Rescue

When five year-old Duane Ungens stepped into his home-made, eight-foot dingy, he had no idea he was embarking on the first leg of a lifelong career. What started as an accident, developed into a hobby, and rose to a profession, still that inauspicious beginning foretold the outcome.

For no sooner had he sat on the boat's floor -- he couldn't make seats -- than two things happened: the wind blew the three-eighths-inch plywood hull seaward, and he realized he'd forgotten to include the oars.

The age-old question, are heroes born or do they come about because of circumstances, was up for grabs. Little Duane sized up the scene quickly, remarkable for a boy of five, but obviously he was alert and resourceful. What went through his mind was, "I don't want to be stranded in the middle of the lake!" So he jumped overboard.

He knew the boat was close to shore so the water was only knee-deep: still, to him, the leap was death defying. Crying, he scrambled up the sand vowing never to be unprepared again.

The family noticed a difference in the boy's behavior after the incident. Unlike his older and younger siblings, they found they did not have to remind him to take his jacket or mittens. And when the boy went to a high school basketball game and towed car after car out of the four-to-six inches of snow because he took chains, he amended his Kindergarten vow: "Not only will I never be stranded again, I will also help others get unstranded, and free." The statement and his desire not to attract attention set the course for his adult career, "The Emergency Man."

Because of his childhood, Duane's heart was in the water. He loved the splashing of the waves, white caps, smell of the beach at low tide, the sunrises and sunsets over the water, the gulls and terns flying above, the seaweed, currents, and all the little crawly creatures at the sea's floor. Duane loved the mirror-calm ocean between storms with its glistening surface that almost blinded him when the sun reflected at just the right angle. He loved the storm clouds that filled the sky with their shades of gray and charcoal and black just as he swelled inside watching the pure-

white billowings against the blue sky. He was enthralled when the lightning flashed into the sea, dancing North, then South, then simultaneously in a network that looked like a luminescent tree root diving seaward. And he was downright invigorated by the howling gales that swept over the water forcing small boats and larger cabin cruisers to the safety of a protected harbor. Inland snow was fun, but his life was the sea.

In choosing a career, he knew he had to be independent so he would be free to move according to any need. So he formed his own company, The Emergency Man, Inc. This allowed him to be his own skipper, dispatcher, and choose his own jobs. And, above all, it put him near the people, the ones who sometimes boarded eight-foot dinghies without oars.

Another of Duane's dream-convictions was not to accept money for his services. To him, demanding payment from a stressed-out parent who'd watched his son almost drown was simply not right.

Still, he did have to make a living. So he accepted donations, but made it clear that they would go to pay for his forty-foot cutter only. This was underlined when he heard that an emergency service had refused to help a floundering sailboat because the owner couldn't pay cash for the rescue.

"How could anyone do such a thing? It's like a doctor refusing to save a person's life because the patient doesn't have his insurance card on him. Or waving good-bye to a drowning man because he doesn't have his wallet handy." The refusal drove home his credo:Duane Ungens helps people because theyneed help.This is not for money!

This much of Duane's story might be enough to satisfy some readers: here's a man who knew what he wanted, did what it took to prepare himself, and because he met his goal, must have lived happily ever after. Be we know not all scenarios follow such pat scripts. More often, lives and careers fluctuate like the wind. Duane had his ups and downs. He lost a boat near Big Sur, was too late to save the crew of a capsized sailboat off the Washington coast, even got rammed by a drug-running powerboat near San Diego. And there was the time he came across the cruiser whose captain had hung himself on the yardarm.

But most of Duane's rescues were minor: boats having run out of fuel, a broken rudder on a catamaran, missing oars, swimmers who'd run out of strength and couldn't maneuver against an off-shore current. Sometimes Duane aided disoriented seamen in heavy fog. And because he knew his mission, he named his boatFlorence, blatantly after Ms Nightingale So The Emergency Man catered to any and all: some desperate cases, but

mostly minor, maritime mishaps.

One rescue changed his life forever. An overpowered outboard full of coeds had flipped in San Francisco Bay. Luckily the girls wore life jackets, but since it occurred far from their shore, they needed help. In time, he married one of the girls, Christine.

Christine brought some refinements to the otherwise roguish rescue operation. Instead of cruising the West Coast aimlessly -- there's a lot of water between Seattle and San Diego -- Christine introduced a plan to work one area for a month, then move to another zone. Shetriedto locateFlorenceat one dock, but Duane would have none of that. Nor did he like the notion of getting two boats and changing the company from Emergency Man to Emergency People. Still, when Christine couldn't be on the water, she helped by acting as his dispatcher. She put EM in the Yellow Pages, on posters in all the major harbors and marinas, and occasionally placed an ad in a newspaper. They had more business than they could handle: hence the suggestion to get a second boat.

"But, dear," reasoned Duane, "as soon as we get a second boat, EM becomes abusinessinstead of a voluntary service. That will erase the immediate, personal touch."

"Yes, dear," answered Christine pragmatically, "but look how many more people you can help."

It was a convincing argument. So he acquiesced. He bought a fourteen-foot fishing boat that Christine could use for harbor emergencies while he was at sea. Not much of a compromise, but it did keep EM small.

Christine never stayed on land for long. She, like her husband, so loved the water that she spent most of the time aboardFlorence. And when the vessel finally wore out, she helped him findFlorence Too. The spelling was Christine's idea. She lost on renaming the company signifying it was run by a mananda woman, so by using too instead of two, she assumed the astute boat-name appreciater would understand. Christine's self image was, perhaps, as strong as Duane's desire to help others personally and selflessly.

When she wasn't helping save lives, up-righting vessels, or towing the stranded to port with her husband, Christine studied the Logs of the originalFlorence. She was amazed at the number of people The Emergency Man had helped. She was so impressed that she contacted a friend in the publishing business. Christine told her story: rather, Duane's. The two chatted over a bowl of clam chowder and cup of tea.

Had Duane gotten wind of what was crystallizing in his wife's head he would have become adamant. He insisted that no part of his operation would ever turn commercial. True, he succumbed to Christine's Yellow Pages and small ads, but they did little damage. A blatant search for recognition and publicity was all together different.

The project Christine suggested enthralled Carolyn. It would be a Rescue Ship's Log, touched up by the aid of an editor, of course. So when Duane saw Christine writing intensely on deck, he knew she wasn't writing letters. When he pursued, he met with, "Oh, stuff, dear." Later, when he'd become accustomed to her endless scribbling, she would say, "Oh, things we've done, dear." She never told him she was working on the first draft of a manuscript already accepted for publication with a strong possibility of being made into a movie. But as the manuscript grew thicker, even he realized the tide had risen. Now, Christine was smart. She knew her unpretentious, self-effacing husband would veto her project, so she never used the four-letter wordbookin his presence.

Instead, she just kept writing. She filled in the blanks where Duane abbreviated, she glorified and beautified episodes she knew were more daring than a brief entry suggested. She focused intently on the chapter, "The Man Who Saved Me," as well as on, "Rescuing Is Not Just For Men." And when she was done, keen-eyed Duane wondered why she'd stopped. To which she made the little white lie, "I just got bored. Let's go fishing."

Duane was, as he had been all his life, innocent of all things devious. He couldn't imagine his wife, co-partner in life and fellow altruistic being, submitting a manuscript to a publisher. The well-intentioned woman had played her cards close.

Then one day, as if out of the clear-blue, came a package with a white manila folder. Christine placed both on the Navigator's Desk. Duane stared at the book, dumb-founded. It even had pictures in it: ofhim. and ofFlorenceand of frantic people -- andhis name!

It takes time for even the quick-witted to process new information. Beforebookhad sunk in, Christine opened the envelop. It contained a movie contract.A book about him and his private doings had been published and now it was going to be made into a movie. Signed, sealed, and delivered! What's going on?

Then, before he could react overtly, two checks dropped out. The first, a sizable advance, the second, a six-figure check for the purchase of the movie rights.

Duane was caught short. Like the little boy in the eight-foot dingy with no oars. And he didn't like the feeling. After all his training, how could he once again be adrift?

Floundering, the only thing he could do was reach for something solid. So he hugged his wife.

His head still swirling, the unpretentious man smiled. "You Sea-Witch. You capsized and rescued me in the same stroke. Why, you're a true mate!"