A tour boat full of senior citizens capsized right before my eyes.
by Brian Hart as told to Peggy Frezon
I guided the canoe with long, easy strokes, the bow slicing through placid waters. My eight-year-old daughter, Brianna, bounced on the bench behind me, giggling with her cousins. A picture perfect autumn day. The lake was calm and still, but I was anything but. My thoughts jumped around anxiously like a bee flitting from bud to bud. What am I doing out here? I have about a million other things to do.
I didn't really want to be at the lake at all that October day in 2005. What I really wanted was to get some stuff done at home. I had bought a new piece of property, and man, did it need work. I had a full-time job as an electrical contractor, and wondered when I'd find time for my own projects. But when my wife suggested I take Brianna up to my parents' new vacation place, I reluctantly agreed to set my own plans aside. So off I went, just over an hour's drive, to the cabin on the shores of Lake George, nestled in the foothills of New York's Adirondack Mountains.
Even after we'd arrived, I was still thinking of getting home: Maybe I could still get a bit of my own stuff done. Then Brianna and her three young cousins, all girls, dashed into the cabin. "Daddy, can we go for a canoe ride?" she begged, jumping up and down.
Out by the dock was an old fiberglass boat. What could I say?
I dipped the paddle into the water and took a few pulls. The girls really were enjoying the ride, and slowly I began to relax a bit too. I was paddling straight toward a jut of land called Cramer's Point. About 150 feet ahead of us, I saw the white and green Ethan Allen, a 40-foot tourist boat with a low roof and open windows for sightseeing—one of the many leaf-peeping tours that operated that time of year. It was loaded nearly to capacity with senior citizens. I could see dozens of passengers sitting shoulder to shoulder, crowding the benches on both sides.
I watched the tour boat make a slow, gradual turn—but something didn't look quite right. Part of the hull was rising out of the water, like a sailboat tacking sharply. But the boat kept tipping, the hull jutting more and more out of the water. That's not supposed to happen! Suddenly, the people on the right side of the boat slid across the deck and fell onto the laps of those on the other side. Oh my, it's going to tip over! Those people are going to fall out!
The boat lurched and bucked as the captain struggled to gain control. Then, just like that, it flipped. Right over. Men and women spilled out the open windows, and others were pulled under the boat as it capsized. "No!" I gasped. It was like a scene out of Titanic. The hull was upside down in the water; smoke and steam from the boat's hot engine hissed as it submerged.
Brianna and the girls jumped up, screaming. "Sit down!" I yelled. They were scared, but if they didn't stop rocking the canoe, we'd tip over too. I grabbed my cell from my jeans pocket and punched up 911. "Send help! A boat! It's flipped over!" I yelled. "A commercial boat. Hurry!"
God, you'd better send somebody quick to save these people!
 How can I decide who to save and who not? What if I can't save them all?   
Desperate cries for help
I stared at the scene in front of me. People were frantically thrashing for the overturned boat. I heard desperate cries: "Help me! Help me!" My stomach twisted.
I looked around. There wasn't another boat in sight. I'm the only one here.
I wasn't going to be any help with four girls and a canoe. I had to think of something fast. Quickly, I dialed my brother at the cabin. "Eric, a boat's capsized! I'm gonna need you, bro." I gushed out details and told him to meet me with my parents' 19-foot trophy fishing boat. I pocketed the phone again and pulled up the canoe at a nearby boathouse. "Uncle Eric is sending someone to get you," I told the girls. "Stay put. And give me your life jackets. I'm going to need every one."
Eric pulled up in moments. I climbed into the bigger boat, and we raced off. The Ethan Allen's engine roared, and the nauseating smell of diesel fuel wafted our way on thick billows of black smoke. Passengers in the water struggled to reach the overturned boat and cling to it for dear life.
Eric jumped into the water first. I threw over everything we had that could float. Life jackets, seat cushions—I tore the seats right out of the boat and threw them to the people in the water.
Then I plunged into the frigid, fuel-covered water myself. Those people must be freezing! I raced over to the boat where people clung to the hull. Others were trying to stay afloat, arms flailing. None of them had life jackets.
A woman floundered and grabbed the shoulders of a man hanging on the boat. He clawed the trim of the hull desperately to hang on. "She's pulling me down!" he cried. "Help!"
I grabbed one of the floating life preservers and swam to the frantic woman. I pushed the orange jacket under her chest and slung my arm across her shoulder. Thankfully, the left-behind man secured a better grip as we pushed off.
Do I have the strength?
I swam with the woman toward a boat that had just arrived to help. The man and the woman onboard helped pull her in. I heaved a sigh. She was safe in their hands. But then I turned back around. Do I have the strength to do this? So many were crying out for help. I dove again, ignoring the fatigue taking over my muscles.
Eric was in the water too, pulling others onto the now-arriving boats as more and more people came to help. I didn't know how many rescuers were there. We needed them all.
I started to swim for a woman with short blondish hair, but stopped. She looked a bit younger than the rest. Maybe she could hold on longer. I changed my mind and grabbed another woman nearby. How can I decide who to save and who not? What if I can't save them all?
Back and forth I swam with frightened people weighted down by long pants and soaking sweaters. They clung weakly to me. The boat was sinking, nearly all the way under. Some of the people had grown weary and let go of the boat. How long could they tread water? Hold on!
Finally, I approached the nearly submerged boat and there was only one more woman hanging on to the side, shaking uncontrollably. It was the woman with the short blonde hair. She had hung on, but she was weak and pale and looked barely conscious. She'd been in the cold water for a long time.
"I'm going to help," I said. "I'm going to get you out of here."
"I'm Carol," she whispered. "I'm the tour director. And I can't swim."
"I'll take care of you, Carol," I said.
She clung to me, and I felt trust—such utter trust. I put my arm gently around her and started to swim. The wretched fumes made me weak, like I might faint. No way could I move my arms or legs one more inch. But God, I need enough strength for just one more. I couldn't give up.
I don't know how I did it, but somehow I swam, pulling Carol to a waiting boat. I watched them speed away. Then, with a final hiss, the Ethan Allen sank.
I got back to my boat and headed for shore. I docked near where emergency personnel had set up a triage. Shaken seniors shivered, waiting for ambulances to transport them to local hospitals.
I shook as much as the others, overcome by enormous grief. I knew the unspeakable truth: We hadn't been able to save everyone. Why did I have to be a part of this horrible accident? Why did I go out on that canoe? Why didn't I just stay home?
"Thank God you were there"
Then I saw a slight woman sitting alone under a tree. It was Carol, the last woman I'd rescued. "Carol?" I knelt beside her. "It's me. I was with you in the water."
I found a blanket and put it around her shoulders and stayed with her until the ambulance was ready. She reached for me and put her head down on my hand as she clung to it, sobbing. "My angel! Oh, God bless you. Bless you. Thank you. Thank God you were there."
I had just been wishing I hadn't been there at all. My heart ached; I couldn't make sense of the massive tragedy. We would soon learn that 20 of the 48 people aboard the boat had died; the 74-year-old captain was later indicted for not having enough crew members on board, and the top-heavy boat was deemed unstable for carrying that many passengers.
Although I couldn't change the tragic way things turned out, Carol reminded me that I had made a difference. At that moment with Carol, I knew without a doubt why I'd been there. I'd asked God to send someone to save those people. And he sent me.
I hadn't planned to go out in that canoe. I thought I had a million things to do that day, a million different places to be. But God knew better. He put me right where I was meant to be.
Peggy Frezon is a freelance writer from New York and a past winner of the Guideposts Writing Contest. Her work has been featured in Guideposts, Sweet 16, and numerous Chicken Soup for the Soul books.
Original Source