All 33 Chilean Miners Rescued

The capsule shuddered once against the rim of the shaft before the winch caught and held. I leaned over the edge with the others, watching the steel line disappear into the dark. The night air above the San José mine carried dust and the low thrum of generators. Someone called for more slack. The line dropped another meter and stopped.

Manuel Gonzalez had gone down first, just after eleven the night before. He was the one who knew the shaft best. We waited on the surface for his report, but the video feed from below showed movement before any message came up. Florencio Avalos climbed into the Phoenix instead. He was the fittest. The capsule sealed. The motor started.

Avalos reached us at ten past midnight. The door opened and he stepped out into the lights. His wife reached him first. Then the president. People began to chant Chile, the sound rolling across the crowd that had gathered since dusk. I checked the time on the board. One down. Thirty-two to go.

The next ascent took longer than planned. We adjusted the brake settings twice. Jimmy Sanchez came up at nineteen, the youngest, blinking hard against the floodlights. A medic walked him straight to the field hospital tent. He kept asking if everyone else was still coming. We told him yes.

Mario Gómez followed not long after. Sixty-three years old, the oldest. He carried a small bundle of letters. One of them had already been read on the surface days earlier, asking the company to change how it worked. He handed the bundle to a doctor and asked for water. His hands shook when he drank.

Jose Ojeda emerged with the note still in his pocket, the one that had told the world they were alive. He showed it to no one. He simply folded it once more and put it away when his family reached him. The camera crews stayed back. For a few minutes the only sound was the winch resetting.

Carlos Mamani, the Bolivian, came next. President Evo Morales waited at the shaft with Piñera. They spoke briefly. Mamani nodded, then walked to the medical tent without looking back at the hole. The line of ambulances had grown to twelve by then.

Mario Sepúlveda brought rocks in a canvas bag. He opened it on the ground and let the stones roll out under the lights. Some of the rescuers picked them up. He laughed once, short and sharp, then sat on the edge of the stretcher until a nurse told him to lie down.

Juan Illanes kept his posture straight when the capsule opened. Former soldier. He had kept the others on a schedule underground, or so the stories said. He saluted no one. He simply stepped clear and waited for the next man to be brought up.