My Captain's Fall

I follow their swift motions with a wide-eyed gaze, my trembling hand gripping the bloody portable suction unit.

As they package her on the backboard and place her into a litter my radio buzzes with talk of ALS and landing zones and sucking chest wounds.

"Ger her out of here, don't let her out of your sight and don't let her get on that litter," the Chief says as he hands me over to a new babysitter, The Other Lt.

I drop the suction on the ground near the crushed and bloody branches and shuffle past the probationary members who avoid my lost stare. The Other Lt. grabs my arm and guides me down the slope. We walk through the people who have already been set for relief - to rotate people off of the litter carry-out. I shiver and mutter "we should have worn helmets" to myself as we pass, but I do not cry.

A few people who know me well hug me and provide words of comfort that I cannot remember as I pass. I know we have made it to the road when I am blinded by arrays of flashing lights. With short, simple reassuring sentences I am guided into the passenger seat of the Deputy Chief's truck... I feel like a small child.

I am driven back to the mobile command post where a member of the BOD who is also a shrink takes me under her wing and tells me things like "she's in good hands now," "it wasn't your fault," "I'm glad you were there to help her," and "they're going to do everything they can." She wraps a sweater around me and Sgt. V brings me water.

They tell me that she's on the helicopter now, en route to the trauma center. A bonfire has been burning since before the incident and I am huddled around it as members trickle back from the carry-out. I finally start to cry, quietly.

The Chief updates the team on their Captain. Many of the members, even the new ones, are sobbing. He asks me about what happened.

"We were... scouting for scree... scree-evac and she fell." I mutter.

"How far?"

"I... I don't know... I just... 30 feet?"

"Were you wearing helmets?"

I fail to respond because everyone knows that we weren't. I start truly bawling and the new members look on with pity. The Chief gives a little speech about safety. He walks away for a little.

"We have another update on the Captain, but I think it's best that she gives it to you herself..."

The Captain, dirty and "bloody" but grinning from ear to ear comes out from behind a large rock. I run up and give her a high five. She never fell, I just carefully moulaged her and in the dark it's easy to fake bagging someone. The probationary members look bewildered. Some look angry. Some laugh.

For decades my SAR team has done this tradition. Call it cruel, but it has this tendency to bolster the team fast. I went through it last year... it makes you realize how quickly you begin to care for people working with you in this field.