A Test of Character

The four years I spent in the U.S. Coast Guard almost 40 years ago now, were the most defining years of my young adult life.  It was an adventure beyond all measure...a time of challenge...a time of reflection...at times, a time of having to face life and death situations under extreme conditions. Our small crew of about 20 young men faced an unrelenting sea that showed no mercy to those who were caught unaware of the intensity and power of the Pacific where it collided with the continent. We averaged over 400 Search and Rescues a year during my time there...most were routine...some challenged us beyond what we ever thought we could endure.

The following is a true story I wrote a few years ago for the Coast Guard Channel as part of their Authors / Stories section.

http://www.coastguardchannel.com/index.shtml 


 I realize it is a bit long...but I believe you may find it a revealing account of one of the most important adventures of my life during those years. I also believe it will provide a closer insight into the perils and courage of the crews of this often overlooked and most distinguished of America's military services.

Photo by Keith Bridgman - Circa 1975

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On August 17, 1975, as a member of USCG Station Umpqua River, Winchester Bay, Oregon, I was subjected to a test of character I had never faced before, one in which I was forced to reach deep inside myself and confront the demons of fear and pain that threatened to undermine who I was as a person and my obligation as part of a U.S. Coast Guard search and rescue team. It was a test by which I purged myself from a mundane existence, and explored for the first ime those heroic dreams born from youthful ignorance, and ultimately it was a test that defined the essence of why I joined the United States Coast Guard.

BM2 Michael Dobbins, FN Michael Cullimore, and myself were on a routine bar patrol on the Umpqua River Bar aboard the CG44303..one of the stations venerable 44 foot motor lifeboats. It was an extremely busy day with hundreds of pleasure boats, charter boats, and commercial fishing rigs crossing the bar to take advantage of the moderated ocean and weather conditions. 

We received a radio call from the station to the effect that one of the crew members on the fishing vessel Poky had suffered a heart attack and they were about a half-mile west and south of the bar. We immediately swung into action, but there were so many boats in and around the bar area we had a difficult time spotting the Poky. The fishing vessel’s only means of communication was by CB radio. They contacted the Winchester Bay Harbor Office that would, in turn, contact our station by telephone, and then they would relay the information to us on the radio. We requested that the harbor office have the Poky raise one pole and lower one as a distress signal so we could more easily find them.

A short time later we spotted them about a third of a mile west of our location. Within in a few moments, Dobbins pulled the 303 alongside where we discovered three adults, two women, a young man, and one small child huddled inside the coxswains flat, and one older gentleman lying on the deck near the stern--the obvious heart attack victim.

The Poky was a small double ender, rusting, old and slow with a dangerously exposed engine exhaust pipe that extended about three feet straight up from the top of the engine cowling in the center of the boat. I boarded the Poky and rolled the older man over to check his condition. It was the first time where my first aid and lifeguard training from previous college years would be put to use in a situation like this. My heart was pounding and I was afraid I would not remember what to do, but I suppose the Good Lord and the Coast Guard had prepared me for this day and somehow I found myself reacting instinctively.

Internet Photo

The older man was not breathing. He had no pulse and had turned an indistinct gray. Where he was lying was so cramped, I could not effectively begin CPR as there was no room in which to work. Standing in the coxswains flat was the young man, maybe a few years older than I was. I yelled at him to give me a hand so we could move the older man who, I assumed, was either his father or grandfather.

Together we lifted him and placed him in a still somewhat cramped but more open area on the port side. As I stood to reposition myself to begin CPR, my feet were caught between the body of the older man and the engine cowling. At the same time, the boat rolled to port on a swell causing me to lose my balance. Not being familiar with the vessel, I instinctively reached for the nearest thing I could grab to keep from falling over the side. Unfortunately, it was the exposed, red-hot exhaust pipe. Before I realized what I had done, my right hand was seared raw as tender skin cooked on the hot surface. Instantly, I jerked it away grabbing it with my other hand staring in disbelief, but it was too late. The palm and all the fingers were severely burned causing my hand to curl inward as it reacted to the shock. It hurt like nothing I had ever experienced before.

My hand screamed at me as the pain shot up my arm and my gut churned from the intensity of the injury and odor of burned skin, but mostly from the fear and anger that boiled to the surface for having done such a foolish thing. In seconds, my hand and arm began to shake from the pain and shock, and my sailor vocabulary violently surfaced as I split the air with the piercing sounds of four letter words. That’s when I looked into the eyes of the two women and child huddled in the coxswains flat and I could see the fear, anxiety, and uncertainty etched across their expressions and I knew they could see it in mine as well. The child’s face was half-buried in the lap of one of the ladies. She was sobbing, not comprehending completely what was happening.

No one else knew what to do, as they were in a kind of shock themselves. My right hand was all but crippled by the excruciating burn, but a voice inside said I had to keep going, so I began CPR as best as I could. With each stroke and breath, my hand rebelled in protest. It quickly became apparent the effectiveness of my effort would not be enough, as I could not easily breathe for nor massage the heart of the older man from where I was. So while I continued to perform CPR as best as I could, I gave instructions to the young man on how to breathe for our victim and in a few minutes he took over that role. He did a pretty good job with just a couple of corrections in his technique as we progressed.

For several minutes, I didn’t realize that we were simply drifting on the swells and going nowhere until I tried to find the 303. Maybe it was the pain from the burn or the anxiety of the moment, but I’m afraid I wasn’t very polite when I yelled at the younger woman to call the harbor office and tell them we were returning to the Coast Guard fueling dock and to have an ambulance waiting for us, and for her to turn for home instead of just drifting around out there. The young man and I continued CPR for what seemed like forever as the Poky with its sputtering and coughing engine sluggishly made its way in. After we rolled across the bar and entered the channel, the Poky began to struggle up river fighting against the current. I realized then why the Poky deserved its namesake; it was terribly slow, much too slow for the seriousness of the situation.

Dobbins had placed the 303 about seventy-five yards ahead of us with the emergency light flashing and the siren blaring to clear the way as there were dozens of boats running in the channel. From my position, I couldn’t get Dobbins’ attention without stopping CPR. We needed to transfer the older man to the 303. Although somewhat slow in its own right, it was a much faster boat than the Poky. So I requested the younger lady call the harbor office again on the CB. A moment later Dobbins pulled alongside and Cullimore jumped across with the stretcher. We timed our CPR efforts and transferred the victim to the 303 in three quick movements where Cullimore, who did an excellent job, and I continued CPR. Dobbins throttled to full power and the 303 bit deeply into the channel leaving the Poky far behind. Once I heard and felt the staccato rumble from those powerful Cummins diesels kick in, I felt that we actually had a chance to pull this thing off. The next few minutes became a blur. I barely remember hearing the siren blaring, but from what I was told later, it was an impressive sight as dozens of boats moved aside like the parting of the Red Sea as we powered up the channel and arched into the harbor entrance.

Internet Photo

The speed limit inside the harbor was designated as a “No Wake” zone. Ignoring this, Dobbins powered the 303 down the narrow entrance channel at full throttle throwing out a huge wake that drenched several onlookers standing near the waters edge. Then, just before whipping the bow around the boathouse and into the fueling dock, he slammed the engines into full reverse and the 303’s transmission shuttered in protest as we lunged forward, turned to port, and slipped into the mooring--not exactly a  recommended docking procedure, but probably a world’s record for such a maneuver in a 44. And only Michael Dobbins had the grit to attempt, much less pull off, a stunt like that.

Waiting for us on the dock was the ambulance driver and one EMT, along with a good part of our crew, a large crowd of onlookers, and Chief Don McMichaels, the Commanding Officer of Station Umpqua River. The ambulance crew took over from there. As they were loading our heart attack victim into the ambulance, the lone EMT requested someone to assist him, and because my hand was burned and needed medical attention anyway, I went with the ambulance crew and helped administer CPR until we arrived at the emergency room in Reedsport, about ten miles away.

The older man, now under the intensive care of a physician, eventually began breathing on his own and appeared to have survived. And once all the excitement at the emergency room died down, the doctor treated my burned hand applying some antibiotic salve and wrapping it before releasing me. I was lucky. No third degree damage, just a huge second-degree burn that created a blister about the size of a baseball, covering the entire palm and across all of the fingers and thumb. I couldn’t open or close that hand for a couple of weeks. The doctor eventually had to cut the blister off to relieve the pressure and reduce the swelling and associated pain. I managed to get outof a lot of duty as a result, and spent time running the office and the communications room, and learning how to write and type with my one good hand.

A couple of days after the incident, the young man from the Poky who initially helped me perform CPR stopped by and personally thanked me and the crew for all our efforts, and asked how my burn was coming along. It was a nice gesture. It took some time, but eventually my burned hand did completely heal. Cullimore and I were credited with sustaining the gentleman’s life until medical attention could be administered, but I was to discover that this episode had not been his first heart attack, but one in a series of attacks through the years and this one proved too much for him. He succumbed to the stress of it all a few days later.

Photo by Keith Bridgman - Circa 2007

Eventually, Cullimore, Dobbins, and I were to receive commendations for our efforts, but in retrospect what I received from this ordeal was not something that can be displayed in an awards case. It was a hard-earned, well-served lesson about life, qualified through trial and fire, which proved a valuable test of character, one where the demons of fear and pain were engaged, then defeated, and once heroic boyhood dreams evolved into a reality befitting of a young man’s life. What happened on that day and the long-term effects it produced, became a far greater reward than what a medal worn on the chest could ever provide.

I’ve learned over the years how there are moments in time and places along the way that become turning points in our lives, turning points full of emotions that we too often tuck safely inside “out of reach” just for ourselves. Until that August in 1975, I never knew how I might react if I ever truly faced that kind of life and death situation. Although I did not fully realize it at the time, the test that resulted in the defeat of those demons on that day and in that place became the defining moment of my Coast Guard career, and ultimately, my young adult life. I knew I had passed a difficult trial.

Although I have on occasion spoken candidly of the incident in general terms, the emotional saga of that event is a personal insight of which I rarely speak.

Keith R. Bridgman

USCG 1973 - 1977

Umpqua River - 1973 thru 1975

The Coyotes

Coyotes and prairies just seem to go together. Most coyotes I’ve seen over the years are half starved scraggly looking critters. Very few ever look reasonably healthy, but, a few years ago I encountered a family of these interesting canines while visiting Oklahoma’s Tallgrass preserve. They were the most beautiful coyotes I’ve ever encountered.
     It was late spring, but quite warm as the summer season was approaching. That area doesn’t receive all that much rain even during a wet season, but that year it was particularly dry with considerably less spring rain than normal. I had spent the better part of the day hiking around taking a few pictures and simply enjoying just being out and amongst this marvelous landscape. As the last half hour of the day began to settle toward its final farewell, I hiked about four hundred yards to the top of high grassy knoll. My intent was to watch and hopefully capture one of those legendary prairie sunsets as it played out across the rolling panoramic that spread out in front of me. This was my pre-digital days and I was still shooting film and by this time in the day my film stock was beginning to run low. I had maybe eight or ten images left that I could take.
     About a quarter mile to the south ran a dry creek bed than cut across and through a lower section of the landscape. It was characterized by steep banks and rocky soil…and because it had been so dry that year…very little water. As I sat on that grassy knoll, I happened to notice some movement along that creek bed. With my lens zoomed all the way out I could just make out three coyotes as they worked their way along the edge of the creek. Too far off to effectively take any pictures, I tried to keep an eye on them with the camera and lens but within a few minutes lost sight of them.
     The sunset progressed over the next ten or fifteen minutes to the point where the sky was beginning to turn golden. I isolated a few cone flowers against the sky and snapped a few shots. I was down to maybe two or three images remaining when I again noticed some movement south of me only this time it was closer…a lot closer. About fifty yards away on the edge where that grassy knoll dropped off more steeply to the south stood one of those coyotes standing broadside staring at me through the tall grass. Thirty or so yards away from that one stood another one facing me his head held high to see over the edge of the knoll. As far as I knew, neither one of us had seen the other until that moment. The light was really low by this time, but I grabbed my camera hoping to get to use the last couple of images to capture these guys. I snapped off a couple quick shots just as they both scampered off. In their haste, I spotted the third one trailing not far behind.
     I’ve never before seen coyotes that were as impressive as these. Their tawney coats were magnificent and full with dark brown and black blotchy areas across their shoulders and neck accenting the lighter buff and reddish color of their undercoat. Their heads were big and eyes were keen. Their bodies appeared larger than most ordinary coyotes.  For a moment I thought they might have been a family of Red Wolves, but the Red Wolf is extinct in Oklahoma now and has been for over 50 years; their habitat destroyed, and numbers decimated by the misguided theory that predators were bad and should be shot on sight or poisoned. By 1930 their numbers dwindled to but a scattered handful in two locations…the Ozark/Ouachita Mountain area of Oklahoma, Arkansas, and Missouri, and along the wooded areas of southern Texas and Louisiana…and in many cases they actually inner bred with coyotes producing a larger hybrid. Fortunately, a few of the remaining Red Wolves were captured and they have undergone a captive breeding program since the late 1980’s and have been reintroduced into suitable habitat in North Carolina. Maybe someday, they will return to Oklahoma.
     Because of their size and color, the coyotes I encountered certainly appeared to have some of that Red Wolf genetics in their makeup. In my heart I wanted them to be Red Wolves, but realistically, I understood the probability of that was very low. I continued watching them for several minutes as they trotted off toward the setting sun in search of their evening meal…a couple of times along their route they stopped and looked back at me before moving on.
     Unfortunately, the quick pictures I took were not very good…blurred as the light was very low…so I don’t have any images to share. Even so, the mental images I have of these magnificent creatures are still vivid and alive.
     Coyotes are one of nature’s most successful and adaptive critters…much more difficult to get close to than one would think. As I continually return to the Tallgrass Prairie I always hope to encounter a few more of these guys. On my last visit I managed to catch sight of and hear the howls and yelps of a family of four or five.  Not sure if they were from the same group, but it was in the same area. 


In my mind’s eye I still hear the coyotes howl at dusk, and visualize the ghosts of the Red Wolves as they drift across the prairie.  Anyone out there with their own coyote encounters?...I'd love to hear your stories and see any photographs you may have.

Creating an Emotional Visual-Dialog

I stood on a high grassy knoll overlooking Oklahoma's Tallgrass Prairie one late spring day.  The visuals were stunning in depth and impact...yet the photographs I took at the moment fell well short of what I felt emotionally. Something was missing and I was disappointed that my work from atop that hill just wouldn't make the cut.  But...all was not lost for I learned an important lesson as a result.  I began to evaluate what I was doing more closely and took a hard look at why those images did not portray what I was feeling.  After comparing that set of images with others that I know generated more emotion, I began to see a pattern.  What happened was that one set of images failed to generate a Visual-Dialog.  Even though what I was observing first hand was stunning, I failed to capture the emotion of the moment.

Visual Dialog in a photograph means that when someone views the image, they are moved emotionally by all the elements present.  Those elements are what transforms a visual moment into a place and time where the viewer can interject themselves into your vision.  Numerous things contribute to that effect, even so, what I've discovered in most of my favorite images and in other similar images are six elements that are common to each.  These six elements are used in various combinations to build Visual Dialog.

Let's take a look.

Drama:
All effective images contain an element of Drama.  What Drama refers to here is that element that defines the impact of the image.  It adds depth, meaning, and purpose.  It provides what is called an Interest of Conflict...not to be confused with Conflict of Interest.  All good drama's contain conflict...it is what dictates interest.  A photograph is a visual story and drama within it can appear in many forms.  Things like Light vs Dark...Hot vs Cold...Sad vs Happy...and even more subtle forms like desire...searching...mystery.

Drama is partially determined by the theme of the image and is defined by the quality of the light.  Drama can often be quite subtle or it can boldly jump off the page.  If the image is structured just so, the viewer will generate their own idea of what the drama is...simply by interpreting the variables contained in photograph.

Symphonic Melody
Symphonic Melody (SM) is the engine that drives the impact of the image.  It determines the character and flavor of the image...and even the drama.  Color and contrast are often two of the most important elements that define SM and they can often be associated with mood.  Ask yourself...What is it I want to capture here?...then search for ways to isolate that mood...or generate that SM.  Look for color, look for angles, look for expressions of atmosphere...then use the tools on your camera to capture its essence.  SM is a way of blending the physical elements into an emotionally expressive image.

Boldness
Boldness adds another level of depth to an image by combining unique textures, forms, lines, colors and contrasts with the various angles and qualities of light.  Composition is a critical element in defining boldness and contributes to the overall strength of the image.  Boldness is what takes an ordinary situation and turns it into an extraordinary moment.  Look for strong reference points, but remember that boldness doesn't necessarily always mean big and dynamic...it also includes defining something in softer and more subtle ways.

Simplicity of Purpose
A common theme throughout this blog...whenever you are photographing, always think in terms of simplicity.  Simplicity of purpose is what melds all the elements in to a single homogenous composition.  Nothing in the image is wasted and everything is there for a reason.  Simplicity doesn't mean a lack of complex details...it simply means everything in the image works toward telling the single story.

Story
Too many story lines in an image will confuse the viewer.  Ask yourself..what is this image all about..then focus on those elements.  Story is the Visual Dialog the viewer sees.  Combine light as your canvas...composition as your theme...and subject as your story.  Story ties in with all the other elements we've discussed.  Story can be straight forward...like excitement...fear...beauty...or it can be more subtle...something like...what happened here...or a poignant reference to an event or look in someones eyes...or the mystery of what's around the bend.

Impression
Impression is your personal interpretation of a moment of light.  Impression requires a strong understanding of how to use light to enhance the story and subject.  Light is what applies the impressionistic interpretation of the vision you have...it is through impression that you determine how you want the image to look...not necessarily how it actually looks while you are viewing it.  Impression implies that the image you create captures the essence...not necessarily the exact duplication...of what is there.  A good example is photographing wind...you can't...but you photograph the effects of the wind.


Creating emotional visual dialog in a photograph might sound like an overtaxing dilemma, but once you begin to think and apply those concepts, it actually becomes more instinctive and requires less thought than simply reacting to the situation...almost like how an athlete reacts without thinking about what he's doing.  The idea here is to simply get you to thinking more critically about what you doing.

Keith