Molly Kavanaugh was a reporter for the Cleveland Plain Dealer for more than 15 years. Below is a sample of articles she wrote:

Three times Char Tallman, wearing a twisted and half-fastened life jacket, let go of the nearly submerged boat and started to float away in the dark night.

"I'm done," she told her fiance, Tom Fox. He was holding on to the bow of the 14-foot speedboat and a rope, which was tied to the boat and loosely wrapped around Tallman.

"Come on, buddy. They're going to come and find us. We're going to see a helicopter," the Avon man said, pulling her toward him.

They saw the Coast Guard helicopter before they heard it. Just after 3 a.m. yesterday, after nearly eight hours in the 66-degree water, the chopper plucked them out of Lake Erie, just southeast of Kelleys Island.

The pilot said that the bow's red and green lights, turned on right before the storm hit, are what saved the couple. The boat, which is primarily black, was vertical in the water. Only its bow was afloat.

"If those lights hadn't been on I honestly don't think we would have found them until morning. And then would we have had a body recovery?" said Lt. Junior Grade Karl Dornburg from Detroit.

Dornburg, who was dispatched after concerned relatives reported the couple missing, emphasized repeatedly how amazed he was that the battery, submerged in water, continued to keep the lights on. He was also surprised that the two boaters were able to survive in the water as long as they did.

"The first and last hours were the worst," the North Ridgeville woman said yesterday, lying in bed at Firelands Community Hospital, constantly gazing at Fox, who was holding her blistered hand.

The couple, both 34, suffered from hypothermia. Tallman was badly bruised and Fox had a slight fracture. They hoped to go home this weekend.

The couple said it was a combination of prayer and each other that kept them afloat. "I don't know where I got the strength," said Fox, a mechanic with the Avon School District.

Outwardly he acted confident, he said, but inwardly he was preparing for death, wondering how it would feel to fill with water and sink. He figured if the lightning didn't kill them, the cold water would.

"It was so cold. My legs were knotting up. I had fractured my spine. We were starting to doze off," Fox said.

They recited aloud Our Fathers, Hail Marys and any prayer they could remember. They dozed. Fox tried to make jokes about wanting a glass of water, but Tallman couldn't laugh.

"I kept waiting for the sun to come up," said Tallman, who works at a pizza parlor and delivers Plain Dealer newspapers.

The sun had not set when they pulled away from Kelleys Island about 7:30 p.m. Thursday. They had motored there from Lorain for the day, their maiden voyage to the islands.

The sky was hazy when they left Kelleys Island, and the water was calm. "The next thing I saw was the water rippling. It almost looked like rain was hitting it, but it wasn't. Then two seconds later the waves were seven feet," Fox said.

The boat went vertical, giving the couple time to grab one life jacket and an air horn. The flares slipped out of Fox's hands, another life jacket floated away. They had no radio.

After they climbed onto the bow, Fox wrapped the bow line around Tallman, loosely in case the boat sunk, and held the rope in his hands.

Then the storm passed and the sun came out. "Tom said, `Look at the beautiful rainbow. That's God's covenant with us,' she said.

Stars came out, but the swells and lightning persisted. During the night a freighter and a pleasure boat passed by, but the couple's air horn and screams were drowned out.

Occasionally Fox would maneuver up to the lights and look at his watch. The last time he checked it was 2:30 a.m., just about the time Dornburg's four-man crew got the call that a boat between Lorain and Kelleys Island was overdue.

Dornburg's crew fueled up their helicopter at Burke Lakefront Airport, took off for Lorain and then flew northwest, 300 feet above the lake. As they shone a searchlight, nicknamed "night sun," a crewman looked through night-vision binoculars.

At 3:12 a.m. Dornburg saw a red light, which he thought was a marked buoy. Then it disappeared and when it was sighted again it was green.

The helicopter descended to 100 feet and a rescue swimmer was lowered in a sling.

"They were waving frantically," said Dornburg.

The swimmer, wearing a flotation jacket, wet suit, snorkel and flippers, calmed the couple and handed his life jacket to Fox. "[Fox] was in worse shape than her, but he insisted she go first," Dornburg said.

The couple finally made their way onboard the helicopter, but Dornburg was worried that the fuel was getting low. He was ready to throw out a raft for the swimmer and come back for him later when the swimmer scrambled on board.

"I walked over to [Tallman] and she said to me, `I didn't expect to see you guys so soon,' Dornburg said

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Sister Rita Costello meets angels everywhere she goes.

One was drawn by a 7-year-old girl who has a brain tumor. Her angel was flying over a rainbow.

Older people with terminal illnesses introduce her to the angels they see. They usually look like a deceased spouse or another loved one who has already died.

"We've always said they're hallucinating. I don't think so," says Costello, a 60-year-old member of the Sisters of Humility of Mary and one of the chaplains with New Life hospice.

Talking about angels is just one of Costello's fortes as a spiritual guide to the dying.

She lends an ear, usually with a dangling earring attached, and sheds tears with her patients and families. She looks for clues of spiritual pain, such as an unhappy separation from a child, and encourages the dying person to express his feelings. She doesn't try to play peacemaker but subtly slips in a word or two in conversations with the family.

If a reunion takes place, Costello takes no credit for it.

"Sometimes that happens by the grace of God," she said.

And she encourages family and friends to continue to talk to their loved one, even if he is in a sleeplike state. "Tell the stories back," she said.

Since Costello began this ministry nine years ago, she has seen or been part of hundreds of deaths. She can't help the tears - "it's in my genes" - nor the smiles and humorous stories.

Costello was telling a dying woman about her guardian angel and her belief that all the angels come together and lead a dying person into the kingdom of God.

The woman listened attentively and then replied, "Sister, you have such beautiful teeth."

Outside with the woman's son, Costello slipped on ice and cut her leg. "I think you left your angel inside," the son said, with a smile.

The woman died a half-hour later. "Those were the Pearly Gates she saw, not my white teeth," Costello said.

Costello was reared in a strong Catholic Italian family in Akron. She was born between two sets of twins. The two oldest boys became priests and a year after college, Costello entered the convent.

For 30 years she taught French, English, religion and communication arts to high school students in several Catholic schools in northeast Ohio.

Her religious life changed outwardly in the late 1960s, when she regained her baptismal name and the order's garb went from its traditional long black dress and veil to a blue suit.

"We looked like airline stewardesses," she said.

In the mid-1980s, the change was internal. During summers, she worked in the diocesan office in Cleveland, reviewing films for educational curricula. One of the films was about the hospice movement, a death-with-dignity movement that began in England.

"It grabbed me. My family had always taken care of [loved ones] dying," she said.

She joined three other nuns and with the help of medical professionals, they began caring for homeless people who were dying in a building owned by St. Malachi Church in Cleveland.

Costello's first dying patient was a "little old man" named George.

One night while caring for George, she decided to share some of her favorite poems with him. She got through about three lines of William Blake's "The Lamb," before George yelled, "Get out of here."

She did but returned shortly because she was the only one on duty. "Thank God you're here," George said to her. "The other one is crazy."

Costello now asks first before reciting poetry, or even a prayer. "I don't push my faith, I don't evangelize," she said.

Of all the deaths she has witnessed, she felt only one person had a difficult struggle. No two deaths are alike, but the person's mood is often of peacefulness and acceptance, she said.

"I always say that death makes you look at the world differently," she said.

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Physician’s assistant Earl Morse knew how to ease the physical pain of World War II veterans at the VA hospital in Springfield. But he wanted to quiet an ache he could not cure with medicine.

He tested his idea on one of his favorite patients, 80-year-old Leonard Loy, who had spent nearly four years aboard a Navy ship.

What if I could arrange for you to visit the World War II Memorial in Washington, D.C., with all expenses paid? Morse asked him. Would you like to go?

He expected Loy to say yes.

“I wasn’t ready for him to start crying,” said Morse, 46.

Those tears have sent Morse on a mission.

Since May, the retired Air Force captain has transported Loy and more than 100 disadvantaged veterans to Washington for the day. The vets travel for free, thanks to pilots who donate their time and airplanes and veterans groups that pick up the tab for buses, scooters and lunches. The nonprofit program, called Honor Flight, operates out of the Springfield airport.

But time is of the essence. The average WWII veteran is 80 years old, with at least 1,000 vets dying each day. As the Honor Flight waiting list grew – “I hope I’m still here,” callers would say – Morse decided to expand his mission with a second organization, the for-profit Veteran Tour Services.

For $249, Morse will fly a veteran to Washington for the day. All transportation and meals are included. If needed, Morse will even pick up the veteran at his house. The flight is open to family members and friends.

Morse has operated his tour service out of Dayton International Airport but will add flights from Cleveland and other cities in the spring.

“World War II veterans are the most humble, stoic, appreciative people you will meet,” Morse said, aboard an 8 a.m. flight to Washington last month.

He told the veterans to bring photographs and other memorabilia, and strangers quickly forged bonds at the airport gate.

Former Marine Sgt. mayor Griggs pulled out black-and-white photographs of his boss, Adm. Chester Nimitz, and politely answered questions as the photographs moved around the room.

“That one is after curfew,” Griggs joked, as a photograph of a Hawaiian dancer was passed around.

In another corner, Fred Sparks showed visitors a commemorative silver dollar he received after 23 months and 17 days aboard the USS Nevada. Have you talked much about the war? the 79-year-old Sparks was asked. “Very little,” he said quietly, as his eyes filled with tears and he turned away to compose himself.

The airport ticket-taker came across the loud speaker asking for a round of applause before the 15 Ohio veterans and a couple of dozen relatives boarded the plane.

As the commercial flight landed in Baltimore, a woman leaned over to the veteran behind her and saluted him. “I want to tell you how blessed I am to be flying with you,” she told Lawrence Mikalauskas.

Mikalauskas, 86, said it was only a few years ago that someone finally thanked him for his military service.

As the bus rolled up to the National Mall memorial, the veterans gathered jackets and cameras. “I want to get a lot of pictures, but I don’t know where to start,” said Clifford Apgar, who, at 90, was the senior member of the party.

Pauline Puterbaugh knew where she wanted to start.

Puterbaugh, the widow of an infantryman held as a prisoner of war for 788 days, wanted to see her husband’s name in the computer registry. Morse walked to the registry center with the 85-year-old woman, who supported herself on a walker.

She broke down as she looked at Raymond Puterbaugh’s name. “That’s wonderful,” she said. “That’s wonderful. I wish he could have lived to see it.”

The focal point of the memorial is a circular pool with fountains, surrounded by pillars belonging to states, territories and the District of Columbia. At the Ohio pillar, Morse placed a framed U.S. flag from another widow, whose ex-POW husband died before he could see the year-old memorial. Morse’s wife, Clarice, kept watch over the flag while Morse and the veterans strolled around reading inscriptions and pausing at the pool.

Sparks wandered over to the pillar belonging to Nevada, the namesake of his ship. The site brought more tears. “It’s pretty hard to see people buried at sea,” Sparks told the others.

Some veterans visited other war memorials, and everyone met back at the World War II site for a parting ceremony in front of the bus.

Gene Shay played taps on the fluegelhorn as his wife and 20-year-old granddaughter looked on. Earlier, the 82-year-old ex-POW talked about the thoughts that would run through his mind as he played.

“I think of all these younger men and women . . . they never had a son or daughter. That’s always on my mind,” Shay said.

As the weary veterans waited for the return flight at the airport, they talked about the extraordinary day. Garnard Littlemayor, who was sitting in a wheelchair, said it was impossible to find the right words to describe how he felt.

Morse recently quit his job at the VA hospital so he can devote his time to ferrying vets to the memorial. His wife has scaled back her hairstyling business so she can help, too.

“I’d like to say it’s a calling, but it’s more like an obsession,” Morse said, “because that’s all I think about, is getting these guys to the memorial.”

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Lorain — Former Mayor Alex “Kiki” Olejko offered many quips, but he was fond of one in particular: “There are only three places to be — heaven, Puerto Rico or Lorain.”

“Now he’s had the opportunity to be all three places,” Olejko’s son-in-law, Dan Metelsky, former Lorain councilman and state representative, said Thursday.

Olejko, 87, died Wednesday, his third day at Community Health Partners Hospital. He had struggled with several illnesses over the years.

The former steelworker, who ran Lorain for a dozen years, was not a polished politician, nor a boring one. He was the hometown cheerleader, leading the charge at council meetings and in interviews with humor, name-dropping and storytelling.

At the U.S. Conference of Mayors in 1988, he tacked “Lorain” pins on just about everyone he met.

Olejko called host Ted Koppel a “candy ass” on Nightline. He once called city Auditor Craig Foltin a “little bean counter,” but later apologized when Foltin got the city out of debt.

“You did it, kid. I didn’t think you could do it, but you did it,” Olejko told the Republican, who later became mayor.

Foltin, now executive vice president of Cuyahoga Community College, said Thursday, “He was a man’s man and a tough son of a gun. . . . It started off a little rocky with me and Kiki, but we soon had a strong working relationship. We turned a $4 million deficit into a $4 million surplus.”

Olejko was a Democrat, the party that continues to dominate city government. He was elected to City Council in 1957, a position he held for 15 years. In 1984, the year after he returned as council president, Mayor Joseph Zahorec died in a car accident. Olejko took over that afternoon.

He stayed until 1995, then bowed out, saying he wanted to relax and spend more time with his wife of 55 years, Helen, known as “Scooter,” and their big family.

He said Olejko as oh-LAY-koh and Kiki as kie-kie. His parents emigrated from Poland and settled in Lorain, where his father helped build the furnace at the steel mill.

Olejko, one of 11 children, graduated from Lorain High School. During World War II, he spent four years with the Navy at Pearl Harbor. Then he spent 38 years at the mill.

He also played baseball for the minor-league Opelika Owls in Alabama, earning the nickname Kiki after Hall of Fame outfielder Kiki Cuyler. Olejko played catcher, breaking fingers and hurting his knees. About age 60, he had his right knee replaced. An infection resulted, and he lost the lower leg.

With a prosthetic leg, he kept golfing awhile and pitched for city teams against U.S. Navy crews in port. In his wallet, a photograph showed him standing next to acclaimed baseball manager Connie Mack.

After pro ball, politics became Olejko’s passion, and he rooted for the home team. He served as councilman for Ward 4 and Ward 5, councilman at large and council president. He also served on the Lorain County Regional Airport Authority.

As mayor, he helped stage a welcome home parade in 1992 for native son Terry Anderson, Associated Press’s chief Middle East correspondent, released from Lebanon after nearly seven years as a hostage.

“Once he comes back to Lorain and sees the big blue lake when the perch are biting, he’ll never want to leave,” the mayor boasted. That did not happen. Anderson opted for the hills of Athens County.

Olejko did not have much luck with another scheme either. He wanted to donate millions of gallons of water from the Great Lakes to Florida cities devastated in 1992 by Hurricane Andrew, and called on other mayors for help. No one was interested.

He wrote President-elect Bill Clinton a letter, complaining that he snubbed a loyal steelworking town by not visiting Lorain during his campaign and he had better come during his presidency.

“All of the damn cities in the world to visit and he went to Springfield, Ohio,” Olejko told a reporter. “I told him I expected him to come to Lorain. I expect him to say, ‘Yes, mayor, I will come to Lorain.’ ” Clinton never visited the city.

But he did cajole then U.S. Housing and Urban Development Secretary Henry Cisneros to visit Lorain.

“He would not sit down and allow other mayors to speak until I promised to visit Lorain,” Cisneros told the crowd at the Puerto Rican Home during his 1994 visit to Lorain.

In Columbus, Olejko lobbied for casino ships, telling the Ohio House committee, “I don’t have any fear of prostitution, organized gambling or what you might call ‘the mafioso.’ ” Casino gambling remains illegal in Ohio.

For his work in appointing Hispanics into city leadership positions, Olejko was honored by the Ohio Commission on Spanish-Speaking Affairs. He visited Puerto Rico once for a conference.

Foltin said Olejko strove to help the city’s struggling manufacturers, especially the mills and Ford Motor Co. He also laid the groundwork for waterfront developments.

After leaving office, Olejko spent time on the city’s planning commission and continued to attend council meetings, using a cane or walker for assistance. Metelsky said Olejko continued to follow local politics and enjoyed speculating about who was running for what office.

But in the 1990s, he lamented to a New York Times reporter that he missed the old days of politics.

“Years ago, you’d see Kennedy and Nixon debate. They’d shake hands and talk about the issues. Now they’re talking about families and scandals. It’s sickening. I’ve been in politics since 1957, and I’ve never seen such crappy ads.”

Olejko was sad to see his lifelong church, St. Stanislaus Catholic, set to close at the end of September.

“I was born there, baptized there, went to school there, got married there,” he said. “It looks like I won’t be buried there.”

His Mass will take place there Saturday.

Said Metelsky, “Maybe he wanted to make sure he went the right way.”

Plain Dealer reporter Grant Segall contributed to this story.

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