Little Wonders

My husband’s brothers arrived around August 11th, 1999, spending the next couple of days sightseeing and enjoying the beach. On August 14th, my husband decided to take them sailboarding, so they rented kayaks, grabbed his sailboard, and headed to the base Marina. It was a beautiful summer day, with just a light breeze—perfect for windsurfing.

I stayed home to work on homework. After a couple of hours, I took a break to water the plants. Suddenly, I heard thunder in the distance, which struck me as odd since there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. I went back inside, and within 15 minutes, the sky turned black, rain poured down in sheets, and thunder and lightning flashed everywhere. I started to worry about the boys and was about to go looking for them when my neighbor knocked on the door. He was from New Orleans and knew the dangers of sudden Southern storms; he offered to check on them, and I was grateful for his help.

Thirty minutes later, he returned with alarming news: three brothers were out windsurfing, and one had been struck by lightning and taken to the hospital. He kindly offered me a ride, so I grabbed some essentials and hopped in the car. The storm was unlike anything I had ever seen; the winds were so fierce that it could have been mistaken for a hurricane. We later learned that the lightning was striking faster than the rain that day, and driving to the hospital felt like navigating through a river. All the stoplights were out, and the sky lit up like fireworks.

When we reached the hospital, I found my brothers-in-law waiting inside—cold, wet, and shaken from the traumatic events. They started recounting the story.

My husband had sailboarded while his brothers kayaked to a small island across from the Marina. As dark clouds loomed in the distance, they decided to head back. Just as they were preparing to leave, my husband’s sandal strap broke, and he swapped sandals with one of his brothers. Though he was unhappy about the thicker sandals, which made it hard to maneuver on the sailboard, he reluctantly wore them. Halfway back to the Marina, the rain began to pour, and lightning struck. A loud pop echoed, and my husband fell unconscious into the water. Without a life jacket, the only thing keeping him from sinking was the sandal he had switched with his brother.

It was determined that lightning likely struck the mast of the sailboard, which was shattered, and the current flowed through his hands and out his feet. His brothers, uncertain of what to do, jumped out of the kayak to save him and then back in to seek help. Fortunately, they spotted a speedboat approaching. Onboard were Bruce Shank, the #8 pilot for the Blue Angels; Pat McMahon, the Blue Angels flight doctor; and Paul Mollere, a Navy doctor. A girl at the Marina had witnessed the incident and urged them to help despite the storm.

When they reached the sailboard, Pat McMahon jumped out of the boat and unfastened the strap holding my husband’s foot, causing him to begin sinking. Panicking, Pat dove into the murky water and, lucky enough to feel my husband’s leg, pulled him to the surface. Bruce lifted him onto the boat while Paul immediately began CPR, continuing until they reached the Marina and could call an ambulance. It wasn’t until my husband was in the ambulance that his heart started beating—at least 45 minutes after he fell unconscious.

Once at the Navy Hospital, it was determined he needed to be transferred to a facility better equipped to handle his severe case, so he was life-flighted to the burn unit at the University of Southern Alabama. Here, he was admitted to the ICU, where Dr. Woods, a college intern, regularly updated us on his precarious condition. We took turns visiting him, and his flight buddies made practice flights just to check in on him.

On the third day, the Commander and Commodore came to visit. While we were with them, Dr. Fry, the head of the burn unit, asked to speak with me. The moment I saw her, I sensed something was wrong. Until then, I had felt hopeful, but when Dr. Fry entered the room, panic set in. She informed us that my husband was not doing well; despite being given 100% oxygen, his lungs were failing. She suggested we say our goodbyes.

Stunned and confused, I didn’t understand how things had taken such a dire turn. Just then, my mom called. I didn’t want to speak with her, as I was too upset, but someone handed me the phone. She assured me that he would be fine and urged me to encourage him to keep fighting. With renewed determination, I, along with my mother, father-in-law, and his brothers, went in—not to say goodbye, but to implore my husband to fight for his life.

Not more than 30 minutes later, Dr. Fry returned to the waiting room with surprising news: he was doing much better. Though still not out of danger, his oxygen levels were improving. We breathed a sigh of relief and braced ourselves for the coming week, which brought more challenges—kidney failure, an infectious disease from the water he had ingested, and a high fever were just a few of the struggles his body faced. Eventually, his condition stabilized, and after another week, they were able to wake him from the induced coma.

While we were excited, we were aware that the lack of oxygen could have caused brain damage. As they woke him, we held our breath. After retelling the story a few times, he seemed fine, and the medical team began working on his physical recovery.

It was a long journey filled with prayers, sleepless nights in the hospital, and worries about the future. After two months, he was finally released to return to Utah for continued recovery.

We said tearful goodbyes to our incredible doctors and nurses, especially Dr. Fry and Dr. Woods, along with our cheerful physical therapist, Dawn, then boarded a military flight home. My husband was still in a wheelchair upon arrival and faced months of physical therapy. Sadly, he was medically retired from the Air Force, knowing he would never become a pilot, but he was profoundly grateful to be alive.

The following spring, we were invited back to Pensacola for a ceremony honoring Bruce Shank, Pat McMahon, and Paul Mollere, who received the highest combat award next to the Purple Heart for saving his life. The ceremony took place at the Marina where the accident occurred, and we felt honored to attend. The Admiral spoke about how he wasn’t usually a God-fearing man, but he considered this a miracle and praised the men for their bravery. I wholeheartedly agree with the Admiral—this was a miracle. From my husband’s sandal breaking to surviving a lightning strike, being rescued by two doctors, and being resuscitated after at least 45 minutes with no brain damage, the evidence of Divine intervention was undeniable.

From my perspective, it felt as if God was giving us another chance, igniting a newfound hope that perhaps things might finally turn around for us.