leader? Did he even know the mine? Urzúa did little to garner support when he suggested the men stay in the refuge, confident that a rescue operation would save them. In the first few hours after the collapse, raging arguments erupted. Tempers flared. Urzúa was losing control.
Imprisoned in the shelter, Sepúlveda was calm as he paced about. He had practically predicted this very collapse. How many times had he argued with labor and safety inspectors back in Copiapó? He had spent days encouraging, haranguing and berating them to investigate the San José mine for safety violations. Sepúlveda had attempted to form his buddies into a workersâ union, but gave up in frustration when he came to believe that the representatives of the Central Unitaria de Trabajadores (CUT), the national workersâ union, were as self-serving as the mine owners. According to Sepúlveda and other miners, the union was in the pocket of the mine owners, spending more time breaking the union than fortifying it.
Sepúlveda, a short, balding man with a wide crooked-tooth grin, was a workaholic who combined a love of physical labor and an unbreakable spirit. To his colleagues he was either El Perry (Chilean slang for âthe Good Dudeâ) or El Loco (âThe Crazy Oneâ), the unofficial mine shaft jester. He would regularly launch sharp jibes at the mine management, but always with such spontaneous humor that even the targets of his barbs would find themselves laughing along. At the end of a typical dayâs shift, as the miners took the twenty-five-minute journey in a truck that spiraled up 10 miles per hour from the bottom of the mine, Sepúlveda always had a captive audience: his exhausted colleagues. They marveled and cheered as he improvised monologues and skits. Who else but El Perry would pole dance on the bus as the miners left work? A natural mimic and charismatic character, Sepúlveda was in a situation his hyperactive nature found oppressiveâenclosure. He was desperate to find a way out.
Sepúlveda and Mario Gómez organized the miners into three separate missions. Even as the mountain roared and the dust billowed around them, the men began to scour the mine for escape routes. Food, air and clean water were all limited, and the mine continued to rumble and send signals of another monstrous collapse. It was clear they would all die without swift action.
The main shaft of the mine was a ragged tunnel with uneven walls that, when lit by vehicle headlights, sent shadows bouncing about. It looked like the bowels of a haunted world. Side tunnels, caverns and storage rooms had been carved at seemingly random spots. Huge tanks of water were stashed throughout the mountain. Containing as much as 4,000 gallons each, the water was used to operate drilling machinery inside the mine. Had the men been able to see the mine from a cutaway side view, it would have resembled an anthill riddled with shafts.
The levels of the mine were measured in meters above sea level. Given that the entrance to the mine was roughly 800 meters (2,600 feet) above the ocean, the very bottom of the mine was called level 45. The refuge shelter where the men were gathered was level 90. The thirty-three men were trapped near the very bottom of a vast mine.
Secure in their faith that rescue teams were already mobilized, the men were desperate to send a message that they were still alive. Some of the miners began gathering truck tires and dirty oil filters. Richard Villarroel, a twenty-seven-year-old mechanic working as a subcontractor in the mine, was sent in a pickup truck to drive up the tunnel. He arrived at level 350 where the tunnel was sealed shut by the block of rock. Villarroel looked for cracks in the rock, then stuffed the holes with rubber tires and oil filters, which he ignited. Thick black clouds of smoke filled the tunnel, enough of it seeping upward, he hoped, to alert the rescue teams to their location.
A second
Imprisoned in the shelter, Sepúlveda was calm as he paced about. He had practically predicted this very collapse. How many times had he argued with labor and safety inspectors back in Copiapó? He had spent days encouraging, haranguing and berating them to investigate the San José mine for safety violations. Sepúlveda had attempted to form his buddies into a workersâ union, but gave up in frustration when he came to believe that the representatives of the Central Unitaria de Trabajadores (CUT), the national workersâ union, were as self-serving as the mine owners. According to Sepúlveda and other miners, the union was in the pocket of the mine owners, spending more time breaking the union than fortifying it.
Sepúlveda, a short, balding man with a wide crooked-tooth grin, was a workaholic who combined a love of physical labor and an unbreakable spirit. To his colleagues he was either El Perry (Chilean slang for âthe Good Dudeâ) or El Loco (âThe Crazy Oneâ), the unofficial mine shaft jester. He would regularly launch sharp jibes at the mine management, but always with such spontaneous humor that even the targets of his barbs would find themselves laughing along. At the end of a typical dayâs shift, as the miners took the twenty-five-minute journey in a truck that spiraled up 10 miles per hour from the bottom of the mine, Sepúlveda always had a captive audience: his exhausted colleagues. They marveled and cheered as he improvised monologues and skits. Who else but El Perry would pole dance on the bus as the miners left work? A natural mimic and charismatic character, Sepúlveda was in a situation his hyperactive nature found oppressiveâenclosure. He was desperate to find a way out.
Sepúlveda and Mario Gómez organized the miners into three separate missions. Even as the mountain roared and the dust billowed around them, the men began to scour the mine for escape routes. Food, air and clean water were all limited, and the mine continued to rumble and send signals of another monstrous collapse. It was clear they would all die without swift action.
The main shaft of the mine was a ragged tunnel with uneven walls that, when lit by vehicle headlights, sent shadows bouncing about. It looked like the bowels of a haunted world. Side tunnels, caverns and storage rooms had been carved at seemingly random spots. Huge tanks of water were stashed throughout the mountain. Containing as much as 4,000 gallons each, the water was used to operate drilling machinery inside the mine. Had the men been able to see the mine from a cutaway side view, it would have resembled an anthill riddled with shafts.
The levels of the mine were measured in meters above sea level. Given that the entrance to the mine was roughly 800 meters (2,600 feet) above the ocean, the very bottom of the mine was called level 45. The refuge shelter where the men were gathered was level 90. The thirty-three men were trapped near the very bottom of a vast mine.
Secure in their faith that rescue teams were already mobilized, the men were desperate to send a message that they were still alive. Some of the miners began gathering truck tires and dirty oil filters. Richard Villarroel, a twenty-seven-year-old mechanic working as a subcontractor in the mine, was sent in a pickup truck to drive up the tunnel. He arrived at level 350 where the tunnel was sealed shut by the block of rock. Villarroel looked for cracks in the rock, then stuffed the holes with rubber tires and oil filters, which he ignited. Thick black clouds of smoke filled the tunnel, enough of it seeping upward, he hoped, to alert the rescue teams to their location.
A second
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