Early Hopes Gave Way to a Sea of Despair

Tuesday was the second day of a grim search and cleanup mission off Anacapa Island. But it was different from the first. The sun was out and the seas were calmer, but spirits were lower than Monday, the day dozens of local fishing boats raced from port with at least some hope there might be survivors of the crash of Alaska Airlines Flight 261.

On Day One, the would-be rescuers braved darkness and rough waters. But as the hours passed, and the full scope of the tragedy emerged from the cold sea, their hopes faded. And as the sea gave up it’s horror -- severed body parts mixed with colorful Mexican baskets bought on a carefree holiday -- their faces turned grim. Times staff writers Gary Polakovic, Margaret Talev and Tina Dirmann were each on a different boat. These are their accounts of what they saw, and felt, when they and the rescuers confronted firsthand the worst disaster in recent county history.

From a distance, it looked like a city on water, a blaze of stadium-caliber lights on boats that peeled away night sky and guided rescuers to the fallen jetliner. A Dunkirk-like flotilla of salvage boats and yachts, fishing vessels and cutters raced to the crash site on a mission of mercy.

Aboard the Donz Rig out of Channel Islands Harbor, skipper Joe Villareal of Thousand Oaks gunned the engines, crashing through darkness and towering swells. Dolphins gave chase, oblivious to the chaos. Alaska Airlines Flight 261 had been in the water three hours, and we were in a hurry to help.

Villareal throttled down the 35-foot fishing boat when it reached the crash scene and ordered first mate Charles Richards to switch on the array of 3,000-watt bulbs affixed to the mast, which brought the magnitude of the disaster into plain view. Hopes immediately plunged as deep as the waters. Nobody spoke. It was understood we were not going to find survivors.

“Oh, my God. This is unbelievable,” Villareal said, as he stared blankly at the horror churning on the sea.

The ocean was littered with scraps, some scattered like beans on the floor, some formed into neat rows by an icy wind. It did not look like crashes in the movies or on TV. There were no life rafts, no tail sections or fuselage protruding from the inky sea, no one waving for help.

The jetliner carrying people from Puerto Vallarta up the West Coast was atomized into countless fragments and mixed with personal belongings in a swirling broth of mayhem. Most pieces were smaller than a saucer. Flocks of sea gulls scavenged.

The water reeked of jet fuel. Our clothes absorbed the odor and it clung to our bodies. The two journalists aboard fought an overpowering urge to be sick. The crew, who fish the Santa Barbara Channel for a living, were faring little better.

Villareal alerted the Coast Guard that he had arrived and proceeded to gingerly steer the Donz Rig through the floating mess.

It looked as if a giant box of Corn Flakes had been spilled into the ocean. Yellow chunks, the remnants of airline seat cushions that had disintegrated on impact, floated everywhere the boat lights shone.

Richards grabbed a big net with a long handle used to snare squid and started scooping debris aft onto the deck: a colorful basket, the kind you buy at the Tijuana border crossing for $3; a woman’s black purse; a piece of aircraft; a camcorder bag; a golf shoe. In the growing heap, the hand-painted face of the Virgin Mary gazed back from the lid of a busted trinket box.

Suddenly, just ahead, Villareal spotted a large floating object, too dim to make out. The engines, shoving through 10-foot swells in a low, gurgling rumble, inched the craft closer to what looked like a battered airplane seat. Richards grabbed the net and leaned over the transom. But it was not.

“That’s a body!” Richards said. “I ain’t touchin’ that. No way! I fish, this is not what I do.” He slammed the net on the deck, pressed his wrist to his lips and disappeared below deck.

Crash investigators talk about recovering bodies, but that is a sanitized description of the task--created for broadcast into America’s living rooms and to offer a pittance of consolation to family members. In truth, fragments of human remains were widely scattered, most of them mangled beyond recognition.

“The force of this crash is just unbelievable,” Villareal said, squinting through the water-streaked windshield of the cabin. “This is reality. What we saw out there will remain with me for the rest of my life.”