Theresa Mitchell Barbo - The Daring Coast Guard Rescue of the Pendleton Crew

Published by The History Press

Charleston, SC 29403

www.historypress.net

Copyright 2013 by Theresa Mitchell Barbo and Captain W. Russell Webster

All rights reserved

First published 2013

e-book edition 2013

ISBN 978.1.62584.548.1

Library of Congress CIP data applied for.

print edition ISBN 978.1.62619.095.5

Notice: The information in this book is true and complete to the best of our knowledge. It is offered without guarantee on the part of the authors or The History Press. The authors and The History Press disclaim all liability in connection with the use of this book.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form whatsoever without prior written permission from the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Dedicated to our Friends, the Gold Lifesaving

Medal Crew of the

CG 36500

BM1 Bernard C. Webber

EN3 Andrew Fitzgerald

SN Ervin Maske

SN Richard Livesey

On Whose Shoulders Todays Rescuers Stand

We also dedicate this work to

Master Chief John E. Jack Downey

(USCG Ret.)

Our colleague on the 36500 Leadership

Lecture Series

CONTENTS

CHAPTER 1

JACKS SNOWY MORNING

On February 18, 1952, ten-year-old Jack Nickerson of Chatham awoke to a flurry of white snow outside his bedroom window.

He sat up and peeked outside the frosty window, his hand holding the blue checked curtain to the side for a better view. Fresh snow the color of flour clung to the sides of his house. Bits of snow had crept beneath many of the gray-brown shingles. The scene reminded Jack of his father using a hammer and nails to hang a large picture on the wall for his mother. Thats the way the snow lookedlike a pretty picture on the side of their clapboard and shingle house.

Even the other windows were dotted with a fresh thin layer of white. The heat from inside the home melted a neat circle in each windowpane. No dirt in the yard was visible because every inch was covered. From the tops of bushes next to the pantry window, the snowfall measured at least a foot.

Jack thought his house looked like a penny postcard, like the ones sold at the Ben Franklin General Store on Main Street that the tourists from Boston buy every summer.

And to Jacks delight, the storm was hardly over. Snow continued to fall and snowflakes hung in the air, silent and beautiful.

Jack wiped the sleep from his hazel eyes. He shifted his attention from the window next to his bed to the floor. In the doggie bed was Sinbad, a big yellow dog. Sinbad lazily opened one eye and wagged his tail twice at Jack. Sinbad had been Jacks companion since he was five years old. They went everywhere together, except, of course, to Jacks school.

Sinbad was named for the famous Coast Guard mascot of the same name that a ships crew adopted in 1938. There was even a book about the first Sinbad published a few years ago. Jack had a copy in his bookcase.

Morning, Sinbad, Jack said cheerily. How are ya, boy? Jack stretched his arms and yawned. He brushed aside the brown hair that had fallen onto his forehead as Sinbad yawned and fell back asleep, his large head snuggled against a plaid cushion.

Jack lay back down and pulled his bed sheet, a red wool blanket and three homemade quilts up to his chin. Jack especially loved the red blanket because his granny had sewn his initials into the border: JEN, for John Eldredge Nickerson.

Last night, Jack had complained there were too many blankets on his bed. But when she tucked him in, Granny Lucille Eldredge, his mothers mother, suggested that by morning he would be grateful for the extra warmth.

You werent born when the five-quilt winter of 1905 nearly froze us to death on Cape Cod, she said.

Granny was right. Jack was glad for the extra layers. The temperature was far below freezing, and the extra blankets had kept him toasty. Granny had even brought in an extra blanket from the work shed for Sinbads bed. In fact, it was Granny who had given Sinbad to Jack five years before. Jack and Sinbad had grown up together. They were bonded like two peas in a pod. At least thats what everyone said.

Jack tried to sleep for a few more minutes. He burrowed into the covers to keep warm. But Jack couldnt close his eyes again.

He had too much on his mind.

Jack figured school was cancelled because his mother, Mary, had not awoken him earlier either to eat or do chores. That meant he had the day to himself!

His young mind suddenly raced with possibility, as fast as the Old Colony Railroad on its way from Chatham to Orleans. Maybe he would tag along with his dad on errands to town. Or hang out with his best friend, George Sears, a neighbor. George had the coolest train set. It was made by Lionel. Together the boys had spent many hours together playing with the set. George had received it from Santa last year.

If they didnt play with trains, he and George might take Sinbad sledding at Chatham Bars Inn. That is, if he could avoid shoveling the front and back walks at the house.

Georges and Jacks mothers were cousins. And the women were close friendsbest friends, in fact. They spent a lot of time together, which meant that Jack and George grew up like brothers. Their mothers, Mary Nickerson and Kathleen Sears, were together often. Sometimes it was just for tea or coffee at the kitchen table. Jack and George would come home from school and find their mothers together, visiting, as they called it.

In the spring, Mrs. Sears and Mrs. Nickerson helped each other with their gardens. The women shared the small crops of strawberries in June and bright red tomatoes in July. And there were always freshly baked sugar cookies and homemade lemonade for Jack and George and the other boys they hung out with. As families, the Sears and Nickerson clans attended community functions together. They shared Thanksgiving dinner. Jack and George still talked about the plump, juicy drumsticks.

Jack wondered what George was doing now.

Like Jack, George had probably slept in. Jack stretched his arms out wide in bed and looked around his room. He loved his private space. Because their house was fairly roomy, Jack had his own room. It wasnt a large room, but it was his.

Jacks parents had let him choose the paint color, so he went with a light blue. Jack drove with his father into Orleans to buy the paint from Hinckleys Hardware store. The blue reminded him of the color of the water off the fish pier at noontime in summer.

The navy blue checkered curtains his mother had sewn for him hung from two windows facing south toward Nantucket Sound. He often fell asleep to the sounds of foghorns and clanging ship bells, all music to his ears. The rotating light from the nearby lighthouse crawled across the ceiling of Jacks room, and the sight was mesmerizing and lulled him to sleep every night.

Jacks baseball bat and glove were on a small oak desk in the corner next to his schoolbooks. A small bookcase held his treasure-trove of Lone Ranger books, Marvel comics and a piggybank. Jack put his chore money in the bank. He loved the matinee movies in town, and each film cost twelve cents. The clunky radiator in the corner blasted warmth throughout Jacks small blue bedroom.