Boy of `Impossible` Wash. Sea Rescue Now in Recovery
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To hear the sound of hope, listen to a boy crack his knuckles.
Charles "Dale" Ostrander bends his fingers, one by one, waiting for each sweet pop. His parents cringe and smile. The 12-year-old boy's face curls with pleasure, like a rock guitarist slinging a nasty riff.
He cracks his wrist, too -- bending his hand to make the sound so he can make the face again.
"See, that little stuff," Chad Ostrander, the boy's father, said Friday. "That sets me off."
Dale is the miracle boy, rescued from the cold Pacific Ocean on Aug. 5, after more than 15 minutes underwater. During a visit to the Washington coast with a church group from Spanaway, a riptide pulled him under.
A rescue crew pulled him out and brought him back. A photographer caught the moment: the limp body of the boy, carried from the sea amid a spray of silver.
He'd been under for more than 15 minutes. There was no hope; it was too long, impossible -- but Dale came back.
He's in recovery now, expected to stay several more weeks at Good Samaritan Hospital in Puyallup. Before long, he'll be able to go home.
"He was dead, and now he's not," said Kirsten Ostrander, Dale's mother.
Grace Ndungu, the patient care assistant who takes Dale through his daily regimen of physical therapy, sees progress. Three hours a day, each day another step.
"Every day, it's a little bit more," Kirsten says.
The story of the miracle boy circled the globe. Cards and letters festoon the walls of the hospital room. They come from all over, from as far as Israel. ("Shalom, Dale," the yellow note says.)
"You don't realize how many good people there are in the world," Chad says.
Dale's body and brain were hurt. Both are coming back. He's written his name. He's climbed stairs, ridden a stationary bicycle. He's built things with plastic bricks. He's mastered the hospital remote control. He knows which TV channel has the cartoons. His right hand -- the stronger one -- is gaining dexterity. The left is coming along.
Each parent worries differently. Kirsten watches. Chad talks.
"I don't want to expect too much," he says. "But I want to hope for full recovery."
They worry whether Dale is still there, whether he can come all the way back. Each day brings a new sign. The boy remembers his dog, Peanut. He remembers his four sisters -- two older, two younger. He was annoyed enough one recent day to tell the littlest one to go away.
"Yeah, that's Dale," his father says.
Chad remembers the brainstorm nights, a week back. That was bad. Dale's fever climbed to 106.
Dale has spoken a little, but not much today. Those moments are still rare. It is not easy.
"To him, it's very obvious what he's saying," Kirsten says. "To us, it's kind of hard."
Chad's eyes are blue. Kirsten's are green. Dale's eyes are a blend, a greenish-gray. They stare with meaning. Sometimes it's as good as a command -- like telling someone to step away from the TV, so he can watch "The Amazing World of Gumball."
At other times, his purpose is less clear, and he has to move. He leans forward, then back, inching the wheelchair forward in little jumps. Then come the questions. Does he want the remote? No. Does he want his shoes off? No.
Does he want to stand?
Kirsten hadn't wanted him to perform, to dance for the cameras. But Dale bobs back and forth in his chair, a look of need on his face. By now, after two weeks, both parents know the signals.
"Do you want to stand up?" Chad asks.
The boy does. With Ndungu's help, Chad folds back the foot pedals. Ndungu unties the seat strap.
"Push with your hands," Chad says.
The boy pushes, rises, stands on his own, his father's hand under one elbow.
He walks a few steps, teetering a little, but not much, and turns to his mother. He leans down, wraps his arms around her, his head against her shoulder.
"My son," Kirsten whispers. "My love."
Sean Robinson: 253-597-8486 sean.robinson@ thenewstribune.com
