"Stranded in the Andes: A True Survival Nightmare":
I was 22, crammed into a plane with my rugby team, headed to Chile for a match. The cabin buzzed with laughter, guys swapping stories, tossing a ball around. I leaned back, grinning, thinking about the game ahead. The flight got rough, the plane jolting hard, but I brushed it off—turbulence, nothing new. Then came a deafening crash. The world spun. Metal screamed, and I blacked out, my last thought wondering if I’d wake up.
When I came to, pain stabbed my head, and my body felt crushed under something heavy. I was tangled in the wreckage, surrounded by twisted seats and shards of metal. The smell hit me—blood, fuel, and something sharp I couldn’t place. I blinked, trying to focus. Bodies were everywhere, some still, some moving weakly. My mother was gone, killed in the crash, her seat torn apart. My sister was nearby, barely alive, her face pale, her breaths shallow. I crawled to her, ignoring the pain in my ribs, and grabbed her hand. “You’re okay,” I whispered, my voice shaking. “We’ll get through this.” But her eyes were glassy, and I wasn’t sure she heard me.
We were high in the Andes, stranded on a glacier at 12,000 feet. The air was thin, every breath a struggle. Thirty-three of us survived the crash, but we were battered—broken bones, cuts, and shock. The fuselage, our only shelter, was a mangled shell, open to the elements. We dragged blankets and clothes from luggage to cover the gaps, but it wasn’t enough. My sister clung to life for eight days. I stayed by her, talking about home, our dog, anything to keep her with me. When she died, I sat there, staring at her face, feeling like part of me died too. The mountains loomed around us, silent, like they were watching, waiting for us to give up.
Hunger hit fast. We’d scavenged what we could—some chocolate bars, a bottle of wine, a few snacks—but it was gone in days. We tried eating leather from shoes, chewing until our jaws ached, but it did nothing. By the second week, our bodies were wasting away, skin hanging loose, eyes sunken. On the eleventh day, we huddled around a small radio we’d found in the wreckage. Static crackled, then a voice came through: the search for us was called off. My stomach dropped. “They think we’re dead,” someone whispered. I looked around at the guys—friends I’d known for years, now skeletons. No one was coming.
That night, we gathered in the fuselage, sitting on seat cushions, our breath visible in the dim light of a flashlight. Fito, one of the team, broke the silence, his voice low and trembling. “We’re starving. We can’t last much longer. We… we have to eat the bodies.” The words hung there, heavy. I felt my throat tighten, my mind screaming no. These were our teammates, our families. My mother was out there, my sister. But my body ached with hunger, and I thought of my father, waiting for me in Montevideo. Roberto, another teammate, spoke up, his voice steady but quiet. “They’re gone. Their bodies… it’s just meat now. They’d want us to survive.” I stared at my hands, dirty and cracked. “How do we even do this?” I asked, barely audible. Fito looked at me, his eyes hollow. “We cut what we need. We don’t think about who it was.” The group went quiet again. One by one, we nodded, some crying, some just staring blankly. I whispered, “Okay,” hating myself for it.
The first time was worse than I imagined. We used broken glass and a shard of metal to cut the flesh from one of the bodies outside, far from the fuselage. The sound of it—tearing, wet—made my stomach churn. We cooked it over a small fire made from seat fabric, trying to make it feel less… human. I held a piece in my hand, small and tough, and gagged before forcing it down. It tasted wrong, like nothing I’d ever eaten, but my body craved it. I thought of my sister, telling myself I was doing this to live, to get home. We made a pact to ration it, to treat it like food, not people. But every bite felt like a betrayal.
Life in the fuselage was a nightmare. We slept pressed together for warmth, our bodies shaking, waking up to find frost on our clothes. The silence of the mountains was eerie, broken only by the wind howling through the wreckage. One night, an avalanche roared down, burying the fuselage. I woke up choking, trapped under snow, clawing my way out. Eight of us didn’t make it. We dug out the survivors, our hands bleeding, our breaths panicked. “We’re cursed,” someone muttered, but I shook my head. “We’re alive. That’s what matters.”
Days dragged on, blending into weeks. We were down to 16, our bodies skeletal, our minds fraying. I couldn’t stand the waiting, the slow death. On the 61st day, I turned to Roberto, who’d become my closest ally. “We have to go for help,” I said, my voice hoarse. He looked at me, his face gaunt, eyes burning with determination. “You’re right. We’ll die here if we don’t.” We planned it out, knowing it was a long shot. We’d hike west, toward Chile, through mountains we didn’t know, with no gear, no map. “What if we don’t make it?” I asked. Roberto shrugged. “Then we tried. Better than rotting here.” We packed what we could—some flesh wrapped in cloth, a sleeping bag made from insulation, socks stuffed with padding for shoes—and left, the others watching us go, their faces a mix of hope and fear.
The trek was brutal. Every step sank into deep snow, my legs burning, my lungs screaming for air. We climbed ridges, some so steep I had to dig my fingers into the ice to pull myself up. My hands blistered, then bled. At night, we dug snow caves or curled up in the sleeping bag, our bodies pressed together, shaking uncontrollably. Roberto kept me going. “Think of home,” he’d say when I wanted to collapse. “Your dad’s waiting.” I nodded, picturing my father’s face, pushing forward.
On the third day, I saw something in the distance—a green valley, shimmering like a mirage. “Roberto, look!” I pointed, my heart racing. He squinted, skeptical. “Is it real? Or are we losing it?” We kept moving, driven by that glimpse of hope. But my mind started playing tricks. One night, I swore I saw my sister walking ahead, her hair blowing like it used to. I blinked, and it was just a rock shaped like a person. I didn’t tell Roberto—I was scared I was cracking. By the eighth day, our food was gone. My body felt like it was eating itself, my vision blurring. “We can’t stop,” Roberto said, gripping my arm. “The others need us.” I nodded, too weak to speak, thinking of the guys back at the fuselage, praying we’d make it.
On the tenth day, we stumbled into a valley, our legs barely working. A man on horseback appeared, staring at us like we were ghosts. We were filthy, skeletal, our clothes in rags. “Help,” I croaked, my voice barely a whisper. “Plane crash. People are still up there.” He didn’t understand at first, his eyes wide. “Where did you come from?” he asked, handing us a piece of bread. I tore into it, my hands shaking, tears streaming down my face. “The Andes,” Roberto said. “We walked for days.” The man, a shepherd, took us to his hut, gave us water, and sent word to the authorities. I sat there, numb, unable to believe we’d made it.
Helicopters came the next day. I told them where the fuselage was, describing the glacier, the mountains. They flew us back, and I watched as they pulled the others out, 16 of us in total, alive after 72 days. Sitting in the helicopter, I looked down at the Andes, those silent giants that nearly took us. I’d lost my mother, my sister, my friends. I’d done things I’d never unsee, never unfeel. But I was alive. I clung to that, knowing I’d carry this weight forever, a piece of me still trapped in those mountains.
“Trapped in the Dark: A True Survival Nightmare.”:
I was 14, part of a football team buzzing with energy after practice. We’d decided to explore Tham Luang cave, a massive limestone maze in northern Thailand. It was June 23, 2018, and the 12 of us boys, plus our assistant coach, thought it’d be a fun way to cap the day. We biked to the cave’s entrance, teasing each other about who’d chicken out first. The air inside was cool and damp, the floor slick with mud. Stalactites hung like jagged fangs, glinting in our flashlight beams. We planned to stay an hour, maybe carve our names on a wall as a keepsake. We had no idea what was coming.
We pushed deeper, laughing, our voices echoing off the rough walls. The cave smelled of wet stone and earth, and our sneakers squished on the uneven ground. I ran my hand along the wall, feeling the cold, bumpy rock. We’d gone maybe two kilometers when Coach stopped us. “Hold up,” he said, shining his flashlight down. Water lapped at our feet, shallow but moving fast. It hadn’t been there when we started.
“Coach, is that normal?” one of the younger boys asked, his voice high.
“It’s probably nothing,” Coach said, but his frown said otherwise. “Let’s head back, just to be safe.”
We turned around, but the path we’d taken was now a stream, water up to our shins and rising. My heart sped up. We tried a side tunnel, splashing through, but it was worse—water gushed in, cold and murky, reaching my knees. “This isn’t good,” I whispered to the boy next to me. He just nodded, his eyes wide.
“Boys, listen,” Coach said, raising his voice over the sound of rushing water. “We need to find higher ground. The water might go down by morning. Stay together.”
“Is anyone coming for us?” a boy asked, clutching his flashlight like a lifeline.
“They will,” Coach said. “Your parents know we’re here. But for now, we climb.”
We scrambled up a rocky slope, slipping on wet stones. My hands scraped against the sharp edges, and my legs burned. The cave seemed to swallow our light, the darkness pressing in. After what felt like forever, we found a small ledge, maybe 10 meters above the waterline. It was cramped, barely enough room for all 13 of us, but we squeezed in, shoulder to shoulder. My clothes were soaked, and I shivered, hugging my knees. My stomach growled—we had no food, no blankets, just our damp jerseys and shorts.
That first night, we sat in silence, the only sound the steady drip of water somewhere below. It was so dark I couldn’t see my own hands. Coach tried to keep us calm. “Let’s pray,” he said, his voice steady. “Together.” We closed our eyes, reciting Buddhist chants we’d learned as kids. His words were a lifeline, but the cave felt alive, like it was watching us. Every drip sounded like a footstep, every echo like a whisper. I kept imagining someone standing just beyond our flashlight beams, and my skin crawled.
“Coach, how long till they find us?” one boy asked, his voice small.
“Soon,” Coach said. “They’ll see our bikes at the entrance. People will come.”
But morning came—or what we guessed was morning, since we couldn’t see the sun—and the water hadn’t gone down. It was higher, lapping closer to our ledge. My stomach ached, a dull, gnawing pain. “We need water,” I said, licking my dry lips.
Coach pointed to the stalactites above us. “See those drops? They’re clean. Lean back and catch them.” I tilted my head, letting the cold, mineral-tasting water drip onto my tongue. It wasn’t much, but it helped. We took turns, careful not to waste a drop.
To pass the time, we talked about anything to keep our minds off the hunger. “What’s the first thing you’ll eat when we get out?” one boy asked, his voice hoarse.
“Fried rice with pork,” another said, closing his eyes like he could taste it.
“Sticky rice and mango,” I said. “With coconut milk.”
“Pizza,” a younger boy piped up, and we all laughed, the sound weak but real.
But by day three, the hunger was worse. My legs felt like jelly, and my head throbbed. We were weaker, moving slower. Coach had an idea. “Let’s dig,” he said, picking up a sharp rock. “Maybe there’s another tunnel behind this wall.” We took turns scraping at the rock, our hands blistering. The sound of stone on stone filled the cave, but the wall was stubborn.
“This is pointless,” one boy said, dropping his rock. “It’s too hard.”
“We can’t just sit here,” Coach said, wiping sweat from his face. “Every bit we dig is a chance. Keep going.”
I dug until my arms ached, but the wall barely budged. The cave was so quiet between our efforts, just the drip-drip of water and the occasional rumble, like the earth was shifting. “Did you hear that?” I asked one night, my heart racing. It sounded like a low groan, deep in the cave.
“It’s just the water moving,” Coach said, but he glanced into the darkness, his flashlight shaking slightly. “Stay close, okay?”
Days blended together. I lost track of how long we’d been there. My clothes stuck to my skin, cold and heavy. We were filthy, covered in mud, our faces pale in the flashlight glow. One boy started coughing, a dry, raspy sound that echoed. “I’m so tired,” he whispered, leaning against the wall.
“Rest,” Coach said, putting a hand on his shoulder. “We’re all tired. But we’re tougher than this.”
We tried to sleep, huddling for warmth, but the cold seeped into my bones. I dreamed of my mom’s voice, calling me home, but when I woke, it was just the cave—dark, endless, suffocating. Sometimes, I’d stare into the blackness, convinced I saw shapes moving. “Coach, is there something out there?” I asked once, my voice barely a whisper.
“It’s just your eyes playing tricks,” he said. “The dark does that. Focus on us, on staying strong.”
By what I later learned was day seven, we were fading. My body felt heavy, like I was sinking into the rock. We barely talked anymore, saving our energy. One boy cried softly, and I wanted to comfort him, but I didn’t have the strength. Coach kept us going, telling stories about his life, about how he’d been a monk before coaching. “This cave can’t break us,” he said. “We’re a team.”
On the ninth day, I heard something new—voices, real ones, not echoes. I thought I was hallucinating. Then lights pierced the darkness, bright and sharp. “Hello? Is anyone there?” a man called, his accent strange, not Thai.
I crawled to the edge of the ledge, my heart hammering. “We’re here!” I shouted in English, my voice raw. The others stirred, hope flickering in their eyes.
The lights got closer, and I saw two men in diving gear, their faces pale but smiling. “How many of you?” one asked, his voice muffled by his mask.
“Thirteen,” I said. “Twelve boys and our coach.”
“Are you okay?” he asked, shining his light over us.
“We’re alive,” I said. “But we’re hungry. And weak.”
“You’re incredible,” he said. “Help is coming. Stay where you are.”
I turned to the others, tears burning my eyes. “They found us,” I said. Some boys cheered, their voices thin; others hugged each other, sobbing. Coach pulled us into a group hug, his face wet. “I told you,” he whispered. “I told you they’d come.”
The divers brought foil blankets and energy gels, the first food we’d had in days. It wasn’t much, but it tasted like life. They told us the water was still too high to get out, that it might take days to plan a rescue. “We’re working on it,” one diver said. “You’re not alone anymore.”
Those last days were the hardest. Knowing rescue was close but still being trapped made the cave feel crueler. The divers visited daily, bringing more supplies, but the darkness seemed heavier, the rumbles louder. I kept hearing splashes, like something moving in the water below, and I’d grip my blanket tighter. “It’s just the cave,” Coach would say, but I could tell he was scared too.
Finally, they came for us. The divers explained the plan: they’d take us out one by one, through the flooded tunnels. “You’ll wear a diving mask,” one said. “We’ll guide you, but we’ll give you medicine to keep you calm.”
“Medicine?” I asked, my stomach twisting.
“To help you sleep,” he said. “It’s safer that way. You won’t feel a thing.”
I was terrified, but I nodded. They strapped a mask on my face, and a diver held my hand. “You’re going home,” he said. “You’re so brave.” Then the medicine hit, and the world faded.
When I woke, I was in a hospital bed, the light so bright it hurt. My mom was there, crying, her hands on my face. “You’re safe,” she said, over and over. I was too weak to speak, but I squeezed her hand, tears running down my cheeks.
Later, I learned we’d been in the cave for 17 days. The world had watched, thousands of people—divers, doctors, volunteers—working to save us. They pumped out water, risked their lives in those tunnels. One diver even died trying to help us. We owed them everything.
The cave haunts me still. The darkness, the hunger, the fear—it’s carved into me. At night, I sometimes hear dripping water, feel the cold rock under my hands, and I wake up gasping. But I’m here, with my family, my team. We’re closer now, bound by what we survived. And every day, I’m grateful—for the divers, for Coach, for the chance to live again.
"Adrift in the Abyss: My 76 Days Lost at Sea":
I was alone, bobbing on a flimsy inflatable raft in the vast Atlantic Ocean, my sailboat gone, swallowed by the sea. It was early February 1982, and I’d been sailing solo from the Canary Islands, chasing a dream of crossing the ocean on my own. I was 32, full of grit, but nothing prepared me for what happened on February 4. Something massive—maybe a whale, maybe debris—slammed into my boat, Napoleon Solo, in the dead of night. The hull cracked, and water gushed in, cold and relentless. I scrambled, heart pounding, as the boat tilted and sank. I barely had time to cut the life raft free, grab an emergency bag, and leap into the darkness before the sea claimed everything else. Now, here I was, adrift, 800 miles from the nearest land, with no radio, no way to call for help.
The raft was a pitiful thing, six feet across, like a child’s pool float, sagging under my weight. Waves slapped against it, rocking me constantly, and the thin rubber floor was all that separated me from the depths below. I sat cross-legged, clutching the emergency bag, my fingers trembling as I inventoried what I had: a hand-pumped watermaker, a small fishing kit with line and hooks, a spear gun, a soggy sleeping bag, a flashlight, a knife, and a few cans of food—peanuts, corned beef, and baked beans. There was also a solar still, a device to evaporate seawater into drinking water, but it looked flimsy. My clothes were soaked—jeans, a T-shirt, and a thin jacket. No shoes, just socks, already heavy with salt. I tied the bag to the raft’s rope, terrified of losing it to a wave. Fear gripped me like a vice. No one knew I was out here. My chances felt razor-thin.
That first night was pure terror. The darkness was absolute, the ocean a black void around me. Every sound—the slosh of water, the creak of the raft, a faint splash nearby—made my pulse race. Was it a shark? A fish? I gripped the flashlight but didn’t dare turn it on, afraid of wasting the battery. My mind spun with worst-case scenarios: the raft puncturing, a storm flipping me over, or just drifting forever until I starved. I whispered to myself, “You’re a sailor. You’ve handled storms before. Stay sharp.” But the words felt hollow. The ocean was endless, and I was a speck, insignificant, at its mercy.
Days crept by, each one a grueling test. The sun was merciless, blistering my skin until it cracked and peeled. Salt coated everything—my lips, my hands, my hair—stinging every cut and scrape. The watermaker was a lifeline but maddeningly slow, producing a trickle of water after hours of pumping. It tasted like plastic and salt, but I forced myself to sip it, rationing every drop. The solar still was useless at first; I hadn’t set it up right, and it took days to figure out how to make it work, floating it on the water to catch vapor. Even then, it gave me barely enough to keep my throat from closing up. Hunger was a constant ache, deep in my gut. I opened a can of peanuts on the third day, counting out ten nuts, chewing slowly to make them last. “This is your meal,” I told myself, trying to stay disciplined. But my body was already weakening, my arms sore from holding the raft’s ropes.
The raft was a prison. I couldn’t stand, couldn’t stretch. My legs cramped from staying curled up, and my back ached from the constant rocking. The sleeping bag was my only comfort, but it was damp and smelled of mildew. I’d wrap it around me at night, shivering as the air turned chilly, the ocean’s vastness pressing in. Every wave felt like it could tip me over, and I tied myself to the raft with a short rope, paranoid about falling into the water. Sleep came in fits, interrupted by every sound—a splash, a gurgle, something brushing the raft’s bottom. I’d jolt awake, heart hammering, scanning the dark with the flashlight, seeing nothing but water.
About a week in, I saw them: sharks. Three dorsal fins broke the surface, circling the raft, their sleek bodies gliding just below. My stomach dropped. They were big, maybe six or seven feet long, and they nudged the raft, rocking it gently. I froze, clutching the spear gun, its rusty tip looking pathetic against their size. “Get out of here!” I shouted, my voice hoarse, banging the spear against the raft. They didn’t flinch, just kept circling, their black eyes cold and unblinking. I sat rigid for hours, barely breathing, until they finally swam away. That night, I couldn’t sleep, imagining their jaws tearing through the raft’s thin rubber. I muttered, “You’re okay. They’re gone,” but the fear lingered, a shadow in my mind.
To survive, I had to fish. I rigged the fishing line with a hook and a bit of peanut as bait, hands shaking as I cast it into the water. Hours passed with nothing, but on day 10, I felt a tug. A triggerfish, bright yellow and green, thrashed on the line. “Got you!” I said, half-laughing, half-desperate, as I hauled it in with the spear gun. It flopped onto the raft, its sharp spines pricking my hand. I winced but didn’t care—I had food. Cutting it open with the knife, I gagged at the smell, the flesh slimy and raw. I forced myself to eat, chewing slowly, the taste metallic and foul. It was a small victory, but it kept me going.
The raft was falling apart. Fish spines and my own clumsiness punctured it, letting water seep in. I patched the holes with bits of tape from the emergency kit, but the rubber was weakening, sagging under me. I spent hours bailing water with a small tin, my arms burning. “You can’t give up,” I told myself, but despair was creeping in. My body was wasting away—my ribs poked through my skin, my legs felt like jelly, and sores from the salt and sun covered my arms. I looked like a skeleton, my reflection in the water a stranger’s face, gaunt and hollow-eyed.
Time lost meaning. Days blended into nights, marked only by hunger and thirst. I talked to myself to stay sane, reciting old sailing stories, singing half-remembered songs. “Row, row, row your boat,” I croaked, laughing at the irony. I thought of my family, my parents, my friends, imagining their voices. “You’re tough,” I’d say, pretending it was them. But loneliness was a weight, heavier than the hunger. The ocean was indifferent, stretching forever, and I felt like I was disappearing.
Around week six, I noticed more birds—terns and gulls—circling overhead. My heart stirred. Birds meant land, maybe an island nearby. I scanned the horizon, but saw nothing, just water and sky. Still, it was a spark of hope. I kept fishing, spearing a dorado one day, its silver body flashing as I dragged it in. Birds dove for it, screeching, and I yelled, “This is mine! Back off!” swinging the spear to scare them. The fish was a feast, enough for two days, but eating raw meat was tearing my stomach apart, and I was too weak to care.
By day 70, I was a ghost of myself, barely able to sit up. The raft was a wreck, patched and leaking, and the watermaker was failing, clogged with salt. I was down to my last can of corned beef, saving it like a treasure. Then, on April 21, I saw a speck on the horizon—a boat. My heart leapt, a surge of energy I didn’t know I had. I waved my arms, screaming, “Help! I’m here!” My voice was a rasp, barely audible, but I kept shouting, standing shakily in the raft. The boat turned, growing larger—a fishing vessel, its hull rusted but beautiful to me.
Three fishermen pulled me aboard, their faces stunned. One, a wiry man named Jean, grabbed my arm, saying, “You’re alive? How long you been out here?” I collapsed onto the deck, muttering, “Weeks… maybe months. Lost count.” My voice cracked, throat dry as sand. Another fisherman, Paul, handed me a bottle of water. “Slow, slow,” he said, his accent thick. “You drink too fast, you get sick.” I sipped, the water sweet and cold, tears streaming down my face. Jean wrapped a blanket around me, saying, “You’re a tough one, man. We thought you were a ghost.” I managed a weak smile. “Felt like one.”
They took me to a hospital in the Caribbean. I’d been adrift for 76 days, lost 40 pounds, and my body was a mess—sores, dehydration, muscles withered. Doctors said I was lucky to be alive, my organs on the brink of failure. Lying in that clean bed, hooked to IVs, I kept feeling the raft’s sway, hearing the ocean’s hum. The fear still haunts me—those endless nights, the sharks, the crushing loneliness. I see the Atlantic in my dreams, its vastness swallowing me. But I survived, clinging to hope when it seemed impossible. Every sunrise now feels like a gift, a reminder of the second chance I was given.
Tags:
Story