He looked at the thermometer on the outside wall, which read 23 degrees. The wind picked up and was blowing at 30 mph.
“Get the hell inside, Tom,” Dianne shouted.
“No. I’m staying right here until everybody is in the building.”
“Do you have anything warm to put on?”
“Just the tee shirt and bathing suit that you’re looking at.”
She tossed him a beach towel.
After standing for 20 minutes in the freezing wind, Barton was satisfied that everyone was inside.
When he walked in his eyes blurred and he felt dizzy. He grabbed the edge of a table to steady himself, and then collapsed to the floor, unconscious.
Two weeks later, Tom Barton would die at Lenox Hill Hospital from complications of hypothermia.
“We couldn’t have picked a better day for a regatta,” Tony Ulewicz said to his wife Margie. Tony was the commodore of the South Bay Cruising Club, an organization of sailing enthusiasts on Long Island’s South Shore. Fifteen sailboats competed in the regatta on the Great South Bay. They had just rounded the first buoy and tacked to head southwest, at a sharp angle to the wind.
“I’d like to stay on this tack for the rest of the day,” Margie said. “It keeps the wind in our face.”
“Hey, what’s that? What the hell is going on?”
“God almighty, it’s cold,” Margie yelled as she wrapped a towel around her shoulders.
Without prompting from anyone, the entire fleet tacked to head north for the marina in Bay Shore.
“Hey, what’s wrong with Mike Plimpton?” Margie said, pointing to a boat off to starboard.
Seventy-five-year-old Plimpton, sailing alone, released the tiller and slumped over, holding his chest.
“Shit, it looks like Mike’s having a heart attack,” Tony said. He turned to aim straight for Plimpton, and then tacked to come alongside. Margie took the tiller as Tony jumped onto Plimpton’s boat.
“I think he’s dead, Margie. Take our boat in and I’ll follow.”
The statistics for the regatta weren’t what Tony had hoped for. Eight cases of hypothermia, one death from a heart attack, 20 incidents of frostbite, and one nervous breakdown.
“Hey Jack, slow down,” EMT Patty Carmichael said to Jack Maloney the ambulance driver. “We’re coming up on that spot where the tanker truck spilled water this morning.”
“Don’t worry Patty, it’s just water.”
They drove along Montauk Highway in West Islip on their way to Good Samaritan Hospital with an accident victim in the back. His siren blaring, Maloney drove as fast as he could.
“It’s getting kind of cold in here, Patty. Turn off the air conditioning.”
As he rounded a bend in the road, the ambulance hit a patch of black ice and careened out of control. A car behind them clipped their rear end, spinning the ambulance into oncoming traffic. They collided head-on with a cement truck, killing them both, along with the patient in the back and the nurse who attended him.
“Ready for a great day of geezer golf, Bill?”
Frank Montrose and Bill Fleming had just left the club house and headed for the first tee of the annual Senior Golf Tournament, sponsored by the Great River Golf Club. The outing was restricted to people over age 65. The tournament rules allowed for no golf carts, to encourage cardiovascular exercise, and to mimic the USGA and PGA rules. Each golfer towed his own hand-drawn golf caddy. The location for this year’s tournament was the Bellport Country Club, bordering on the Great South Bay of Long Island. The tournament committee had considered cancelling because of the blistering heat, but decided to go forward because there were always cooling breezes from the bay. A refreshment cart circled the tournament with free bottles of ice water and Gatorade.
Frank walked up to the tee on the 15th hole, a par four overlooking the bay. After he birdied the 14th hole, Frank was feeling good, if a bit exhausted from dragging his golf caddy in the 95-degree heat. As he raised his club, his arms dropped involuntarily in response to a sudden freezing wind off the bay.
“What the hell is that all about?” Frank yelled.
“I wish I had an answer, Frank. Let’s get our asses into the clubhouse.”
The clubhouse was 200 yards from where they stood on the 15th tee. Both men, each age 74, were already exhausted and sweaty from their first 14 holes. When they walked into the clubhouse, Bill sat down on the first available chair. He slumped over, his face ashen white. He would be pronounced dead of a heart attack later that day.
The reception room in the clubhouse was a chaotic scene of confused people, some wrapping themselves in tablecloths to try to get warm. The sounds of emergency vehicle sirens punctuated the sudden end of the golf tournament.
“Okay, everybody, line up,” Boy Scout Leader Mel Borden yelled. “This is a cleanup day, and you all know what that means. We’re going to leave this camp just like we found it—clean and neat. I want three feet between each scout. Walk slowly and pick up any piece of debris you see. It’s hot as hell, as you all know, so don’t walk too fast. I don’t want anybody passing out from a heat stroke.”
Mel Borden and the 50 kids of Boy Scout Troop 871 from Greenport, Long Island, were wrapping up their week of camping at Boy Scout Camp Wooten in the Catskills. The school bus that would take them home was scheduled to arrive at 11 a.m., two hours from then. His younger brother, Mike Borden was the Assistant Scout Leader. Mel, age 50, was doing what he loved— working with kids, something he didn’t get to do on his job as a stock broker.
During the week at Camp Wooten, Mel kept running activities to a minimum, something he hated to do, but the 95-degree temperature called for caution.
They finished their cleanup at 10 a.m.
“Okay, guys, everybody into the bunkhouse and grab your duffel bags. We’re going to line up right here and wait for the bus.”
As the last boy came to the staging area with his bag, all the scouts yelled out with one voice— “Whoa.”
“What the hell is going on?” Mel said to his brother Mike. “It’s freezing.”
Mike walked up the steps to the bunkhouse and looked at the thermometer.
“It’s 32 degrees, Mel. A few minutes ago, it was in the 90s.”
“Everybody inside. Leave your bags where they are. I don’t know what’s going on, but I don’t want us all to freeze.”
The inside temperature was still warm from the heat wave that had just disappeared, but it was starting to cool fast. Outside, it began to snow.
At 11:15 a.m. Mel tried to call Andy Timmons, the school bus driver. He was 15 minutes late.
“I don’t have any cell phone reception, Mike. Try yours.”
Mike’s phone was dead as well.
Twenty minutes before Mel tried to call, Timmons’ bus had hit a patch of black ice as he drove around a curve. The bus spun out of control, and tumbled end over end down a steep embankment. Timmons’ frozen body was found a week later.
On Tuesday, July 18, an Army National Guard Humvee with a snow plow attached, paved the way for a school bus. They pulled into Camp Wooten. The sergeant in charge of the search walked into the bunkhouse, and almost passed out from shock at what he saw. All 50 scouts, along with Mel and Mike Borden, were lying on the floor. Mel’s idea was to take advantage of their bodies’ thermal heat. The clubhouse was designed for summer and had no fireplace or other source of heat. Mel’s action saved a few lives, but two boys died of hypothermia.
Chapter 4
My wife, Ellen, was signed by NBC last year to host an afternoon talk show called The Ellen Bellamy Show. The show took off and soon became a TV phenomenon, rivaling Judge Judy. The money she earns from NBC plus her huge architectural fees resulted in our beautiful beach house, as well as a brownstone in Greenwich Village in downtown Manhattan. My salary as a cabinet secretary, although not bad, would never provide the luxuries we enjoy.