Frank McKinney's Haiti earthquake relief (updated 2/18)
(February 9, 2010)
Hear Frank's live call
during a rescue
Frank McKinney's Haiti Earthquake Experience
"Compassion Without Action is a Waste of Emotion"
Our relief efforts continue on a daily basis. Please visit our donate page for alternative donation amounts: http://www.frank-mckinney.com/donate.aspx, call Anne at 561.722.3950 to make your donation over the phone, or mail to P.O. Box 388 Boynton Beach, FL 33425. Also remember, if you purchase any of my bestselling books, all proceeds go to Caring House Project Foundation: http://www.frank-mckinney.com/books.asp
Before you begin reading my first-hand account, please be ready to cut, paste and send this link to your contacts. It contains the story you are about to read:http://www.frank-mckinney.com/blog.asp?article=168
By the time we departed Haiti on Sunday evening, 52 search-and-rescue operations with 2,200 operatives had set up camp at the end of the runway at PAP, the Port-au-Prince airport. Thirty-nine countries had mobilized to bring out survivors of the devastating earthquake.
The “dream team” I assembled had arrived three days earlier, anxious to get to work because the survival window for victims still trapped under the rubble was closing. We were the tenth group to sign in with the United Nations, and for the next three days we were embedded deep into the epicenter of the disaster. Our extremely well-qualified team of medical and search-and-rescue personnel (three from Colorado and six from South Florida) not only cut through concrete and steel but also through the red tape and bureaucracy associated with such a massive effort.
We saved four lives and worked with teams from Peru, Nicaragua, Jordan and Spain. Two of the survivors we rescued had been trapped behind crumbled walls and a cadaver in a collapsed building, one had spent 90 hours under the debris, and another had been in surgery when the quake shook the hospital’s foundations and crushed him under its ruins.
While we were there, a total of 43 people were freed, alive, from the wreckage. That means our ragtag team was involved in nearly 10 percent of the total number of rescues during those two days!
I’d like to briefly share with you what happened: who went, who worked with us there, what we did, what we saw, the real truth from the inside. But first I want to tell you what’s next.
Already, support has been tremendous. From financial donations to contributions of time to critical supplies and equipment that were obtained for use in this special mission, we’ve received aid from hundreds of generous individuals and organizations since the quake hit. Anyone who took action, who didn’t just sit and watch and say, “How sad,” has made a meaningful, measurable difference for the Haitian people.
You know who you are, and I want to say thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
Our relief efforts continue on a daily basis. Please visit our donate page for alternative donation amounts: http://www.frank-mckinney.com/donate.aspx, call Anne at 561.722.3950 to make your donation over the phone, or mail to P.O. Box 388 Boynton Beach, FL 33425. Also remember, if you purchase any of my bestselling books, all proceeds go to Caring House Project Foundation: http://www.frank-mckinney.com/books.asp
We’re committed to continuing to draw attention to Haiti in the coming weeks, months and years. When the hype dies down, the people there will still need our help. Now that the world’s eyes have turned to this country, which even before this disaster was the poorest in the western hemisphere, we want to hold that focus for as long as we can. So many people’s lives, and the next generation of Haitians, depend upon it.
As a charity with an ongoing interest in improving living conditions in Haiti, the Caring House Project Foundation will be there for the duration, just as we have been for the past six years, master planning communities, building self-sufficient villages and providing emergency relief.
Compassion = Action
When I first got the news, I was finishing up a keynote for the Junior League in Boca Raton. As a service organization, they’d wanted to hear about the 11 villages we’d constructed in Haiti, and the 3 new ones we had planned for 2010. While some of the women stood in line as I signed books, a few asked in passing if I’d heard about the earthquake. I hadn’t, and to be honest, I didn’t give it much thought at the time. It’s usually monstrous hurricanes that devastate the people of Haiti, not a little tectonic rock and roll.
No one knew yet what the quake had done to the country and its citizens, that the tremors centered near Port-au-Prince had measured 7.0 on the Richter scale andmore than 100,000 people would perish.
The next morning, the news started to supply some of the specifics and show horrifying images: people dismembered, crushed, multi-story buildings collapsed and flattened like pancakes, the dead lining the streets and their families crying out in grief. My one comfort was that the people in our villages lived in one-story homes with light metal (zinc) roofs; all of the buildings we’d constructed, from community centers to schools, were built to specifications far above the norm in Haiti, and it was unlikely that anyone was trapped or killed inside them.
So, although my first thought was for the people in the villages we’d built, it quickly gave way to a clear initiative: I needed to assist with finding and rescuing those trapped in the rubble, and do it quick. I’d get a crack team on the ground at Port-au-Prince and begin work immediately. Why did I think we could do it? True, this mission was unlike anything our charity has undertaken. But when God puts something like this in front of me—an opportunity I call a “Tap Moment”—I’m compelled to take action, no matter how large the undertaking or how dangerous it may seem.
Besides, I was preoccupied with a different question: How soon can we get there?
Calls went out right away to everyone I knew in the search-and-rescue community, as well as medical personnel, along with a demand that they respond within the hour if they’d be a part of my team. In the end, we assembled a dream team, including two firefighters who speak the local language, Creole, and whose extended families still live in Haiti (indicated with asterisks below). Our crew, my new family, included:
Search & Rescue
Cpt. Robert Belzaire, Davie Fire and Rescue, FL*
Chief Edward Crelin, Delray Beach Fire-Rescue Department, FL
Lt. Edward Beardsley, Delray Beach Fire-Rescue Department, FL
Lt. Nate Lasseur, West Palm Beach Fire Rescue, FL*
Lt. Steven Moews, Delray Beach Fire-Rescue Department, FL
Lt. Robert Rudich (commander of search and extraction), Colorado National Guard, FL
Medical
Lt. Eric Miller (E.R. nurse/paramedic), Colorado National Guard
The day we planned to leave for Haiti was also the day we were “flying” my treehouse from its 8-year perch in the strangler fig in front of our home to a spot 35 feet away. After a long battle with the Delray Beach Historic Preservation Board, we’d compromised and agreed to move it if they’d let us keep it on our property. So we hosted a special event at $25 a head, where people could watch the treehouse take flight with me chained to it—a stunt we’d planned weeks ago to raise money for the Caring House Project Foundation and to make a point about how important it is to fight for what you believe in. Here are a few short articles with photos depicting what was quite a spectacle!
The event had taken on greater significance in light of the worsening situation in Haiti, and I was grateful to tell people that for every $25 they’d donated, they’d provided 250 meals in Haiti. We had over 100 in attendance, with many donating well in excess of $25. As the giant crane prepared to lift my treehouse and me into the air, I drove my point home.
“Some things in life are worth valiantly fighting for. The treehouse fight that I endured for 8 years pales in comparison to the fight for life in Haiti. So, while I fly chained to my beloved treehouse now, in two hours I take a more important flight to Haiti.”
Meanwhile, we were leaning on our political network to gain clearance for our two jets to land in Port-au-Prince. With no air traffic control provided by the Haitians (the tower still stood but wasn’t safe), the airspace had been taken over by U.S. military personnel operating the airport from handheld radios from lawn chairs at the end of the runway. Very few planes were allowed to fly directly into PAP. By the time we were ready to take off at 3 p.m. on Thursday, a “ground stop” had been declared: nothing but military planes would be allowed to land. Everyone else would be diverted to the Dominican Republic.
There was no time for that. We’d never be able to drive to Port-au-Prince in time, so we pressed our contacts in an effort to be classified as military planes. After heavy persuasion, when we received word three hours later that our tail numbers were on the approved fly list and the military would let us touch down there, we departed for Port-au-Prince. Here’s what we took with us:
Rescue equipment: ropes, pry bars and crowbars, safety helmets, gloves
Food and water: Military MREs (“meals ready to eat”), bottled water, filter to purify additional water
Medical supplies: basics for stitching and bandaging, IVs, catheters, saline solution, blankets, medicines
Other supplies: flashlights and communication equipment, video equipment, tents, sleeping bags. (I also carried a photo of Laura, one of Nilsa, my rosary and one change of clothes.)
We arrived around 8 p.m., and the scene on the ground was impressive. Tents bigger than my house as well as smaller camps were all set up at the end of the runway in an area the size of four football fields.
No one checked our passports. We didn’t pass through customs. Nobody greeted us or gave us any kind of orientation. We were on our own, like old time gunslingers riding into the Wild West: we had to figure out where we’d make camp, who was in charge, what the rules were (not that I intended to follow them all, but still).
We’d landed with a purpose and plenty of passion, but without a definitive plan. We considered going to the U.S. embassy but quickly realized that if we left the airport, we’d never get back in. A doctor tried to convince us to set up near a U.N. hospital, but we could tell that, although our presence might benefit the hospital, it wouldn’t get us out on the streets to rescue people who were trapped.
After some fierce pacing—we must have looked like a pack of wolves—we decided to set up at the end of the runway, alongside the huge tents of other search-and-rescue teams, and to sign in with the U.N. command center so we’d be connected with the larger effort.
Which meant our outfit needed an official name. All international search-and-rescue teams have one (Virginia Task Force 1, Florida Task Force 1, China 1, etc.) One person suggested “Caring House 1,” but we nixed that. It didn’t sound official enough, special-ops enough. Another suggested “Colorado 2,” with the logic that he knew there was a real Colorado 1. So Colorado 2 sounded right and didn’t put us in jeopardy of being exposed as the makeshift team we were if Colorado 1 should happen to show up. Fair enough. Colorado 2 it was.
We made our way to the command center, entered our name in the roster and became an approved search-and-rescue team. Colorado 2 was the tenth one to report for duty.
Our relief efforts continue on a daily basis. Please visit our donate page for alternative donation amounts: http://www.frank-mckinney.com/donate.aspx, call Anne at 561.722.3950 to make your donation over the phone, or mail to P.O. Box 388 Boynton Beach, FL 33425. Also remember, if you purchase any of my bestselling books, all proceeds go to Caring House Project Foundation: http://www.frank-mckinney.com/books.asp
Survivors #1 and #2 (Friday)
The next morning, when we arrived for our first meeting at the command center, there were 12 groups ready to go, and we were assigned to work with a Peruvian team of about 15 people who had equipment and personnel that complemented ours. We’d be flanked by a Nicaraguan team of about 10 and a Jordanian team of another 15, each toting heavy machine guns and other artillery. No one was to go out into the streets without a security detail for protection.
That was just one of many, many rules and regulations, strict protocol we were to follow. While we were briefed and instructed and talked, talked, talked to, I started to get irritated with the level of detail. It’s my nature to get critical information on something, and then quickly implement it. I was ready to go. In my mind, every second counted, and every minute we delayed was another opportunity missed.
Not everyone on our team felt that way. Just as not every other search-and-rescue team felt that way. There were essentially two schools of thought, as different as night and day: either you were trained to regard the protocol and established procedure as mission-critical, or you said, “F!@# all that! Quit talking, and let’s go!”
You can guess what side I was on, but I’m not saying one is right and one is wrong. In truth, I think having a balance between the two in our own team made us faster, stronger, wiser, safer and more efficient. Because of our nimble nature and the relevant experience and training of our crew, we had the perfect complement of people: some who spoke the local language, some who spoke the lingo of special ops, some who knew the rules, some who knew how to break them.
We were assigned to Quadrant 4 of the city, and while more talking, planning, and mapping was going on, I went out with Lt. Nate Lasseur to get us some wheels, as U.N. transportation was at a premium. With $3,000 in one- and five-dollar bills in my pockets and strapped around my body, I set out to secure a vehicle we could use to haul equipment and transport survivors to the hospital. After meeting Fremont, a Haitian police officer, at camp and hiring him to be our escort and translator, we left the safety of PAP, exited through a heavily guarded gate, and took to the mean streets of Port-au-Prince in Fremont's own car.
At the “rental car company” (I use the words loosely), $1,000 plus Nate’s and Fremont’s command of Creole secured us a Nissan SUV with an empty fuel tank. We improvised some siphoning equipment and paid for fuel we’d take from wrecked cars—$10 a gallon, which isn’t bad, considering it was about $5 a gallon in Haiti before the disaster.
At 9 a.m., 64 hours after the quake had rocked the country, we rolled: 12 Americans, 10 Peruvians, 10 Nicaraguans, and 15 Jordanians.
As the driver, I was outfitted with a bullet-proof vest that the cameraman, Tom Cunningham, had given me. He’d reported on some dire situations before—Darfur and the like—and he insisted that the driver would be the first target if someone wanted the occupants, contents or even the vehicle itself, so I’d better wear his extra vest. With my expanded chest, my sleeveless shirt (Dad’s old Army issue that I often wear in tribute to him), my long hair, and my lack of reverence for protocol, I quickly earned the nickname “Conan the Barbarian.”
While we were parked for a few minutes in the lot of a destroyed gas station about 5 miles from our base camp, the first crowd mobbed us, hysterical and pleading for help. We went to several locations to determine if there were any survivors to be rescued, but mostly what we found were bodies. The smell of decay and decomposition followed us everywhere, and I pulled my bandana up over my mouth and nose. The sights were horrific, and I often averted my eyes. Seeing bodies scooped up by a front-end loader was horrible—this rough equipment we use to move giant piles of dirt in construction projects at home was awkwardly shoveling the detritus of human lives.
After many futile attempts, by noon, we found our first survivor. Izabelle, 56 years old, was stuck in the rubble behind someone else who’d died, so the rescue team worked over the cadaver to free her.
It took more than four hours to get her out, and when they succeeded, we all let out a mighty yell. It was like the male-macho version of childbirth—seeing this woman emerge from the opening alive set off a kind of elation that compares only to what I felt seeing my daughter come into this world.
After the tension of testing buildings to be sure it was safe even to try—and deciding in too many cases that it wasn’t—of finding so many people we felt as if we’d just missed saving, of painstakingly moving debris inch by inch, of hearing the screams of the people around us as we worked, of watching the lament of children and families wounded, starving and thirsty, this brought a deep rush of relief. With so much despair and death everywhere we looked, it was a moment of hope.
We moved Izabelle into the back of the SUV, and Ginger and Eric improvised an IV, rolling up the window to pinch the top of the bag and hold it in an elevated position. My demolition derby training came in handy as we dealt with the gridlock (no traffic lights) caused by fallen buildings, downed power lines, dead bodies and thousands of people criss-crossing the streets on our way to the hospital. We proceeded with lights flashing and horn blaring.
Yet when we finally arrived at the U.N. hospital, they turned us away. “We’re full,” the guard insisted.
Although Eric was aggressive, it ultimately proved fruitless. For a few minutes there, I was worried the guard was going to make his point by taking the butt-end of his gun to the side of my head.
Frustrated, I insisted that we take Izabelle back to the tent city at the airport, where I knew medical personnel were on hand. There, we found a field hospital operated by the U.K. that took her in, and the last time I saw Izabelle, she was doing well.
We raced back to our team, as we knew they were in the process of extracting Survivor #2, Izabelle’s daughter, a woman in her twenties. But that effort proved even more time-consuming, and as the afternoon wore on, the Peruvian group took over and most of Colorado 2 went back to camp. (Another rule: unless you were actively involved in an extraction, you had to be back by 5 p.m., before dark set in) I stayed, waiting to drive her to the field hospital. By 9:30 p.m., though, we had two U.N. vehicles nearby, and it became obvious it wasn’t necessary for me to stay any longer, so I returned to PAP.
At 2:30 in the morning, the Peruvians successfully extracted Izabelle’s daughter, and the U.N. personnel took her for treatment.
That night, I crawled into my sleeping bag and wore earplugs to drown out the roar of the engines on the tarmac. What I didn’t count on was the fear and adrenaline rush of being abruptly shaken awake by an aftershock around 3 a.m. I didn’t sleep much after that.
Our relief efforts continue on a daily basis. Please visit our donate page for alternative donation amounts: http://www.frank-mckinney.com/donate.aspx, call Anne at 561.722.3950 to make your donation over the phone, or mail to P.O. Box 388 Boynton Beach, FL 33425. Also remember, if you purchase any of my bestselling books, all proceeds go to Caring House Project Foundation: http://www.frank-mckinney.com/books.asp
Survivors #3 and #4 (Saturday)
Again, we went to the U.N. command center for our assignments. Then it was back to the streets like a pack of dogs, looking for more survivors.
We were out again by 9 a.m. (too late, in my opinion) and our first stops were to investigate, again, many sites where people lay dead but far from forgotten. The crowds were becoming increasingly frustrated with us moving on from these places, but we were there to find the living.
I can’t imagine how teams who didn’t have someone who could speak Creole managed to sort this out. Lucky for us, Nate was adept at asking the right questions, interpreting the answers, and reading the people he talked with. He would make decisions about where to stop and investigate, and then the Peruvians would assist, using sensitive listening equipment to determine if any survivor could be found.
“¡Silencio! ¡Golpeo!” (“Silence! I knock!”)
And then they’d knock three times—tap! tap! tap!—and wait to hear if anyone knocked back. And again with a different rhythm: tap-tap, tap!
After one of these sessions yielded nothing, it was the first time I feared that things might get out of hand with the crowd. We’d stopped to check a site where a man was frantically digging with a backhoe, trying to unearth his family, who he insisted had called him on a cell phone just a few hours before from inside the tumbled-down building. Yet we could find no evidence of life, and we had to move on. The hundreds of people who had assembled were clearly disturbed that we were leaving, and the man with the backhoe was shouting.
The Nicaraguans and Jordanians moved in with machine guns drawn to clear the way, and we continued on to another area.
Around noon, we happened by a Spanish search-and-rescue team that had just finished a five-hour extraction but had no transport to the hospital. So our doctor Ginger and nurse, Lt. Eric Miller, loaded Pierre, Survivor #3, into the back of the SUV, and I took off with the three of them plus Nate to provide directions to the airport, leaving the rest of my team in the street.
Another rule I’d decided I had to ignore: never separate from your group. But I knew they were well protected and had alternative transportation.
We sped, and we drove on the wrong side of the road more often than not. More people were on the streets that day, and it was even more difficult to get through the traffic, but we did make it back to PAP. Once there, Eric insisted we find the Russian or Israeli field hospital, as these were supposed to be top-notch. But we wound up driving in circles, and I became more and more frustrated. Nerves, lack of sleep and the conditions had gotten the best of us, and Eric and I were screaming at each other.
“I’m driving to the end of the runway, and if we don’t find the hospital in this pass, I’m taking him back to the field hospital we found yesterday!”
So I proceeded down the runway where the transport planes were still arriving and taking off. (You’ve seen those C1-11s, right? The ones that carry 15 Hummers? Those were hulking around the runway, and I remember driving directly under the engine of a similarly huge, moving Chinese cargo plane. I found out later that while we were going one way with Pierre’s legs sticking out the back of our “ambulance,” we’d passed U.N. envoy Bill Clinton going the other direction in a Gulfstream Jet.)
At the very end of the runway, we found a hospital set up only for U.S. service casualties, primarily for injured rescue workers. The Commanding Officer said no way, this hospital takes only Americans. Another officer overruled him, and after some more argument, Pierre was finally inside the tent. Once he had passed through the doors, the discussion was over: they had to treat him. Some people were angry and threw the rest of us out, but by then our job was done. To their credit, once he was their patient, Pierre received top-notch care by our military.
I stopped at the U.S. military depot, and asked if we could fill our gas tank so we could return to search and rescue. I was growing tired of spitting gas out of my mouth after siphoning, I explained. The lieutenant obliged gladly.
When we returned to our team, we found them involved in the extraction of Survivor #4. (Lt. Rob Rudich, with the fauxhawk hairdo and mouthy military manner, called me out for having taken off without them earlier, but he couldn’t argue with me any more when I said they wouldn’t be this far along on another rescue if I hadn’t left them there.) Someone in a Tap-tap (a colorful Haitian taxi) had told them about this man trapped inside the collapsed hospital, and now they were working to get him out.
Bendito had been a patient during the quake, having surgery for a stab wound, when the bed frame struck him and pinned him in a small crevice. This is where the Delray firefighters and paramedic—Lts. Edward Crelin and Steven Moews, Chief Ed Beardsley, and Greg Tabeek—really shined. Even before they got him out, Bendito was doing well, even after 96 hours in this condition, even with a chest tube still in his back. When rescue workers were using the carjack to move the bed, he’d grabbed a hammer and begun helping to hit the metal frame. In the end, once the firefighters had cleared the way, Bendito had crawled out—under his own power—from the small space where he’d been trapped. It wasn’t Bendito’s time to go.
Once he was free, Bendito shook everyone’s hands and thanked us for what we were doing. We took him across the street for post-op and other care, where Doctors Without Borders had set up, using supplies they’d scrounged from the toppled hospital.
Our Work Is Done, Let’s Go Home
That evening, we began collecting our belongings and sorting out what we’d leave behind. Lts. Lasseur and Belzaire had families in the area, and who’d been in touch by cell phone, so we bundled up tents, other camping gear, and all of our leftover food to give to them.
On Sunday, the jets arrived to take us home, packed full with more we’d leave behind: mostly water and medical supplies. We left in two shifts, and we welcomed the second plane home to Fort Lauderdale Executive Airport with a lot of fanfare. What our ragtag team of underdogs-turned-superheroes had accomplished was nothing less than miraculous. Four people saved, whom we’re unlikely to meet again but who will always be a part of our memory, part of our lives as we move forward and try to help Haiti rebuild.
I want to make sure that we pay attention to what is working and build from there: the nations coordinating efforts, the individuals banding together, the enormous amount of supplies, the occasional miracle that emerges from the wreckage. Yes, it will take time to get relief to all the people. Although it’s certain there will be some acts of civil unrest—who could “rest” in this tragedy?—based on my personal experience there, I’m hopeful.
Only once did I fear for my safety while we were Haiti. The machete is no match for the machine gun, to be sure. This isn’t to say that we need to strong-arm anyone, just that many of the widespread fears are unfounded. Instead of worrying about what “they” might do, we need to focus on what we can do, starting now.
Just as the aftershocks still rumble under Port-au-Prince, I hope that public consciousness about Haiti’s plight continues to resonate with the people there. For the last six years, I’ve been visiting Haiti atleast twice a year, each time excited to see the country slowly progressing. But now, it’s as if God had taken a giant eraser and told us to start over. In my faith, I know there’s a reason, and I suspect that it’s to focus our attention on Haiti’s needs more intently.
I hope reading this has left you with feelings of compassion, sympathy and—most important—aspiration: the desire to act on those feelings, to do something more than be a concerned spectator, to reach out to others in whatever way is appropriate for you..
We will be in Haiti for years, just as we have been, and I need your help.
On behalf of our Caring House Project Foundation Board of Directors, I want to sincerely thank you if you have donated to this emergency effort. If you haven’t, and would like to do so, please visit our donate page: http://www.frank-mckinney.com/donate.aspx, call Anne at 561.722.3950 to make your donation over the phone, or mail to P.O. Box 388 Boynton Beach, FL 33425. Please circulate this to your entire list, and encourage them to act. Also remember, if you purchase any of my bestselling books, all proceeds go to Caring House Project Foundation: http://www.frank-mckinney.com/books.asp
I also want to thank my dream team, Ed, Ed, Steve, Greg, Nate, Robert, Rob, Eric, Ginger, Chandra and Tom. I love each one of you, and I am a better person because you said "yes" to the life challenge that was our rescue effort in Haiti.
As a postscript, our Doctor, Ginger and nurse Eric stayed behind for thee additional days. They travelled, often alone left to thier own ingenious devices. The highlight for them was Ginger delivering a brand new baby in a field hospital!
This certainly continues to be an unbudgeted expenditure for our Caring House Project Foundation, yet we are called to act on God's great "tap moments" (www.The-Tap.com), as the Haiti earthquake disaster has presented.
Please circulate this email to your list, or send: http://www.frank-mckinney.com/blog.asp?article=168, as it contains the same information. Regardless of when you read this, please support our effort. It will take years, perhaps decades to rebuild Haiti, and I can assure you that our Caring House Project Foundation will be there for the duration, just as we have been helping build self-sufficent villages in Haiti for the last 6 years.
