By BRIDGET MURPHY Staff Writer, (609) 272-7257

From Atlantic County News: The Press of Atlantic City  January 7, 2004

         
A third-generation Absecon bayman rescued three duck hunters and their dog from what could have been an icy death Tuesday after they spent three hours clinging to their capsized boat in the 40-degree water of an lntracoastal Waterway back bay.
        
At about 10:30 a.m., Al Kurtz, 38, a professional duck- hunting guide, plucked the hunters from the Little Bay area of Little Mud Thorofare, a section of the waterway near Galloway Township and Brigantine.
        
Kurtz, who also makes a living crabbing in the summertime, helped the men into his 22-foot craft before radioing the State Police Marine Station and Coast Guard in Atlantic City for help as he headed for shore, authorities said.
        
John Scagline, 54, of Monangahela, Pa., suffered hypothermia, but was in stable condition in the intensive care unit of Atlantic City Medical Center, City Division, on Tuesday evening, State Police Detective Joe Lowry said.
        
The other two men rescued - Robert Jameson, 52, of Daiseytown, Pa and Newton Stertina. 52. of Port Republic - were awaiting release from the hospital after receiving treatment, according to authorities.
         
‘They’re very lucky. That waters very cold right now,” Station Atlantic City Coast Guard Lt. Cmdr. Richard Frattarelli said from the base at about 11 a.m., moments after three ambulances had whisked the hunters off to the City Division.
         
“They did the right thing by staying with the boat, which obviously allowed the Good Samaritan to come along and find them,” Frattarelli said.
        
Kurtz said he set out on the water at about 6 a.m. to guide a group of hunters who were looking for black ducks and brant.
        
Those hunters were on shore in a duck blind and Kurtz was on the water looking through his binoculars at about 10:30 a.m. when he noticed a canoe on a meadow area about a mile away as it caught the sun’s glare. He decided to head over and check it out.
        
When he got closer, he discovered the hunters in the water.
         
 Sterling, another local duck-hunting guide Kurtz has known for years, was holding the body of another man over the capsized vessel’s bow, as a third man, who also was in the water, clung to the vessel as he held onto the collar of the dog, a yellow Lab.
        
The one-man canoe Kurtz first saw had broken free from the capsized vessel.
        
After helping the men and the dog onto his vessel, Kurtz took off his jacket and put it over the person Sterling had been holding up in the water since it appeared the man was going into diabetic shock.
        
Then as they headed for land, one of the men laid on top of that victim to try to keep him warm.
        

The State Police met them en route and gave them blankets, and by the time they reached shore about 15 minutes later, paramedics, firefighters and more personnel from the State Marine Police and Coast Guard were ready for them.
        
They quickly cut off the hunters’ waterlogged camouflage clothes, later piling them into clear plastic bags, and helped the men into ambulances.
        
Atlantic City Acting Fire Capt. Herbie Brooks, who assisted paramedics with other firefighters from Engine 3, said all three men were conscious, but one appeared incoherent and looked to be having a seizure when the group came ashore.
        
“They were telling us they couldn’t walk,” Brooks said of the two men who were able to speak to the rescuers. ‘They were telling us, ‘Help the other guy.”’
        
Authorities brought the shivering dog into the Coast Guard base’s building, Kurtz said.
        
State Police said the three hunters, who had an animal-trapping permit, planned to check traps before doing some duck-hunting Tuesday morning when their craft suddenly started to roll in the water and then capsized.
        
Investigators marked the hunters’ capsized vessel, but by nightfall Tuesday, it was still in the water where it sank, a section of water about 2 feet to 7 feet deep.
        
Around the same time, Kurtz’s family, including his wife, Lori, who is expecting the couple’s third child next month, stood waiting for him to dock his vessel at its homeport, the Absecon Bay Sportsmen Center on Natalie Terrace in Absecon, so they could congratulate him.
        
Manna employee Ray Slemmer said he doubted Kurtz would like the attention.
        
“I’ve known Al a lot of years,” Slemmer said. “He won’t be looking for no accolades.”

As it turns out, he wasn’t.
        
Shortly after docking and greeting his family, Kurtz, a man who has spent six days a week for the past 20 years making his living on the water, simply said that he was glad he happened along when he did Tuesday morning.
         
“It makes you think,” he said. “I’m out there all winter, too.”

 

The following is exactly what happened.        

A Real Life Story by Bob Noonan

 

At 5:45 a.m. on January 6, 2004, Captain Al Kurtz, 38, steered his 22-foot runabout out of New Jersey’s Absecon Bay Marina, with the three waterfowl hunters he was guiding. It was 35 degrees, with star studded clear skies. A cold front was coming in from Canada, and the west northwest wind was already gusting to 18 mph.
 

At dawn, Kurtz placed his hunters in a blind in Absecon Bay. At the same time, eight miles to the north, three men and a dog motored out of Atlantic County’s Oyster Creek. The boat’s pilot and owner, Newt Sterling, 52, of Port Republic, is one of the last of New Jersey’s “Pineys,” men who make their living completely from the Pine Barrens and adjacent salt marsh. He is widely regarded as one of the most experienced baymen in South Jersey. His bearded face is lined and brown from a lifetime’s exposure to wind and sun, and his 5-foot-2—inch, 150—pound frame was hardened after a long season of guiding hunters and trapping.
             

For a decade, Sterling has trapped predators for the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service in the Edwin B. Forsythe  Wildlife Refuge, to protect endangered Piping Plovers. This morning he and two other men, Bob Jameson and John Scagline, were going to check predator traps.
             

Jameson, 52, of Daisytown, PA, is a professional wildlife damage control agent. Six feet tall and 220 pounds, broad shouldered from weight training, Jameson is also toughened by an outdoor life. With him was his constant companion Max, a big eight-year-old golden lab/golden retriever mix.
             

John Scagline, 54, of Monongahela, PA, a professional taxidermist and trapper, works with Jameson. A lean, fit 5 foot 10 inch, 170 pounds, Scagline is a brittle diabetic on an insulin pump.
             

Sterling, an award winning boat builder, had constructed his boat, a traditional New Jersey commercial fisherman’s design called a garvey. It has a fairly flat bottom with a slight keel, 2foot high slightly flared sides, and a 6-foot beam. The bow narrows and rises to a 2 foot-wide flat face. A 12 foot canoe was lashed overhead to a metal pipe framework. Sterling piloted the garvey from behind a 4-foot-high windshield in the bow.
             

By the time they entered Great Bay, the eastern sky was bright red. Scagline thought, Red sky in the morning, sailor take warning.
             

Three hundred seventy-five miles to the west, as Scagline’s wife Holly watched their 11 year-old daughter Cara board the school bus, she also noticed the ominous sky. Suddenly she wanted to hear John’s voice, and dialed his cell phone. No answer. A normally calm woman, she had an unexpected fearful urge: Call the Coast Guard, see if he’s OK! She stopped herself. This is crazy. He’s fine.
        

The waves in Great Bay were a foot high. Sterling turned southwest, then entered Main Marsh Thoroughfare, a wide passage between two islands and part of the Intercoastal Waterway.
    

They were now in the Brigatine National Wilderness, part of the extensive saltwater marsh that stretches 90 miles north and south, between New Jersey’s outer barrier islands and the mainland.
    

The view all around was flat to the horizon. The numerous wide islands are barely higher than the water, and their level expanses of knee high salt grass, called "the meadows," are broken only by in-frequent 10 foot high clumps of brush and an even rarer lone cedar tree.
    

The area is an overlooked pocket of peace and natural beauty, teeming with wildlife, in the midst of America’s most dense human population. There is no hint that New York City is only 100 miles to the north, Philadelphia just 65 miles west. There was no sound besides the plashing of the waves and the wind. The only jarring reminder of civilization was Atlantic City’s tight cluster of skyscrapers, jutting sharply up about seven miles to the south.
    

This was Sterling’s element. He had spent his life here.
    

At 7:45 a.m. they were 300 yards west of Egg Island, traveling south parallel to it. The tide was higher than usual due to a full moon. Despite the sun, the temperature had risen to only 38 degrees. The wind was now gusting over 20 mph from the west, and the waves were 1 1/2 feet high and only 10 feet apart. Sterling was quartering into them, to reduce pitching, rolling, and spray. He’d weathered much worse.
    

Jameson had a quick premonition: This isn’t good. Then it happened. An exceptionally high wave approached, with an unusually deep trough ahead of it. The boat slid down into the trough, then rose on the wave, its left side angled steeply down, its right side up. As the exposed right side and part of the bottom lifted above the wave’s crest, a freak, powerful blast of wind shoved against it, the tall windshield, and the canoe.
     

The boat rolled smoothly onto its left side, over, and upside down. Scagline was thrown clear; Sterling and Jameson were trapped underneath. Scagline heard the motor sputter and die, then watched the stern sink from sight. Seconds later, Jameson and Sterling popped to the surface. They were all gasping from the shock of the 45 degree water. The motor quickly hit bottom and held the boat in place. Part of the bottom of the bow, about 5 feet long and 4 feet wide, projected out of the water at an angle, 2 feet at its highest point. The men and Max clung to its sides.
             

Sterling grasped instantly how serious the situation was. This isolated part of the bay saw little or no traffic in winter.
             

Their soaked cell phones were useless. Jameson asked, “What are the chances we’ll be seen?” “Not good,” Sterling said grimly. “I’m sorry. I killed you guys today.” “Nobody’s fault,” Jameson replied. “It’s an unfortunate accident.” Scagline nodded agreement.
             

They all understood hypothermia. The moment the body begins losing heat faster than it produces it, exposure begins. And all three major causes of hypothermia were present: wind, cold, and submersion.
             

Experts say survival in 45-degree water can range from 30 minutes to three hours, depending on physical condition. Keeping positive about rescue and conserving energy are also crucial.
             

Nobody panicked. All calmly agreed not to give up until they were found, or died.
             

The exposed hull, turned by the wind to face the island, rocked incessantly in the waves, and clinging to it was difficult. Jameson and Sterling climbed on, balancing precariously. Max joined them.
             

Scagline tried, but his strength was already ebbing. He got partially on, but a big wave knocked him off. He could no longer lift his legs, so he let them hang in the water. I’m comfortable just floating, he thought. It’s started. He knew limb weakness and lassitude were signs of hypothermia.
             

The three kept talking, to keep their spirits up. It was difficult above the wind. All were heavily dressed, and wore hip boots. Their soaked clothing increased their weight, but Sterling warned them to leave everything on, for insulation. “Stay with the boat,” he said. “It’s our only chance.
             

Without warning, Max jumped off and headed out into the bay. Jameson yelled for him to return, but the dog swam straight away until his bobbing head disappeared in the waves.
             

Jameson was crushed. He felt in his heart the elderly dog, stiff with hip dysplasia, was doomed.
             

Half an hour had passed, and Scagline’s speech became slurred, another symptom of advancing hypothermia. Staring blankly he said, as if his daughter was there, “I love you, Cara and Holly.” “We have to get him out of the water,” Jameson said.

 

Sterling agreed. "We need the canoe. We'll have to dive for it."

 

They were well aware that the energy this would require would hasten their own end. That wasn't even a consideration. They slid back into the water.

 

Sterling dove first, knife in hand. He immediately shot to the surface, gasping; the cold was so intense his body had literally rebelled.

 

He dove again, shuddering. Visibility was zero in the roiled, muddy water, and he fond the canoe by feel. He sawed on a rope, but made no progress. Out of breath, he shot to the surface.

 

His hands were cut and bleeding, his knife dulled. In the murk he had been cutting on a steel cable.

 

He dove repeatedly, cutting at the right rope this time, but with a dull knife. He was losing feeling in his hands, and had to take longer breaks on the surface. Finally the rope parted, and the canoe's bow shifted free.

 

Jameson dove several times before finding and cutting the canoe's stern rope. When the canoe poppedto the surface, the two men rolled it to fump water from it.

 

Then moved the canoe beside Scagline, who by now could move only his hands. While Sterling steadied one side of the canow, Jameson attempted to lift Scagline in from the other side.

 

Jameson is a powerful man, but Scagline's soaked clothing and boots almost doubled his weight. Each time Jameson lifted Scagline, he pushed himself under water. Eventually he got Scagline's torso over the side of the canoe, and Sterling reached across and pulled.

 

the shallow, wide keel-less canoe simply rolled over, dumping Scagline back into the water.

 

Jameson pulled him to the surface just as the alarm on his insulin pump began beeping. The batteries were being drained by the cold water. Bad news! Jameson thought grimly.

 

Sterling held Scagline's head up while Jameson dumped the water from the canoe again. Shoving and submerging himself repeatedly, Jameson managed once more to get Scagline half in the canoe. Sterling, fighting to balance Scagline's weight with his own on the opposite side, pulled on him.

 

The canoe rolled over again.

 

They rested, bobbing and gasping, fighting the wind and waves to keep Scagline afloat and hold the canoe against the boat, weighed down by their water soaked clothing and boots.

 

One last time Jameson emptied the canoe, and with herculean effort got Scagline half into it.

 

It rolled again, this time dumping Scagline in headfirst. He sank smoothly and motionlessly out of sight.

 

Like a Seal, Sterling thought. The he dove for Scagline, and also disappeared.
             

In the turbid water Jameson saw a lighter shape beneath him. He reached down, felt something, and pulled. Up came Sterling, gasping. And he held Scagline!
             

Freeing the canoe and tryirig to get Scagline in it had taken over an hour, and Sterling and Jameson had no energy left to try again. Sterling tied the canoe’s line to a 2-inch metal ring on the boat’s bow, just above the water, loosely in case his stiffening hands got worse.
             

Scagline was fading fast. “Bob,” he said, “I’m slipping.” “Don’t worry buddy,” Jameson replied, “I’ve got hold of you.
   

Jameson was facing the bow when he realized with horror that the canoe was moving away. The knot had come loose!
             

Scagline saw it too. His last conscious thought was, This is it.
             

The canoe lodged against the island. “I’ll get it!” Jameson said.“Let it go,” Sterling replied. “You won’t make it, it’s farther than you think.”
             

“I’ve got to try, it’s our only means of flotation.”
             

“How will you get back? There’s no paddle.”
             

I’ll use my hands, Jameson thought as he swam away.

His hip boots slowed him terribly, and he stopped to peel them off.
             

“Come back!” Sterling yelled. “Stay with the boat!”
             

Jameson still swam for the canoe but his limbs were stiffening, and he was slowing. Not going to make it, he realized finally, and turned back towards the boat. He could just see it in the waves.
             

He entered a dream state. The clear thought came to him that he had expended a prodigious amount of energy, had done everything he could, and now he was going to die. He accepted it calmly. But he kept swimming back to the boat.
             

He almost made it. He was only about 6 feet from it when his limbs stopped moving completely. Spread-eagled, he gasped, “Can’t make it!” and sank.
             

Holding Scagline up with one hand, Sterling grabbed the bow ring with the other, stretched his body out as far as he could, and kicked powerfully.
             

Jameson, almost unconscious, was dimly aware of something nudging his hand. He gripped it weakly. It was Sterling’s foot.
             

Sterling pulled his leg in, and Jameson with it. Jameson’s grip slipped, but Sterling let go of the bow ring and grabbed his collar.

Jameson coughed back to full alertness.

Scagline was unconscious, his limbs rigid. They tied his left his hand to the bow ring, then Jameson clambered onto the hull and straddled it, and with his left hand held Scagline’s right hand. With each wave he pulled hard on Scagline’s arm, to keep his head above water.
             

Sterling knelt on the hull behind Jameson, hip deep in the water.
             

The unusually high tide had flooded the grass of Egg Island, and the canoe was blown into the grass several feet, then stopped, lodged. They watched it bob and roll in the waves, up and down, as if mocking them.
             

There was nothing left to do but wait.
             

The wind was now gusting over 30 mph, and the bay was covered with whitecaps. Waves constantly drenched them and rocked the hull, knocking them off repeatedly. They helped each other back on. “Hang on,” they kept telling each other. “Got to keep going.
             

“Stay alive,” Jameson told Scagline, over and over, although he and Sterling were both afraid that Scagline was already dead.

Then Newt yelled, “Bob, I see your dog!”
             

Max had been gone over an hour. He swam to them, so exhausted he had to be helped onto the hull. Jameson was elated. His spirits lifted, and he hugged his companion.
             

They huddled together, Max between them, for warmth. The dog moved restlessly, often pushing them off and sliding off himself. They patiently helped him back on.
             

Time dragged. They became deeply, miserably cold. They shivered uncontrollably, and could hear each other’s teeth chattering. Finally they became silent, lost in their own thoughts.
             

Sterling prayed. Lord, I knew you’d take me on the water, I just didn’t think it would be this soon! Although still determined to live, he found he had absolutely no fear of death. He reviewed his life, and peace filled him. It was a beautiful day, and he loved the salt marsh. He had no regrets, no enemies, no resentments. He felt sadness about leaving his friends, but deep gratitude for having lived a life he loved.
             

Jameson understood the impersonal power of nature, and the part death played in it. Although not happy about his impending fate, he accepted it calmly. He felt badly about involving Scagline, whom he had invited. But he was happy he’d been able to spend his life outdoors, and even found consolation in the fact that he would die there. He prayed for his wife and family. And he determined to hang on until the last.
        
             

At about 10, Al Kurtz decided to move his hunters north, into Little Bay. He set them up in a blind, then scanned the water to the east.
             

A small, shiny dot was blinking and flickering regularly, like a beacon, on the horizon.
             

He looked through binoculars. Green against tan, he thought. Shouldn’t be there.
             

Maybe it was another hunter. But it’s an unwritten law among baymen that anything unnatural is investigated immediately. It might be someone in trouble.
             

He motored over a mile before he identified the object as an empty canoe, caught in the grass. Where had it come from?
             

He was within 100 yards of the wreck before he saw it.
         
Sterling heard the motor first, then saw the approaching boat. “We’re saved!” he yelled.
             

Jameson’s hearing and sight were fading. He turned but could see or hear nothing coming. “Don’t tell me that if you don’t mean it,” he said.
             

Then Kurtz pulled up beside the wreck, and Jameson believed.
             

Kurtz was horrified. “My God, Newt, is that you? How long have you been here?”
             

“Too long,” Sterling grinned. “Good to see you, Al.”
             

It was 10:45. They’d been in the water three hours.
        
             

A series of miraculous coincidences had saved them. They had lost the canoe at the peak of a tide just high enough to carry it into the grass. The tide turned shortly after, and as the bay emptied, the current would have carried the canoe away. By the time Kurtz got to the men, the canoe, left high and dry by the ebbing tide, had stopped bobbing. It had blown due east of the wreck; Kurtz had placed his hunters due west of it, and had gone directly to it on the way to the canoe. If Kurtz had been an eighth of a mile north or south, his view of the canoe would have been blocked. And it was a clear day, with the sun in the perfect position to reflect off the canoe just as Kurtz arrived with his hunters.
             

Sterling and Jameson had expended precious energy on the canoe, for Scagline’s sake. They thought they had failed. But their efforts, spent willingly for another, had saved them all.
             

Kurtz is 6 feet tall and a muscular 195 pounds, but it took 20 minutes to get the men and Max into his boat. He radioed “Mayday!” on Channel 16, then headed for the Atlantic City Coast Guard Station. They landed at 11:15, and three waiting ambulances rushed the men to Atlantic City Medical Center.
             

Jameson and Sterling could walk, but their internal temperature had dropped to 92F -- the beginning of hypothermia. Scagline’s core temperature was 80F, considered moderate hypothermia, but due to his severe diabetes his condition was much more critical. He was in great danger of his organs shutting down, and his yellow eyes indicated his liver was beginning to. Yet his heart rate was an astonishing healthy 70 beats per minute without any disrythmia, and his blood’s oxygen saturation was 98 percent.
             

Amazingly, his Animas insulin pump was still working. Doctors credit that, and his soaked Gore Tex clothing acting as a wet suit, with helping to save his life.
             

He recovered quickly. He was talking to his wife by 2:20 p.m., and walking by 4. Jameson and Sterling were discharged at 6, and they visited Scagline before leaving.
             

Scagline was discharged at 4 p.m. the next day, January 7.
             

“He’s a remarkable man,” Dr. Jeffery Anderson told Holly Scagline. “Considering his diabetes, he should never  have survived. He has one of the strongest hearts I’ve ever seen.”
             

“He’s a hunter and trapper,” she told him proudly.
        

“These men are a breed apart.”
             

Scagline and Sterling have recovered completely, and are working at full capacity. Jameson suffered some damage to his legs and right shoulder, but is recovering, and working. Max is doing fine, too.
             

Top physical condition, acclimatization to the outdoors, and courageous dedication to each other, along with the miracle that directed Al Kurtz to them, saved their lives.
             

Kurtz doesn’t consider himself a hero. “Anyone would have done the same,” he says.