As floodwaters swallowed parts of central Texas over the 4th of July weekend, tragedy struck Camp Mystic—a summer haven turned disaster zone. Torrents from the Guadalupe River ripped through Kerr and Mason Counties, leaving more than 100 dead and dozens still missing. Amid the chaos, one man stood alone—without backup, without a radio, and without hesitation.
That man was 26-year-old U.S. Coast Guard Petty Officer Scott Ruskan.
Ruskan was part of a rescue team launched from Air Station Corpus Christi, but severe weather grounded much of the operation. When their helicopter finally reached Camp Mystic, it became clear: Ruskan would be going in alone. “I kind of discovered I was the only person there as far as first responders go,” he recalled in an emotional interview with Good Morning America. What followed was a nine-hour mission that defied belief—and nearly defied survival.
He found himself surrounded by nearly 200 children—shivering, soaked, many of them no older than eight. With no equipment and no certainty of additional help arriving, Ruskan began the impossible: organizing, calming, and rescuing group after group. He carried them to makeshift landing zones—an archery field and a soccer pitch turned triage centers—where helicopters could land. Ten to fifteen at a time, he loaded them aboard. No child left behind.
The rescue, which ultimately saved 165 campers, is being hailed as one of the most selfless acts to emerge from a national disaster that most major networks have barely covered. Camp Mystic itself lost 27 souls—campers and counselors who were swept away before help could reach them. The rest, many believe, owe their lives to Ruskan.
But Ruskan refuses the spotlight.
In his interview, he downplayed his own heroics. “Any of the rescue swimmers in the Coast Guard would have done the exact same if not better than me.” He insisted the true heroes were the children—those who stayed strong, listened, helped each other, and endured the worst day of their lives with grace beyond their years.
“They don’t really know what my experience is or my rank or my age,” he said. “They just know, ‘Hey, this guy is a professional, and he’s here to help us.’ And I kind of had to live up to that standard.”
And live up to it, he did.
As the floodwaters receded and the helicopters flew off with the final groups of survivors, Ruskan left behind no press conference, no prepared statement—just silence. But according to townspeople, what he left in the camp chapel made everyone cry: a note scribbled in pen on a torn piece of paper.
It read:
“You were brave. You are loved. You are not alone.”
In a country flooded with noise, Scott Ruskan’s quiet courage may be one of the most powerful stories never told. Until now.
