It's Okay To Say No

The water boils below.  Rocks, drop-offs, boulders, and screaming fast, extremely cold water roars by.

 

Everyone is watching us.

 

Expectations are high. 

 

From the highway, the slope is treacherous.  Granite boulders line the way down, and poison oak is often the handrail.

Thinking the dog’s four-wheel-drive works better if he isn’t restrained, I send him on his way down the boulder field. 

I am wrong.  He slips, he slides, he tumbles a bit.  Teammates along the way try to stop him and finally succeed.

Water searching is his favorite.  Whether it is the mystery of it all or something else, I don’t know.  He believes all water has something in it for him to find.  I again think I can allow him to free search the area to give us a clue if what we are looking for is indeed here.

 

I am wrong.  My heart jumps into my throat as he crests the top of a gigantic boulder and begins the descent to make it to the water.  I scream they scream, we all scream and he stops.  Back on lead he goes.  This plan won’t work.

 

I have been here before.  Really.  Right here. I have worked a dog here before.  Twice.   And it worked.  It made the difference between we don’t look and we do look.  And bodies were recovered.  

 

Over time the river changes things.  Water levels make a difference too.

 

Everyone is watching.  Waiting for the dog to work.

 

The dog wants to work.

 

The family believes in the dog, whether they know him or not. They are watching our team's every move.  They don’t know what dogs can do or even really why a dog is here.  All the resources are concentrated on getting this dog into the water though, so the dog must be important to the operation.

 

They know that the resources are concentrated here because the team believes that their family member probably is here.

 

The techs want the dog to work.

 

My teammates want the dog to work.

 

The IC wants the dog to work.

 

I want to give all I have to do the mission I long ago signed up to do.  To find answers for the family.

 

I watch as a swift water rescue tech slides off the 10-foot high boulder down into the boat.  A second tech slides down the rock into the water.  He was trying to make it into the awaiting boat but missed.  He climbs into the boat.  A third follow suit down the rock and into the boat.  They struggle against the swift current to get the boat across the river to place a tech on the other side to help work the rope system that secures the boat. 

 

Then they come back for my dog and me.  My dog and I are the lowest risk option.  Use the dog.  If the dog says YES scent is here, then it is evaluated whether a person goes in to look for the subject.   I have the only dog.  I am the only resource available of this kind.  They need the information he could possibly give them. 

 

I survey everything.  I look over the rock to the water and judge the distance.  I look down the crevices other rocks create narrowly closer to the water.  There are no even slightly level surfaces to stand on.

 

The captain says they’re ready for the dog.

Just toss him down here, he says. 

But I can’t.

My mind has become frantic.  Thoughts run through my head faster than I can catch them.   They all boil down to one thing. How do I say no? 

 

Just toss your dog this way.  We’ll catch him.

 

Why can’t I do it this time?  Everyone expects me to.  Everyone is assuming I will.  Everyone is counting on me to do it.

 

Another alternative is offered.  The tiny little crevice trail on the slick steeply sloped rocks that could allow someone to get a little bit closer to the water.

 

You can climb here, hand him to that person, who will hand him to that person, who will hand him to the next person who will put him in the boat.

 

The family is sitting above us, watching.  Waiting.  Anticipating.

It crosses no one’s mind that I will say no.

It is the only answer I can give.  No.  No, I cannot toss my 55lb dog to you and hope that you, standing in a raft, will catch him.

No, I cannot hand my dog to a successive row of people barely able to keep their footing on the slick granite without an additional 55lbs of dog handed to them.

No one has even contemplated the eventual problem of, even if we get him into the boat, how are we getting him out?

No

No?

No… I won’t do it.

You won’t? 

NO.  I won’t do it.

Instantly, my heart hurt for having said it.  I felt the disappointment of the SRTs as they now had to completely reformulate their plans.  I felt intense fear as I continued to watch as the next evolution to search for this kid involved putting these people in the water to see if they could see our missing person.  I held my breath as each donned a snorkel and placed themselves in the rolling water.  I prayed my no didn’t mean someone else got hurt.  Or worse.

I worried about the disappointment of family who still watched from shore. 

I worried that my teammates would think me weak.

I toyed with changing my mind. 

But the environment hadn’t changed. 

 

Sometimes you have to say no…

I had to say no.

 

Several weeks afterward, a teammate tells me that they are glad I said no.  That it is okay to say no. 

Afterward, a non-SAR person listens, and when I share that I said no, she is relieved and said GOOD.  I should have said no.

I felt a little better.

Saying no is ok

Saying no is needed.

Saying no can save a life.

It is okay to say no.