The Boys in the Cave Page 27

  Shorn heads symbolize a detachment from the daily pageantry of beautifying one’s self—a detachment, one could argue, the boys had become wearily accustomed to while stranded in Chamber Nine. The upshot was that they now appeared even younger. Little Titan looked baby-faced and vulnerable as the boys were paraded through the temple grounds in their new uniforms of saffron-colored robes. Soldiers shielded them from the sun with large bamboo umbrellas as photographers snapped hundreds of pictures. This was not the initiation ceremony the average monk receives.

  Later, a Mae Sai official credited their survival to meditation, saying that now in their sojourns as monks the boys would be able to improve their meditation practice—which would surely help them later in life. For the next nine days they worked at menial temple jobs—and paid homage to Saman Gunan. It had been more than forty days since they had disappeared into Tham Luang; they had spent only seven of those days at home.

  The government stated that it was zealously working to shield them from press interviews. Government-appointed psychologists said they were concerned about the boys’ precarious psychological states—recommending a six-month respite from recounting their experiences publicly. But at the same time the junta trotted them out for multiple public events. Even their return to school in early August 2018 was open to the press. A few days later, another event brought journalists flocking back to Mae Sai. After a lifetime of being stateless, Coach Ek, Adul, Mark (the last boy out of the cave) and Tee—the captain—were all granted Thai citizenship.

  The showpiece of it all was a massive gala hosted by the Thai government with a reported guest list topping ten thousand. It was a who’s who of the rescuers. The Thai SEALs and Dr. Bhak were there. Vernon Unsworth—still not in possession of a long-term visa—flew in from London. Josh Morris and Mario Wild from Chiang Mai made sure to be there. The U.S. Air Force Special Tactics team was flown in on a special plane from Okinawa. Ben Reymenants and Ruengrit Changkwanyuen and many of the Euro-divers—whose dive shops in the southern resort towns of Phuket and Koh Tao had become enormously popular post-rescue—also turned out. The divers swapped wet suits for business suits. They were all honored—their chests adorned with various pins and medals bestowed on them by Prime Minister Prayut.

  At the gala itself, the boys were front and center; their table, cluttered with tubs of ice cream, was next to the prime minister’s table. The U.S. Special Tactics team, in dress blues with hair slicked down, came over to take a picture with the boys. They managed a quick explanation of who they were before the boys were bombarded by requests from passing dignitaries hoping for selfies with the boys. To some of the journalists invited it smacked of a depressing carnival show—but the parents noted that it afforded their boys the opportunity to meet diplomats, foreign journalists, and even the prime minster—a big deal for kids from little Mae Sai.

  That event also kicked off a number of exhibitions honoring the boys and their rescuers. The Siam Paragon Mall, one of Thailand’s largest, featured a mock-up of the cave complex replete with a murky, faux-rock tunnel made all the more real by the piped-in sounds of dripping water. With dozens of journalists and onlookers invited to watch, the boys, in matching yellow polo shirts, gamely crawled through the two-foot-high tunnel—using their cell phones as flashlights. It seemed a stunning display of insensitivity on the part of organizers.

  In that same exhibition at the Siam Paragon Mall (titled “Tham Luang Incredible Mission: The Global Agenda”) there was a replica of Elon Musk’s escape pod. Its backdrop was wallpapered with images lifted from the internet of the tech titan in a tux and selected tweets. It was a very public reminder of the rescue’s most bizarre episode—one that had not quite ended. Musk couldn’t seem to let go of his unsuccessful contribution to the rescue. Divers and diplomats alike quietly let it be known that his sub had been a major distraction. In defending himself, Musk managed to offend Governor Naronsak and Rick Stanton in the space of a single tweet. On July 10 he downplayed Narongsak’s importance as a leader and published British diver Rick Stanton’s private correspondence with him. In that very same tweet, Musk referred to Stanton as “Dick Stanton.” Given the sour note on which their correspondence ended, Stanton assumed it was an intentional insult rather than a typo.

  A few days later in an interview with CNN, Vernon Unsworth was asked about Musk’s escape-pod concept. In a response that soon went viral, Vern rolled his eyes and a smirk swept across his face. The Brit answered, “He can stick his submarine where it hurts—it just had absolutely no chance of working.” Vern seemed to have unwittingly declared war on Twitter maestro Musk, who tweeted this slightly incoherent response: “We will make one of the mini-sub/pod going all the way to Cave 5 no problem. Sorry pedo guy, you really did ask for it.” (It’s unclear what “Cave 5” is.) Musk never provided any evidence for calling Vern a “pedo.” It is hard to quantify how many times that particular tweet was retweeted, because Musk soon deleted it—but it was enough to cause an international uproar in defense of Vern. The firestorm forced a semi-apology from Musk. But then a month later he inexplicably doubled down, reportedly telling a journalist that Vernon Unsworth was indeed a “child rapist” and dared the Brit to sue him. Which is strange, because Vernon’s lawyers had already issued preparatory papers alerting the tycoon that a suit was coming.

  The four British divers avoided much of the hoopla. Jewell went right back to work. Mallinson took an extended vacation in Spain; I interviewed him in Bilbao, just before he was to (surprise) go cave diving. Vollanthen refused interviews and went back to his IT business. Stanton went right back to retirement, which for him mostly involved traveling, kayaking, and spending time with Amp. Along with Bill Whitehouse of the British Cave Rescue Council, Stanton would start giving a number of lectures. He’s not sure about his future in rescue diving, but is content to know that a younger generation of divers—like Jewell—would now have the necessary experience. At the time of this writing, the British divers, the Aussies Dr. Richard Harris and Dr. Craig Challen, Vern, and members of the USAF Special Tactics team still chat on a WhatsApp group. They have become friends, and some of them visit each other once in a while.

  During a late-August trip to a soggy Mae Sai, Abbot Ten invited me to meet with him at the Wat Doi Wao Temple. I found the abbot wrapped in bolts of maroon cloth, his legs primly folded beneath him on a plushly cushioned mahogany bench. The soccer team had also assembled there with their parents. Through my translator I gathered that the parents were chafing under the government’s demands on their boys’ time and energy. As the adults spoke, the boys padded around the temple with the comfort with which most of us move around our bedrooms. Mark, wearing a MAE SAI HEROES T-shirt, posted himself next to Abbot Ten, who wrapped a heavy arm around him as if he was his own offspring. Sitting on the pews or cross-legged on the floor were the parents, the parent’s friends, and a psychologist. Catlike, Titan crawled into the lap of a family friend who was hotly debating what the parents should do.

  Watching this debate unfold at the temple was strangely reassuring for me. I realized that these boys were cocooned in the safety nets of community: family, temple, school, the Moo Pa team, and—more than ever—each other. I knew that Dom’s grandparents and sisters were just down the hill at the amulet shop. Farther down the road, across Highway 1, Nick and Night’s extended families were preparing one of their customary dinners for kin—and for friends whom the kids also call their aunts and uncles. Adul had sung in the church choir that Sunday morning, belting out Thai Christian rock along with the other children in attendance. After the weekend, they would all be welcomed back to school, where teachers like Carl Henderson were now perhaps a little more permissive of their quirks—like snacking in class.

  During my time in Mae Sai, it became evident that there was a very potent antidote to the deprivations of the cave: adventure. Surviving Tham Luang wasn’t enough; these boys insisted on living. Many parents, like Dom’s mother, are reluctant to treat them “like an e
gg in a rock”—that Thai idiom for the suffocating behavior of helicopter parents. “These boys need to be adventurers,” she tells me; she reassures herself during Dom’s absences that “this kind of thing [being trapped in cave] can happen only once in a lifetime.”

  Biw got his moped back. Fifteen-year-old Nick got a new midnight blue moped which he uses to zip around town—often with a kid or two riding pillion. Adul, who has become the group’s unofficial spokesman, travels all over Thailand without his parents or pastor. They play less soccer now, but spend a lot of time on their bikes exploring the spine of mountains along the Sleeping Princess’s profile. None of them has gone back to the cave site.

  During my visit to Mae Sai, several of the boys had gone off on an extended bicycle trek around the area. On another night I unexpectedly bumped into the boys at Coach Ek’s temple dormitory. They had come to celebrate Titan’s twelfth birthday, riding their bikes up the hill to Coach Ek’s small apartment and hanging out there with the monk. It was nearly 9 P.M., but as I arrived the boys were already pointing their sleek road bikes back toward home and cheerily bidding Ek goodbye—betraying not a speck of fear. They were, after all, the Moo Pa.

  Acknowledgments

  When HarperCollins first pitched me to write this book, it was five days after the rescue had ended. In-depth magazine articles had not yet been written, much less any authoritative history or book. The rescue was so unprecedented that there was as yet no frame of reference for it. That necessitated a near-absolute reliance on first-person accounts and the cooperation of interviewees. The first rescuers at Tham Luang on Saturday, June 23—park ranger Petpom and head park ranger Damrong—spoke to me a number of times; when the rescue was over they ushered me through the locked gate in front of the mouth of the cave into Chamber One itself—a space grander than I had ever even imagined. They offered me as much time as I wanted and explained every facet of Tham Luang. They even introduced me to the park’s new pet “Moo Pa”—a “wild boar” that is actually just a dusky pig. Governor Narongsak also sat for an interview and patiently fielded subsequent calls.

  I am indebted to Vern Unsworth, who spent dozens of hours coaching me over the phone, through e-mail, and on the apps WhatsApp and Line on the geology, history, and delights of caves in general and on the object of his particular obsession, Tham Laung. He arguably spent more time at the cave site than any other rescuer; he was extraordinarily generous with his time, painstakingly walking me through the events at the cave multiple times.

  Rick Stanton, though reluctant at first, subsequently offered me nearly unfettered access, treating me to the quirks of his character and memory—which he called “quite poor.” But he kept trying—reminding me to call him about wonderful little tidbits like his “inner tube” and “cockwomble” (see chapter six).

  The British Cave Rescue Council and its vice-chair, Bill Whitehouse, offered insight into caving in the UK and key access to its sometimes very private divers and staff. I’m also grateful to Chris Jewell and Jason Mallinson, who granted me and ABC News time for interviews—both while they were in England and while on vacation in Spain. Thanks also to the BCRC’s Mike Clayton and to Martin Ellis, for his indispensable maps and Thai caving articles.

  The U.S. Air Force offered ABC News (and me in particular) extraordinary access. It opened its doors at Kadena Air Force Base to the network, inviting us to interview officers and NCOs who often spend most of their careers in the shadows. Commanders from Florida to New York to L.A.—including Major Craig Savage—continued to meet with me and answer my unceasing barrage of questions.

  Due to the diplomatic and military sensitivities inherent in a project like this, many people spoke to me on the condition of anonymity; my thanks to them. I’m also grateful to Colonel Singhanat Losuya and Captain Padcharapon Sukpang, both formerly of the Thai Thirty-seventh Military District. Captain Sukpang’s detailed logbook was most useful for a journalist hungry for exact dates, times, and places.

  Thanet Natisri also provided many hours of his time. He had taken copious notes himself, and also furnished me with his satellite maps of the mountain, rain fall totals, and a trove of photos. Thanet smoothly shuttled between the worlds of the Thai and foreign rescuers and offered himself as a capable guide to me as well—introducing me to the many of the people with whom he interacted. Josh Morris, the American owner of Chiang Mai Rock Climbing Adventures, opened up his heart, introducing me to his large team—including Austrian Mario Wild and his brother-in-law, Taw, who played a key role from the second day of the rescue onward.

  The Euro-divers were also particularly helpful. Mikko Paasi, Claus Rasmussen, Ivan Karadzic, and Ben Reymenants were the first rescue divers to tell me their stories, which in fact became the genesis of this book. They graciously responded to my calls from vacations and at home in Finland, Malta, Belgium, the Philippines, and Phuket. Ruengrit Changwanyuen, who so expertly navigated the no-man’s land between the foreign rescuers and the Thai SEALs, kept answering my calls even as he was at work or dropping his kids off at school. He has a remarkable memory and command of details, names, and events.

  Additional thanks go to the American expats living in Thailand, including Bruce Konefe—who gave me an initial briefing on cave diving—the kind and generous Brandon Fox from Mae Sai, and Biw’s English teacher Carl Henderson. Thanks also to the U.S. embassy in Thailand, which not only provided information and connections but carefully monitored the safety of its citizens in country.

  To the Australians who spoke on and off the record, thank you. And to Australian anesthesiologist Dr. David Wright, thanks for your time as well.

  In 2004, Ben Sherwood, who was then the executive producer of Good Morning America, instituted the “Oxygen Rule.” More guidance than unbending law, it offered assignment editors carte blanch to deploy reporters, producers, and cameras anywhere in the world where people were at risk of expiring from lack of air. The theory is that there is automatic public interest when humans are trapped in a confined space and at risk of running out of air, with other humans desperately trying to save them. The Oxygen Rule was also a nod to the growing technological arsenal at the disposal of TV news—we could now broadcast from phones, the internet, even social media—enabling reporters to file inexpensively from almost anywhere in the world. After a while the rule became ingrained in ABC News culture. And it partly explains the network’s quick deployment and subsequent surge of reporters and staff to the cave site. Sherwood, an author himself, offered early and tremendously useful guidance on quickly getting a project like this started.

  Kerry Smith, Senior Vice President, ABC News Editorial, read and commented on every iteration of this writing. Smith possesses twin skills that lend themselves to this process: she is the fastest and most thorough reader I know, and possesses peerless judgment. With her deft touch and decades of experience, she provided thoughtful input throughout. ABC’s crack lawyer Maherin Gangat also helped improve the work with each draft she read. I am indebted to ABC News’ current president, James Goldston, and his leadership team of Barbara Fedida, Wendy Fisher, and David Herndon for dispatching me on what became a remarkable journey to Thailand, and then generously granting me the time to finish this work. Foreign News Manager Kirit Radiat lived and breathed this story. ABC 20/20’s Terri Lichtstein brought to life our three, hour-long documentaries about the rescue.

  ABC News sent many people to the rescue, all of whom played key roles. Robert Zepeda and Scott Shulman helped get me on air day after day. Correspondent James Longman generously shared reminiscences of his time in Thailand, including one of my favorite episodes in the book—Google Translate’s misfired rendering of our driver Nop’s effort to inform ABC News that the rescue had started. It resulted in this garbled gem: “never again alpaca.” Brandon Baur coordinated ABC News’ operation in Thailand; even after ABC pulled up stakes, he managed our network of fixers and translators still on the ground. Led by Than Rassanadanukul, they were our eyes and ears in Thailand, and u
ltimately became our dear friends. Mancharee Sangmueang, who juggled journalism with her pharmacy school exams, spent many hours as my language liaison in Thailand, translating documents and articles and negotiating with Thai officials. Carol Isoux accompanied me when I returned to Mae Sai on my last reporting trip there and helped with multiple interviews. Vishan Chaudhary, with his lightning-fast Google skills, proved a quick and capable research assistant.

  The idea for this book was conceived by director of creative development Lisa Sharkey at HarperCollins. The former television news producer reached out to me on Facebook, then assembled a special tactics unit of her own comprised of executive editor Matt Harper and assistant editor Anna Montague. Tremendous thanks must also go to Nyamekye Waliyaya, Andrea Molitor, Mumtaz Mustafa, Leah Carlson-Stanisic, and Maddie Pillari. Sharkey imposed a terrifyingly quick deadline, but made herself available for questions or counsel nearly twenty-four hours a day; she ultimately had a hand in every aspect of the work, from the editing down to the marketing and book placement. Her enthusiasm for this project and her energy kept me going throughout. Sharkey’s enthusiasm was matched perhaps only by that of my agents Jay Sures, Albert Lee, and Byrd Leavell—who also served as guides to the uncharted territory of a first book. During the initial month of writing, editor Matt Harper and I likely spoke more frequently and at greater length to one another than to our spouses. Harper threw himself into our shotgun marriage and this project, working nights and weekends even after the birth of his second daughter. It was a dream collaboration with an editor of his intellect and sensitivity.

  But my deepest debt is to my wife, Daphna, who was abandoned in the summer of 2018 to go on long-since-planned vacations and parent alone for a couple of months without complaint. For well over a decade after her own career at ABC, she has suffered gamely through the sudden disappearances of her partner to places like Venezuela, the Middle East, Asia, and the wilds of Burbank, California. She was understanding and loving throughout, displaying a generosity of spirit for which I will be eternally grateful. I’m even more grateful to her for our two kids, Ben and Libby—who is old enough to have been a Moo Pa—both of whom keep me laughing and loving every day.