A Hope More Powerful Than the Sea(59)
Pulling herself together, Doaa examined the pile of clothes and the documents she had so carefully wrapped in plastic that lay around her. These were her only remaining belongings, and she was relieved that they were still intact. One by one, with all the trust she had left, she handed them to one of the men who had pulled her from the water: Bassem’s and her passports, their engagement contract, the five hundred euros in rolled-up bills, her mobile phone, and her precious Quran. Then she collapsed back onto the deck, the last of her strength gone. The crew members helped her back onto the stretcher and carried her belowdecks into a small room. Carefully, they lifted her onto a cot and laid a soft pillow under her head, then covered her with a warm blanket.
The nearest coast guard station was in Greece on the island of Rhodes, too far away for a rescue helicopter to reach the tanker’s present location. The crew instead received instructions to head toward the Greek island of Crete so that the helicopter could meet them on the southwestern shore. It would take at least four hours to get to that meeting point and to the medical help that Doaa and the girls desperately needed. The captain looked out to sea, then put the engines at full speed.
Meanwhile, belowdecks, members of the crew were taking care of Masa, Malak, and Doaa with all the first-aid knowledge they had. A man peeled the wrapper off a chocolate bar and offered it to Doaa. She let it melt on her tongue. It tasted wonderful, but the sugar suddenly caught in her throat and she started to cough uncontrollably and her breath became short. Someone placed an oxygen mask over her face and she soon relaxed. She felt as if she were still bobbing in the sea, and when she opened her eyes, she could hardly believe that she was on a ship, safe and alive.
Doaa drifted in and out of sleep that night. At one point she awoke to find that the crew were taking photos and selfies with her. But she didn’t mind. She knew they were good people and felt safe with them around her. God had delivered her to them, she thought, as she dozed off again. Doaa was beset with dreams of drowning and choking and at least once she woke up gagging. In her dream she was trapped underwater, trying to reach the surface for air. She awoke with a start and was surprised to find one of the men in her room setting down her clothes beside her bed. They were washed, meticulously ironed, folded, and smelled like fresh soap. The man then carefully placed her documents, money, and her Quran on top of her T-shirt and slipped everything into a plastic bag. This small gesture of kindness comforted Doaa, and she lay back on her cot and closed her eyes again.
As Doaa fought off nightmares, the crew were desperately trying to save the little girls. One crew member spoke on the radio to a doctor from the Maltese coast guard who was giving him guidance. Since there was no medic on board, the crew had resorted to their minimal first-aid training. The crew member told the doctor that both children looked bad—they remained unconscious, their breathing was shallow, and their body temperatures were dangerously low. Doaa was also in bad shape; she was weak and could only speak slowly and unintelligibly. But the little girls seemed on the brink of death. The doctor advised the crewman to offer only small sips of warm water and to wrap the babies in blankets with hot-water bottles inside. The girls were probably suffering from hypothermia, and their bodies needed to warm up slowly. A watchman was assigned to monitor their breathing and to keep taking their temperature.
Five hours after she was pulled from the water, Doaa could hear the noise of a helicopter overhead. Stirring from sleep, she found crew members rushing into her room, gesturing to her that it was time to leave. She attempted to stand, but her legs buckled under her weight and she dropped back down on the bed. Six men surrounded the cot and lifted it up with her in it, carrying Doaa to the top deck. There the helicopter hovered above, dangling a collapsible rescue basket that slowly dropped to the deck. The bottom of the basket was a square metal-and-rope frame attached to a cable by a web of thick ropes with rubber buffers. When pulled taut, the ropes formed a strong, pyramid-like cage. The wind whipped through Doaa’s hair and she felt a chill as a man wearing a vest and a helmet picked her up and folded her into the basket. She was so weak, she couldn’t sit up. The man knelt next to her at the opening, holding on to the ropes and smiling at her reassuringly as they rose to the hovering helicopter. Feeling safe cocooned in the basket, she looked down at the black, choppy water. She thought, I can never hate the sea again because Bassem is a part of it now. She recalled some of his last words: “If I die, all I want is for you to be happy.”
A pair of strong arms reached down from the belly of the helicopter to pull her into the cabin. Doaa was surprised to discover that other survivors were already inside. The first one she saw was Mohammad—the man who had swum toward the first rescue boat with the African man trailing him earlier that day, promising to return for her but never coming back. That boat hadn’t been an illusion after all. “You’re here,” he said without emotion when he saw her. Doaa averted her eyes. She had nothing to say to the person who had not come back to save her. Then she noticed Shoukri, the devastated Palestinian who’d lost his wife and two small children just after the boat had sunk. He was sitting in silence and staring through the window out to the sea. She recognized two other men but couldn’t recall their names. And nestled in the arms of one of the helicopter crew was little Masa, wrapped tightly in a white fleece blanket. Her tiny bare feet were sticking out at the end, flopping to the side. She wasn’t moving at all. Please, please, let her be alive, Doaa prayed. She frantically scanned the benches for Malak but couldn’t find her. Maybe she was about to be pulled up next from the ship, Doaa thought. But then the door closed and the helicopter lurched forward. No other survivors were brought on board. Doaa caught the attention of one of the helicopter’s crew. “Malak?!” she cried desperately. “The baby?!”