Miracle in the andes ebook,training templates in excel,strategies for time management for nurses jobs,new york institute of technology human resources - PDF 2016

Snowbound in the Andes after their plane crashes, the starving members of a Uruguayan rugby squad are forced to live off the flesh of their fallen teammates. UNSTOPPABLE: Nando Parrado and a carabinero from the Chilean mounted police on horseback, scanning for rescue helicopters, December 22, 1972.
IN THE FIRST FEW HOURS THERE WAS NOTHING, no fear or sadness, no thought or memory, just a black and perfect silence. I was astounded at the calmness of this thought and the cold-bloodedness of the voice that spoke it. In those first days, I rarely left my sister's side, rubbing her frozen feet, talking to her, giving her sips of snow melted in my hands. Late in the afternoon of the eighth day, I was lying with my arms around Susy when suddenly I felt her change. But then I thought of my father again, and as I stared out at those ragged peaks, I felt my love for him tugging at me like a lifeline, drawing me toward those merciless slopes. FROM MY VERY FIRST HOURS in the mountains, I felt, deep in my bones, the immediacy of the danger that surrounded us. The initial impact had sheared the wings and tail from the Fairchild, leaving its battered fuselage to plow into a snow-packed glacier flowing down the eastern slope of a massive, ice-encrusted peak.
As darkness fell, Marcelo turned the Fairchild into a makeshift shelter, stacking loose seats and luggage in the gaping hole left by the tail, then packing the gaps with snow. Marcelo's wall kept us from freezing, but in the coming nights we suffered terribly from the cold. One morning, I found myself standing outside the fuselage, looking down at a single chocolate-covered peanut cradled in my palm.
We became obsessed by the search for food, but what drove us was nothing like ordinary appetite.
For a moment no one moved, then we all reached forward, joined hands, and pledged that if any of us died here, the rest would have permission to use his body for food. As the days passed, my greatest fear was that we would grow so weak that escape would become impossible—that we would use up all the bodies, leaving us no choice but to languish at the crash site, staring into each other's eyes, waiting to see which of our friends would die and become our food. With Marcelo in despair, my thoughts turned to Roberto—the brilliant, egotistical medical student, strong, clever, and interested in no one's rules but his own. After a minute of confusion, I realized what had happened—an avalanche had rolled down the mountain and filled the fuselage with snow. Then a hand clawed the snow from my face and I was yanked back into the world of the living. It's hard to describe the despair that fell upon us in the grim days following the avalanche. We were all well aware that the eight avalanche victims lay within easy reach, but we were slow to face the prospect of cutting them. There was something sordid and rank in our suffering now, a sense of corruption that soured my heart.
In the first week of December, as the weather improved, we began to prepare for a final westward climb. Tintin and I were eager to set off, but Roberto seemed to find one excuse to delay after another—snapping that the sleeping bag needed better stitching, or he needed more time to gather his strength.
Finally I found a shallow depression in the snow beneath a large boulder, and we spread out the fragile sleeping bag, sewn together crudely with copper wire.
In that moment, all my dreams, assumptions, and expectations evaporated into the thin Andean air. The valley wound through the snowy peaks ahead of us, then split into two forks as it neared a pair of smaller mountains. On December 20, 1972, their ninth day of trekking, Nando Parrado and Roberto Canessa stumbled upon a shepherd's camp in the Chilean region of Los Maitenes. Then light appeared, a thin gray smear of daylight, and I rose to it like a diver swimming to the surface.
On Friday the 13th of October, 1972, our plane had smashed into a ridge somewhere in the Argentinian Andes and fallen onto a barren glacier. Seler Parrado was a deeply practical man who had sacrificed much to build a chain of hardware stores out of nothing, to give his family the life of security and leisure I so casually took for granted. I wasn't even sure how to do this, but I was desperate, and I worked at it until I fell exhausted to the floor. Miraculously, the plane did not cartwheel or spiral; instead its angle of descent matched almost exactly the slope onto which we were falling, and it came to rest with its crumpled nose pointing slightly down the slope.
Surely, we reasoned, the tall ridges to our west were the last high peaks before the mountains dwindled down to the green pastures of Chile. The living were jammed into a cramped space on the litter-strewn floor measuring no more than eight by ten feet. We had cigarette lighters and could easily have lit a fire, but there was little combustible material. One of the first things Marcelo had done was gather everything edible from scattered suitcases or the cabin. This was the final morsel of food I would be given, and with a sad, almost miserly desperation, I was determined to make it last. Of course there was food on the mountain—there was meat, plenty of it, and all in easy reach.
Many survivors refused to consider the idea of eating human flesh, but no one tried to talk the rest of us out of it.
Even though I had always known, deep down, that rescuers would never find us, a part of me lived on that thin hope.
If anyone could stand up to the Andes through sheer stubbornness alone, Roberto was the one.
I dozed for perhaps half an hour and then woke, frightened and disoriented, as a huge and heavy force thumped against my chest. There was silence, then I heard a slow, wet creak as the loose snow settled under its own weight. With an aluminum cargo pole, we were able to poke a breathing hole through what turned out to be several feet of snow, but we labored for hours to burrow a passage out of the snow-choked plane, only to discover a blizzard raging outside. Until now, a small crew of three or four had cut the meat outside the fuselage, and the rest of us never knew from whose body the flesh had been taken.



As I shivered in the clammy snow, racked with despair, it was hard to believe in anything before the crash.IT TOOK EIGHT DAYS TO CLEAR the fuselage, chipping away at the rock-hard snow with broken pieces of plastic. We were splitting skulls now to get at the brains inside, and eating things we couldn't stomach before: lungs, marrow, the hands and feet. Fito and his cousins cut meat and stored it in the snow, while the others sewed pieces of insulation from the tail section into a sleeping bag that we hoped would keep the climbers warm at night. But he was cruelly jolted from his mulishness on the afternoon of December 11, when Numa Turcatti, a friend of the team whose courage had won everyone's respect, died from infected sores on his legs. I'd dressed the night before: Next to my skin I wore a cotton polo shirt and a pair of women's slacks, then three pairs of jeans and three sweaters. But soon the surface began to weaken and we were forced to wade uphill through heavy drifts.
Tintin would go back to the crash site, leaving us his meat, while Roberto and I carried on. Consciousness seeped through my brain in a slow bleed; I heard voices and sensed motion all around, but I could see only dark silhouettes and pools of light and shadow.
The twin-engine Fairchild turboprop had been chartered by my rugby team, the Old Christians of Montevideo, Uruguay, to take us to an exhibition match in Santiago, Chile. But then a thought formed, in a voice so lucid and detached it could have been someone whispering in my ear. East was the only direction in which we could see for any distance; to the north, south, and west, the view was blocked by towering summits ringing the crash site like the walls of a monstrous amphitheater. Marcelo was a wing forward—very fast, very brave, and a leader we would trust with our lives.
I slowly sucked the chocolate off the peanut, then slipped it into the pocket of my slacks. It was as near as the bodies of the dead lying outside the fuselage under a thin layer of frost.
The center of the wound was moist and raw, and there was a crust of dried blood at the edges. I reminded myself that this was no longer part of a human being, that the soul had already left this body. We all knew our fight for survival would be uglier and more harrowing than we had imagined, but we had made a declaration to the mountain that we would not surrender.
They are abandoning us!" Marcelo stared at Roy with a look of irritation, as if he had spoken gibberish, but then Marcelo dropped to his knees and let out an anguished howl that echoed through the cordillera.
I felt an icy wetness pressing against my face, and a crushing weight bore down on me so hard that it forced the air from my lungs. It felt as if my body were encased in concrete; I managed a few shallow breaths, but then snow packed into my mouth and nostrils and I began to suffocate. To the ordinary mind, our actions may seem incomprehensible, but the instinct to survive runs very deep, and when death is so near, a human being can get used to anything. Roberto, after much resistance, had agreed to go with me, as had Antonio "Tintin" Vizintín, a front-line forward with the strength and temperament of a bull. My snowshoes quickly became so soaked that I felt as if I were climbing with manhole covers bolted to my shoes. After so many false summits, I kept my hopes in check, but this time the slope fell away and I found myself standing on a gloomy hump of wind-scoured snow. The horizon was crowded in every direction with snow-covered mountains, each as steep and forbidding as the one I'd just climbed. Now, in this lifeless place, I saw with terrible clarity that death was the constant, and life was only a short, fragile dream.
Parrado's first account of his story will appear in Miracle in the Andes, from which this article is adapted. There were 45 of us on board, including the crew, the team's supporters, and my fellow Old Christians, most of whom I'd played rugby with since we were boys at Catholic school. After the crash, as the stupefied survivors staggered about in disbelief, Marcelo had organized the uninjured into a search party to free the dozens of passengers still trapped in the heaps of tangled seats in the plane. Each meal was nothing more than a small square of chocolate or a dab of jam, washed down with a sip of wine. The next day I carefully separated the peanut halves, slipping one half back into my pocket and placing the other in my mouth.
We tried to eat strips of leather torn from pieces of luggage, though we knew that because of the chemicals they'd been treated with, they'd do us more harm than good.
It puzzles me that, despite my compulsive drive, I ignored for so long the obvious presence of the only edible objects within a hundred miles. I could not stop looking at that crust, and as I smelled the faint scent of blood in the air, I felt my appetite rising. A few of the most practical, including the medical students, Roberto and Gustavo, as well as Fito, believed it was our only chance. In a small, sad way, I had taken my first step back toward my father.EARLY THE NEXT MORNING, our 11th day on the mountain, I stood outside the fuselage, watching Roy Harley, a tall, gangly wing forward who was the closest we had to an electronics expert, fiddle with a battered transistor radio he'd found in the wreckage. The silence of the mountains mocked me, but I knew that sooner or later I would have to climb.
The snow inside the fuselage was so deep that we couldn't stand, and we had to sit with our chins against our chests. It was a horror, watching him slice into a friend, listening to the soft sounds of the glass ripping at the skin and muscle below.
Three failed attempts had convinced many that escape over the high peaks to the west was impossible, so in mid-November we tried going east. For days we gathered equipment: the nylon seat covers we used as blankets, snowshoes that Fito fashioned out of the seat cushions, a bottle to melt water in the sun, and knapsacks Roberto made by tying off the legs of trousers and threading nylon straps through the pant legs.
Now I gathered the aluminum pole I would use as a walking stick, a women's lipstick to protect my blistered lips, and bands of cloth to wrap around my hands. But all day we struggled toward one false summit after another, only to see the mountain soaring up again toward the clouds.
I felt a sharp and sudden longing for my mother and sister, and for my father, whom I was sure I would never see again. The sun turned the mountains to gleaming gold, and the sky was lit with swirls of scarlet and lavender.


The book, co-authored with Pittsburgh-based writer Vince Rause, will be published by Crown on May 9.
Clots of dried blood were matted in my hair; I felt rough ridges of broken bone beneath the congealed blood, and when I pressed down lightly I felt a spongy sense of give.
The unfiltered sun blinded us and blistered our lips and skin, and the snow was so deep that we could not venture far without sinking to our hips.
Roberto Canessa and Gustavo Zerbino, two players who were also in medical school, had done their best to tend to the injuries, some of which were grisly. Often, I would lie with my head close to the face of whoever slept next to me to steal a little breath, a little warmth, from him. As long as you are breathing, you are fighting to survive."BY THE END OF THE FIRST WEEK, with no sign of rescue, we began to solve our most pressing problems.
But when my mind did finally cross that line, it did so with an impulse so primitive it shocked me. I avoided meeting anyone's gaze, but out of the corners of my eyes I saw the others around me. I understood the magnitude of the taboo we had just broken, but if I felt any strong emotion, it was resentment that fate had forced us to choose between this horror and the horror of certain death. The batteries for the Fairchild's radio were lost along with the tail, but with the transistor we could at least receive some news from the outside world. The group had decided to mount an escape attempt, and as we prepared in earnest, our spirits rose. Fito's water-making machines were outside, useless to us, and we had to gnaw chunks of the filthy snow on which we were crawling and sleeping. It quickly became clear that the valley did not, as we had hoped, bend around to the west, but we hadn't gone far when we discovered the plane's tail section, filled with an unexpected booty of chocolate, moldy sandwiches, and, most important, the Fairchild's batteries, which we believed could power the plane's radio so we could call out.
I stuffed my feet into my battered rugby shoes, pulled a wool cap over my head, and topped it with the hood and shoulders I'd cut from the antelope coat Susy had worn. We pitched camp well before sunset, and in the morning decided that Tintin and I would try for the summit while Roberto waited with the packs.
My stomach heaved as I realized that I was pressing pieces of my skull against the surface of my brain. Most of us were untested young men between the ages of 18 and 21, lost in the wilderness, hungry, injured, and freezing. A six-inch steel tube had impaled the stomach of a quiet, stoic player named Enrique Platero. Roberto devised ingenious hammocks for the most injured and improvised flimsy blankets from the plane's thin nylon seat covers.
I did the same on the third day, and when I'd finally nibbled the peanut down to nothing, there was no food left at all.
In shame, we quickly glanced away, but for me something had happened that I couldn't deny: I had looked at human flesh and instinctively recognized it as food. This morning, like all the others, the signal faded in and out, and Roy was about to turn the set off when we heard, through the buzzing and popping, the tinny voice of an announcer. Yet our jubilation was short-lived: After a week of tinkering, the radio remained lifeless.
Everything I did had the feel of ceremony, of consequence.NONE OF US HAD MUCH TO SAY as we followed the glacier up to the mountain's lower slopes.
Worse, my mother, Eugenia, and my 19-year-old sister, Susy, had been traveling with us; now, as I lay parched and injured, I learned that my mother had not survived and that Susy was near death. I saw him clearly now, tossing in his bed back in Montevideo, staggered by his unimaginable loss, and my heart broke for him.
With stinging clarity I felt the brute power of the mountains, saw the complete absence of warmth or mercy or softness in the landscape, and for the first time, I knew with certainty that I would die.
When Gustavo yanked the tube from his friend's gut, several inches of intestine came out, but Enrique immediately got to work helping to free others.
Thirst was not an issue, thanks to Adolfo "Fito" Strauch, a quiet, serious former player who had improvised snow-melting basins from square aluminum sheets he found lining the bottoms of the seats.
I was horrified by what I was thinking, but once that door was open, it couldn't be closed. After ten days of fruitless searching, he said, Chilean authorities had called off efforts to find the lost Uruguayan charter flight that had disappeared over the Andes on October 13.
And so I studied the others, imagining which of these ragged, starving, frightened young men I would want by my side.
Fito and his steady, levelheaded cousins, fellow team supporters Eduardo Strauch and Daniel Fernández, had devised an efficient system of cutting and drying the meat, and all of us were eating enough now to at least hold starvation at bay. In that moment, I discovered a simple, astounding secret: Death has an opposite, but it is not mere living. Finally, one night I confided in Carlos Páez, one of the team's supporters and a friend I trusted.
Out of respect for me, the others had promised not to touch the bodies of my mother and Susy, but even so, there was enough meat to last for weeks if we rationed carefully. Arturo Nogueira, the team's fly half and best kicker, died from infected wounds in his broken legs, and team supporter Rafael Echavarran, who'd suffered bravely through his own gangrenous leg injuries, passed away soon after.
Watch what the fuck you're doing!" Then he leaned forward, and his shoulders started to heave. Many of us were comforted by these thoughts as we filed into the fuselage on the evening of October 29. Our bodies were ravaged, and we had no mountaineering skills whatsoever: Instead of making our way up a gentle saddle to the south, for instance, we set off straight up the mountain's steepest slopes. Hearing his sobs, I felt a stab of hopelessness, then I was overtaken by a sudden, inarticulate rage. I would walk until I'd walked all the life out of me, and when I fell, I would die that much closer to home.



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