RETRIEVAL MISSION
It’s one thing to report the news, quite another to be squarely confronted with the personal tragedy
When AirAsia QZ8501 vanished off the screens, a heartbreaking search began.
As a journalist I’ve covered many news events involving death. Wars, tsunamis, earthquakes, bushfires, murders ... you never get used to it. The sadness … the sorrow. But in a career of more than 30 years I’ve learned to cope, although, I admit, some cases are easier than others.
I have developed something akin to professional armour – but sometimes, something happens that finds a crack in that defence.
AS REPORTS CAME through last December 28 that flight AirAsia QZ8501 – with 162 on board – had disappeared from radar screens between Surabaya and Singapore, Channel Nine TV cameraman Dan Loh and I headed for the region: first Singapore, then Surabaya in Indonesia. Later, as the search for the missing Airbus focused on the seas off Borneo, we lined up a flight to Pangkalan Bun, where officers from Indonesia’s National Search and Rescue Agency (Basarnas) were coordinating efforts.
We headed to the hospital where we expected any bodies recovered from the crash site would be brought and we took up a position outside to await developments. Within
minutes we heard sirens. A cavalcade of official cars contained the local governor, the local police chief and Air Vice-Marshal Sunarbowo Sandi, the mission coordinator of the search and rescue (SAR) operations. I’d seen him fronting media conferences and knew he could speak English, so as the of f icial s moved inside I approached Sunarbowo and introduced myself. He was a tall man. An imposing man. A man clearly in charge. He agreed to a brief interview and primarily we spoke about the delicacy and respect that had to be shown to victims of this disaster. Then he was gone. Soon we heard more sirens and two ambulances pulled up with coffins numbered 001 and 002 – labelled
In 30 years of reporting I had always managed to keep traumatic events at arm’s length – until now
by the order they had been retrieved from the sea. Dan and I filed our report for the next news bulletin.
In the morning, as we drove to the SAR headquarters at Iskandar Airport, I posed the – admittedly highly unlikely – possibility to Dan that maybe we could get out to the search zone, off the coast of Kalimantan.
Sunarbowo was already holding court at the SAR headquarters, looking at charts, and directing his teams of pilots and search coordinators. I
approached and he waved me to sit down alongside him. He continued issuing orders. Eventually he looked at me: “Good morning.”
“Good morning, sir”, I replied. “I have a question.” “Yes?” he urged. “Would it be possible for me and my cameraman to accompany one of your teams to the search site to film the difficult task they are facing?”
Sunarbowo waved his arm in a wide arc, indicating scores of other media who were also at the base.
“Every one of them would also like to get in my helicopters,” he said with a smile. “Maybe tomorrow.”
“I understand”, I replied, “but this
is me who is asking.” He laughed. I learned long ago that if you don’t ask, you don’t get.
Sunarbowo began speaking rapidly in Indonesian to his second-in-command. After a discussion, which I did not understand, I was directed to follow his deputy. We walked outside and he introduced me to the pilots of a SAR chopper.
“We’re taking off in 45 minutes,” the co-pilot said. “Be out on the tarmac.”
I expected to be flown a little way out to sea, to where we could film some navy vessels taking part in the search. But clambering into the helicopter I realised there were no seats – except those occupied by the pilot and co-pilot. I was directed to sit on a pile of empty body bags. Dan grabbed a spot on the cabin floor.
Two more SAR personnel climbed aboard: one wearing a helmet; the other, I suspected, was a spotter. We took off, heading south. And for about an hour we flew over the Java Sea. No seat belts, no harnesses, only life jackets.
STARING OUT THE WINDOW I found it hard to believe that a victim or any wreckage could be spotted in these waves. Dan busied himself filming the crew going about their mission and I thought it wouldn’t be long before we turned for home. Not so.
In a sudden burst of movement the spotter and the crewman in the helmet indicated for us to move aside as they took up position alongside the winch and opened the side door. The noise and the rush of wind was incredible.
Are we about to do what I think we’re about to do?
We were circling an Indonesian naval vessel as it punched through the heavy seas. We circled it three times, gradually descending. On the back deck I could see a black bundle. The size and shape told me we were about to collect a victim of this disaster.
The winch was lowered and the chopper crew began hauling in a net containing the body bag. For some reason it snagged
underneath the chopper. I hesitated for a few moments and then clambered across to help. No matter how hard we tried we couldn’t heave it in, so the bundle was gingerly lowered back down to the deck.
We circled the ship. Again, the winch was lowered and again, as the net rose, it snagged. This time all four of us tried to heave it on board, leaning out of the chopper, trying with all our might to drag the bundle in. None of us had a safety harness.
I began to think that we should give up and let the ship bring the victim home. But as I breathed a quiet sigh of relief I felt a bump.
Out the window I saw two sailors. We had landed on the deck of the heaving ship. That in itself was a dangerous manoeuvre ... one slip up, one rogue wave, one wind gust … but there was no time to consider the consequences.
Th e ship’s c rew passed the body bag on board, then handed us a piece of cabin luggage and a woman’s leather handbag. Before I knew it we had lifted off.
The crewman wearing the helmet placed a cotton mask over his face
I looked at Dan. He was staring at the floor of the chopper. “Are you OK?” He just nodded. I wasn’t sure I was