CAPE DISAPPOINTMENT, Pacific County — The daylight was already fading as Coast Guard crewman Dave Kendall piloted a rescue boat out into the treacherous waters where the Columbia River empties into the Pacific. His stomach tightened as the waves came fast off Peacock Spit.

The 47-foot lifeboat slammed against the swells as Kendall held fast to the wheel. A 27-year-old Oklahoma native, Kendall joined the Coast Guard nearly five years ago because he could think of "nothing cooler ... than to be a hero."

Wearing red survival suits and helmets, all eight crewmen were tethered to the railings with surf-belts. When an 18-footer rose behind them, Kendall knew it was fast and strong — "packing a lot of meat" — so he gunned the engine and turned the stern toward it, hoping to avoid a perilous situation called a knockdown. How he handled it would be a key test of his mettle and his technical skills — both crucial to a trainee's success or failure.

But suddenly water was everywhere, rolling the boat onto its side. A crew member yelled out, then his voice bubbled and gurgled beneath the surface, where he could hear the engine's muffled roar. The crewmen held their breath until, some six seconds later, the boat rocked back into an upright position. Everyone breathed again as water poured from the deck.

While the vessels are specially built to right themselves, knockdowns are dreaded at the Coast Guard's National Motor Lifeboat School. It's the only program in the nation to train and certify lifeboat pilots to lead rescue crews into high seas anywhere along the nation's coasts.

The training is taking place now, as winter weather whips up the worst the sea has to offer. Two monthlong sessions, each with nine hand-picked trainees, take place each winter in an infamous area known as the "Graveyard of the Pacific" because so many ships have sunk here over the centuries. The first session ended last month, and the second starts a week from tomorrow.

The program has been under scrutiny since three crewmen were killed up the coast at La Push, Clallam County, not quite eight years ago while trying to rescue two sailboaters. Investigators found that a shortage of qualified surfmen had put a Coast Guardsman at the helm who did not know how to properly gauge conditions or pilot a boat in treacherous seas.

A second boat — this one piloted by a trained surfman — went out immediately after the first that night in February 1997, crossed the bar safely and rescued the couple.

"I don't want to cast stones at a dead Coast Guardsman, but had he waited, the evening might very well have turned out differently," said Chief Warrant Officer Ken Stuber, 49, who heads the surfmen's school.

Changes in the program were slow to be put in place — it wasn't until the session that ended about six weeks ago, in December, that trainees got four times the piloting hours in a course that's four weeks long instead of two.

Even before the changes, though, the program has been so rigorous that typically a third of the class doesn't make it. Those who do must demonstrate an ability not only to judge waves but pilot through them.

"They are trained to operate the boat at its full capacity — in 50-knot winds, 30-foot seas and 20-foot surf," said Stuber. "We're like the firehouse. We go out when everyone else is running for cover."

Kendall, a boatswain's mate first class, said his parents are proud of the work he does — "for what they know about it."

"It's difficult to explain things like what we did today," he said, referring to the knockdown.

How do you tell your parents how it feels "when a wall of water 16, 18 or 20 feet [high] comes at you, and you know it can kill you if you don't do it right?"

Cork vests and rowboats

The Coast Guard began as the U.S. Life-Saving Service in 1871, when a surfman's job was to walk a preassigned beach looking for shipwrecks and survivors.

Surfmen wore cork life vests and used rowboats then, and training consisted of tipping the rowboat over and righting it again in deep water. It was not unusual for both surfmen and victims to perish in rescue attempts.

Now, though, greater emphasis is placed on teaching crewmen like Kendall when not to launch a rescue — when the sea is so fierce that crewmen or lifeboats could perish trying to reach a sinking fishing boat, and a safer option would be to send out a Coast Guard helicopter or seek help from another nearby ship.

Said Stuber: Gone are the days when the surfmen's motto was: You have to go out, but you don't have to come in.

A job with thrills

Still, for trainees like Kendall, who quit his job at a Tulsa hardware store to join the Coast Guard, and Dave Machinski of Southern California, it's the adrenaline rush that draws them to the job.

Machinski grew up in the desert in Yucca Valley, Calif., and always loved water and its mysteries. "There are so many unknowns about it," he said.

His family often headed to San Diego for a day at the beach. He learned to surf and scuba dive. After graduating from high school in 1998, Machinski joined the Coast Guard, lured by the promise of surf, sand and excitement.

Coast Guardsmen Joshua Harris, left, and Coyet Carter, pull a rescue dummy known as an "Oscar" onboard during an exercise for surfman trainees learning to position a motor lifeboat.

And that, in turn, led him to the National Motor Lifeboat School and, on a recent December morning, out into the Graveyard of the Pacific.

At 7 a.m. the day before graduation, 24-year-old Machinski and several other trainees drove out to a lighthouse on a hill above the school and looked out at the sea. It was silver and shining in a momentary beam of sunlight that poured through a slit in the dark clouds.

Machinski checked the forecast and other data, climbed into his cumbersome survival suit and helmet and onto Boat 96, setting off for a surf zone off Clatsop Spit — on this day a more predictable classroom than Peacock, but also a place of high waves.

After an hour or so, he took his turn at the helm. Two other lifeboats were nearby, and the three vessels bucked the waves like a carnival ride. Everyone was grinning. At the entrance to the surf zone, they stopped by a bobbing red buoy for a routine safety inspection. Machinski asked the crew to make sure everything was tied down and everyone belted in. Then they moved ahead into the roaring wind and waves.

Shouting above the din, Chief Petty Officer Kevin Clark told him to steer the boat laterally across the surf — rather than into it. While that's sometimes the only way to reach a drowning person or sinking ship, it can lead to a knockdown.

Machinski had already shown himself to be a capable pilot, having navigated through difficult maneuvers earlier.

With wind and salt water stinging faces, the boat bounced, spray washing overboard. A mountain of water swelled up before him and Machinski slowed the boat to let the wave pass so he could move across its shoulder.

As he turned to head toward shore, a wave rushed in from behind. Machinski increased the speed, but the looming giant kept pace, finally toppling a short ways behind the stern.

Beaming but tired, Machinski headed toward port. He was confident he would move up a rank to the position of surfman, a job he'd always wanted — but one he also knew could bring tragedy.

In 1999, he was assigned to the Coast Guard station at Westport, Grays Harbor County, when a call came in that a 40-year-old father had been swept up in a riptide while trying to rescue his three sons. The sons made it back to shore, but the father drowned.

A year later, he was on a Coast Guard cutter located near Point Mugu, Calif., when Alaska Airlines Flight 261 out of Puerto Vallarta, Mexico, crashed into the Pacific.

"I was almost excited when the call came in. We thought we were going to pick up survivors," he said. But when the rescuers got to the area where the MD-80 had crashed, all they found were human remains and plane wreckage.

A motor lifeboat piloted by a trainee bounces over rough water off Cape Disappointment. Trainees learn to operate the craft in 50-knot winds and 30-foot seas.

He pushes those grim memories down whenever they arise.

He's happiest when he's out on the water, piloting a rescue boat as he did off Cape Disappointment. "When I'm driving it's like ... I'm free," he said. "It's almost relaxing."

Not all graduate

In any of the twice-a-year surfmen sessions, Clark, the school's second in command, never expects everyone to pass.

"The goal is to try to give them — hopefully — more than they ever will encounter," he said.

Although he considered Kendall and Machinski's class a fine group of students, it, too, would have failures. Several days before graduation, Clark and the other instructors met privately and decided that only five of the nine would pass.

Trainees, from left, Dave Ramsey, Dave Kendall and Brett Malehorn get a final briefing before a graduation ceremony. Kendall and Malehorn were among those who qualified as surfmen.

Typically, those who make it show leadership ability, remain calm in the most stressful circumstances and can navigate a boat all ways through surf to reach a person in the water — which takes training and a lot of practice.

Despite the knockdown Kendall experienced earlier while at the wheel, he remained confident.

Warm and dry and back in the training room, Kendall and the others watched a videotape of the incident. Any knockdown isn't good, requiring that a special report be made to headquarters.

"Will I hear about this for a long time? Probably," he said.

Although no one was injured and the boat came through unscathed, sometimes the most damage from a knockdown is to self-confidence, he said. "You're never the same afterwards."

Yet instructors and his classmates praised the way Kendall handled the tense situation. "I can honestly say if you get knocked down, that's the way you want to do it," said Chief Petty Officer Rusty Arnsdorf. "At some point, all you guys are going to get hit."

KEN LAMBERT / THE SEATTLE TIMES A wave sprays Coast Guard instructors and their students during a December training exercise at the National Motor Lifeboat School at Cape Disappointment. Red survival suits and helmets are standard equipment in the rough waters at the mouth of the Columbia.

When the class gathered for the last time on Dec. 10, Kendall and Machinski were both among the fortunate.

"We put a big load on you guys," said instructor Scott Logan. "Don't be offended if you don't graduate today. Be happy. This was an exceptional class, but we can't automatically make you qualified surfmen in a few weeks."

Then the diplomas were handed out. The photos were taken. Everyone quickly packed duffels and headed out — Machinski for a drive to his home station at Bodega Bay, Calif., and Kendall to the Golden Gate station at Sausalito.

Clark went to his office to prepare for the next class. The wind outside howled and rain pelted the window in a noisy tattoo.

For surfmen in training, it was a perfect day.

Nancy Bartley: 206-464-8522 or nbartley@seattletimes.com