the eastern wall of the river channel. Multiple rows of twelve to fifteen foot breakers collapsed across the narrow three-hundred yard gap separating the ends of the north and south jetties. The surge rolled heavily well inside the channel away from the main surf action.
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| Internet Image - CG44303 on Patrol |
The Umpqua
River Bar held the reputation as one of the most dangerous bar crossings on the
west coast, or anywhere for that matter. Rightly deserved it was. It turned
into a liquid hell at times when black storms rolled in to meet the outgoing tide
surging with the stained runoff of the Umpqua River Mount Mazama deep in the Cascade Mountains of Oregon, the Umpqua River
It is here the Umpqua changes into its
alter ego and becomes manic depressive in nature, almost Jekyll and Hyde. There
are days the mouth remains deceptively calm and serene only to turn violent and
depressing at the slightest provocation. It is during those manic times rows of
breakers exploded from the depths a turbid boil upon the edge of the continent.
This anger could only come from an entity that was alive it would seem, an evil
unto itself without enmity, without concern for those who must cross through
it, ready to spring from its lair a watery trap for those careless enough to
forget. Its history is such that numerous sailing craft large and small have
suffered because of its volatile nature, and with them the lives of sailors
caught within its hellish waters.
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| 8mm Video Frame of The Umpqua River Bar |
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| 8mm video frame - CG44303 Crossing The Dangerous Umpqua River Bar |
First Class Boatswain Mate BM1 Myron Dale surveyed the face of his rooky crewman, me, perched nervously to his right in the coxswains flat of the CG44303. Myron stood tall in the coxswain’s seat helped by a frame that stretched almost two inches over six feet. His athletic form was showing signs of softening around the mid section. Even so, his youthful appearance and longer than regulation brown, wavy hair, gave him a younger look than his years would show.
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| 8mm video frame - CG44303 Crossing the Dangerous Umpqua River Bar |
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| Keith Bridgman Image - One of the 44's tied up At the fueling dock |
Small units like Station Umpqua River were not just places to put
personnel, they were part of the communities in which they were built. Crew’s
of these units became like foster sons to the people they interacted around and
it was important to maintain as much as possible that sense of family and
connection. Family is simply treated different. Experienced personnel like Myron became invaluable assets to maintaining productive relationships. Winchester Bay
exemplified the quaint life that was small town life along the Oregon Coast
Today’s
drills were my first time out on a 44, first time on
breaker drills, first duty station out of boot camp, first time to get seasick.
Slightly behind Myron and to his left stood Third Class Boatswain Red O’Neil, along with Dan McKean, our engineer, another sandy headed with a dark red beard old timer.
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| 8mm video frame - Salmon Harbor Winchester Bay, Oregon |
“Come on Sport…let’s
get you strapped in,” Red shouted as he swung around the backside of the coxswains flat where he opened
the white equipment storage box behind the coxswains chair and extracted two sets of a
seatbelt-like harnesses. He fumbled with the tangled mess before handing one to me. After receiving it I am sure I looked somewhat puzzled as to what to do.
“See this
part…snap it around low on the hips like a seat belt then pull it tight…like
this,” Red demonstrated using his
harness, “ then take the two end pieces and snap them into the eyes built in
the bulkhead there and there. Once you’re snapped in, lean back and take out
the slack…use your legs like shock absorbers and hold on here and here…it’s
going to get rather bouncy once we head into the surf…like this…”
Again he
demonstrated by placing tension on his harness, leaning back until the straps
tightened and then he began to rhythmically bend at the knees. I followed suit.
Myron looked on with approval and started to verbally give his opinion when the radio
cracked.
“…303 this CG44331.”
Master Chief
Boatswains mate John Whalen, Commanding Officer of Station Umpqua River and one
of the best surfboat operators in the Guard, also one of the most
unorthodox…was approaching from up channel in the 303’s sister craft CG44331.
I turned to my right and spotted the 331 loping along
about three hundred yards behind our position. It was mid-morning and the
early fog had not completely burned off. Behind them the black bulk of the Umpqua River jetties curved away into the distance filtered
by the haze until they disappeared. Nothing was more beautiful than morning on the channel where the haze blended the features of the surrounding terrain into a
soft gray. Then, when the sun poked its disc above the ridge, its rays would
spread through the haze like golden beams and generate highlights on the dunes
against the darker background. I soon discovered that I would never grow tired of witnessing such moments.
The 44’s were powerful rescue boats, yet at the same time they
often appeared vulnerable out on the bar almost like toy boats thrown up
against an unforgiving adversary. They first came on line in 1964 a few years
before my time. Chief Whalen was one of the first to operate them, a new breed of
surfboat operator in his day, who helped write the book on how to handle the new vessel.
During the 44’s initial evaluation the legendary Chief Tom McAdams would run
the prototype through the treacherous waters off Cape Disappointment, where the
Columbia River met the Pacific, until they
broke it. Afterward they would limp back
to port, have it repaired then they tried to break it again. When it didn’t
break anymore, they figured they had themselves one fine rescue boat, certainly
a much better craft than the old wooden hulled 36 footers. The old 36 footers were venerable craft, but ancient by the
standards required of the new era. Even so, two old 36 footers were still under
commission back then, one, the CG36498, sat tied to the fuel dock still used from time to
time but only when necessary. Even with the newer 44’s it was still seat of the
pants operations, only now they had a vessel with far greater capabilities.
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| Tom McAdams |
The 331’s gleaming white hull glowed against the dark gray
background as a beam of sunlight broke thru the haze, and its red slash across
the bow became readily apparent in the new light. On the hill beyond and
somewhat to the south, the Umpqua
River
“Go ahead 331…” Myron responded.
“Looks like a good day to break in our
rooky, how's Bridge doing?”
Being the reserved sort of fellow I was at the time, I was embarrassed by the comment. Everyone at the
station had nick names or shortened names…that’s just the way it was. To have one made that person feel like they were an accepted part of the unit.
“Ah Roger that Chief…I
think my young cherub here is a bit nervous.”
“He won’t be in a few minutes. How ‘bout you take a quick
run through the surf then sit outside by the number two buoy as I come through.”
Myron removed
his tight fitting helmet and propped it against his leg. It felt good to get it
off his head and feel the fresh air circulate around his ears again. The 303
continued to slowly roll from one side to the other and the light wind whipped the
diesel exhaust into the coxswains flat with its noxious fumes. His bright
reddish orange neoprene survival suit squeezed him a little too tightly around
the shoulders, but was loose around the waist. He glanced at me and
detected distress in my expression. He winked at Red and cast a sly grin while
nodding at him. Red chuckled.
“Hey Sport…you’re
look’in a might peek-ed around the gills there bud.”
I could
only muster a forced grin as my insides were beginning to turn to mush and my head was spinning. My once rosy cheeks were now pale and my jowls and under
the eyes contained a delightful greenish hue. Red could not hold his laughter.
“You know
they say there are two kinds of seasickness…”
“Oh yeah…I didn’t…ummmph…know that," I naively replied stepping feet first into Red's joke.
“Yeah…you see there’s the kind where you get so sick
you’re afraid…and there’s no doubt about it… you’re going to die…”
“Must be
pretty bad….what’s the other kind?”
Red laughed
again knowing he had set up his young rookie, “Well sport…then there’s the kind
where you get so awfully sick…you’re afraid you won’t die.”
He, Myron, and Dan burst into a loud obnoxious laughter at the old worn out joke. Red must have
told that to every rookie that ever passed through the station at one time or
another. I could only grin but wasn’t going to let them get the best of
me. I replied,
“I figure
I’ll…ooouuuumph…survive.”
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| Internet Image - CG44303 Breaker Drills |
“Aint it
amazing at how wide your mouth opens up when you barf big like that…and how
those stupid gulls…man-o-man…they’ll eat anything won’t they, even something as
vile as puke.”
The laughing
continued, but Red could see the disappointment in my eyes. He knew that everyone was
different when is came to getting seasick. Some of the boys never had a
problem, while others almost never got used to it.
“Hey Sport, don’t let us laughing at you bother you
none”, he said slapping me across the back, “most all of us have done the same
thing at one time or another. You’ll get used to it soon enough. Next time
out have ole Cookie get you a bag of plain peanuts still in the hulls so you
can crack and eat them while you’re out…keeps your mind occupied where you
don’t think about it so much and it helps settle your stomach. You ain't a real
Coastie, until you toss your cookies a time or two. We’re expected to ride the big stuff…and if
that don’t get your insides churned up…”
I interupted him, “Gee thanks
Red…that makes me feel just all warm and fuzzy inside," then I leaned over the side one more time, only this time a thin ribbon of yellowish fluid oozed out between the strained retching sounds.
Reds laughter
increased in volume as he patted me across the top of my helmet, “You’re
alright Sport…you’re going to do just fine. Now, let’s get this here show off
high center and have some fun.”
By now the 44331
had pulled alongside and cut the engines to idle about twenty yards off the starboard side. Myron spun
the 303 slightly to get a better angle so they could hear each other above the
roar of the surf and the grumbling of the engines.
“Looks like
the middle ground is beginning to lay down some…I guess we better get some
drills in before we lose the tide”, Chief Whalen shouted.
Chief Whalen loved to operate the
44’s on drills. He was quick to talk affectionately about what he considered engineering
marvels. Equipped with LORAN navigation and RADAR technology, and a tough hull design, they could plow
through the waters of the North Pacific in any kind of weather, and they could
turn on a dime and tow a battleship with the twin diesel engines rated at 180 horsepower
each. Geared and supplied with special props, they could handle breakers
upwards to thirty feet, designed to make a 360 degree roll in heavy surf, snap
upright in a few seconds and keep on going.
It was a simple conclusion to him and anyone who operated a 44…they were the best
surfboat design in the world hands down.
The small
fleet of fishing trawlers and charter boats that operated out of Winchester Bay Winchester Bay Winchester Bay
Myron replaced
the helmet and secured the strap under his chin. Turning toward me he said,
“You ready
for this…”
I nodded.
“Okay…Let’s
do it…”
He waved
his hand in the air in a circular motion then pointed toward the bar and
pressed the twin throttles full forward.
The 303 surged, the stern driving low as the torque of the props driven
by a combined 360 horsepower bit deep. He spun the wheel to straighten the bow
and then cut across the front of the 331 about fifty yards out. A foamy wake
exploded out from the bow and the deep staccato rumble of the engines vibrated
the air. Without taking his eyes off the bar, Matt shouted above the roar so
I could hear.
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| Internet Image - CG44303 Breaker Drills |
“Always
remember…let this be the first and most important lesson you learn…never
underestimate the bar and never overestimate your own abilities, once you hit
the surf you have to stay on top of it at all times always keep your head
moving, look ahead to the next series before you come out of the first, know
what you are going to do before you do it, learn to react, learn to think
quickly, this bar never stops coming at you, it will pound the crap out of you,
always pushing, always shoving, always looking for a way to bust your butt. You
must not let it have it’s way but you must control it. You must be in control
of your vessel at all times, know what it will do and more importantly, what it
won’t do.”
I barely
heard a word. My mouth was dry, but my body was wet partly from sweat, partly from
the spray blown into the coxswains flat as the powerful boat surged into the
ever increasing chop. Oddly enough my seasickness disappeared with the adrenalin rush. I was scared but excited, intrigued, but wished I could
have more time to prepare. Time ran out.
The first
layer of breakers across the middle ground rose to meet us and Myron throttled
back causing the 303 to surge downward toward the bow. He spun the wheel to
port then to starboard lining up the next breaker, waiting for the swell to build…timing
his approach…full throttles forward and the 303 lunged into the rising wall of
foaming water. The bow shot upward to what seemed like vertical, then hung for moment
on the crest and in a rush slammed into the trough behind the cresting swell.
The jolt caught me off guard and I didn’t bend my knees in time and almost lost my footing but recovered.
The 303 sat seemingly lost between two walls of giant swells that now surrounded us.
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| Internet Image - CG44303 Breaker Drills |
Myron spun the
303 to port, backed off the port engine and pushed the starboard engine forward
spinning the 303 within its own length. A second later he jammed the port
throttle to meet the other and spun the 303 to starboard timing it exactly to
rise into next breaker cresting in front of them. The 303 plowed through the
top of the crest and became airborne. For a moment we were weightless as the
bow of the 303 arched slowly toward its collision with the surface, the engines
screaming in protest as their props broke free. The impact staggered all of us, but we adjusted to the forces applied to our bodies,
our heads jerking downward and forward, our bodies twisting against the
torque. An arm of the curling breaker slammed into the corner of the 303’s
coxswains flat and a jolt of water slammed into my face as it shot through an
opening along the side. It took my breath away as it surprised me at how cold
and salty it was. I shook my head to
clear my vision and glanced over toward Red whose smoke stained teeth glowed
in the dim morning light through his wide grin.
“The old 44’s
are the bulldogs of the surfboat fleet. They power their way through the surf
with brute force”. Red yelled above the
roar of the surf and engines so I could hear.
Myron slowed
the 303 turning the port side broadside to the next approaching swell, working
the throttles causing them to alternately rumble then whine, then roar,
spinning the wheel with a delicate touch, rubber necking his head right to left
and back again. He rose up slightly to get a better view, then plopped his seat
down quickly and cursed aloud as he realized the next breaker was approaching
more quickly than he anticipated. He spun the wheel and jammed the starboard
throttle forward…there was a delay and the 303 did not respond…a loud clanging bell began to ring indicating
the engine had died. I wasn’t sure what was happening as my eyes were
transfixed on the approaching breaker. Myron instinctively cursed out loud and he
repositioned the throttle to neutral and slammed his free hand on the red
starboard engine re-start button located in front of the helm.
The engine
sputtered…and he cursed out loud again and repressed the switch. The engine roared to life and the ringing
stopped as he jammed the throttle forward while spinning the wheel to port, but
it wasn’t in time and the 303 angled at 45 degrees across the breaking swell.
It rolled sharply 90 degrees to starboard and tons of water began to fill the lower well
and swirl around our bodies. My eyes grew wide as the 303 tipped, close to rolling, and I
was plunged into a dark, salty, freezing torrent of foaming water. I held my breath knowing from previous indoctrination that the 44 can and will roll 360
degrees…it was designed to do so…but I had no desire to experience this
activity, not on my first outing. A few
seconds later the 303 snapped sharply to port righting itself from the near rollover and surged forward, the water that collected in the lower well draining out
the self-bailing ports.
Myron yelled
out loud with a whooping laughter and Red joined him as he turned toward the
stern to take a glance of what they had just come through. I hadn’t taken
a breath in close to a minute and gasped for air while I shook off the shock. That 90 degree roll on my side drenched me as much as a full roll would have. The 303 spun again lining up with the next and
final line of breakers. Myron pulled the throttles back and brought the 303 to a
complete stop waiting for the swell to develop before pressing them slightly
forward. The final swell broke about 10 yards in front of us and slammed into the bow with
the force of several tons. The 303 lunged upward and then through the swell and
Myron kicked the throttles forward and headed out to open water.
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| Internet Image - Breaker Drills |
I was
speechless. Never had I experienced such a rush…such a sense of fear tempered
with excitement and now the knowledge that I too was a full fledged member of
the Umpqua River Lifeboat Station having seen the elephant for the first time.
Myron delighted
in breaker drills but his concern was with the engines as it was a real problem
when they shut down during drills.
“Dan, when
we get back in take a look at that engine and figure out what’s going on
there…that’s the second time it’s shut down on us this week.” he shouted at our engineer.
Dan shouted back, “Done that already. Can’t find
anything wrong with it Myron…we’ve checked it out top to bottom…everything is
set up like it should be.”
“Well,
something’s wrong. Check it out again
when we get back in.”
For the next
hour the 303 and 331 traded turns running breaker drills through the Umpqua River
Now as part of one of the oldest military branch of
the United States
my purpose was to perform my duty at the
best of my ability. From that point on I wanted only to be prepared to do
what had to be done when the time came. Somewhere inside of me I knew that destiny would bring me into
conflict with this purpose.
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| Inside the Cove Near the Base of the South Jetty |
Any surfboat pilot could perform the routine stuff…train with breaker drills…tow in the broken down boats or run bar patrols as had been performed hundreds of times. Only the best could do the impossible. Only the best could look death in the face and tell it to move aside. Only the best was what was expected of us. There prevailed a hovering specter lapping over our shoulders, always watching, always taunting. Somehow after that first introduction with what the Umpqua River Bar had to offer, I knew it was only time before something more seriously sinister would thrust its ugly world into ours...into mine. As it turned out, it wasn't long before I was to witness near tragic events that rammed home the importance of always being ready to face the dangerous unknown challenges that is the life of a Wave Warrior.
(From the Lassie series: footage of the CG44303 vs the Umpqua River Bar)
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