If there was one event that showcased the importance of communication in our lives it was the Sheppton Mine Disaster.

Everything boiled down to the essence of one word - communication.

On Aug. 13, 1963, coal miners Louis Bova, David Fellin and Hank Throne were caught in a cave-in 300 feet underground.

For five days, there was no sign of the men. Lack of communication spawned the worst fears.

Media from around the world converged on the town for two weeks.

Television news was in its infancy. So the disaster became one of the first on-the-scene, live television dramas seen around the world.

The powerful event was driven by communications from every angle.

To make contact, a 6-inch bore hole was drilled through solid rock. Then a microphone was dropped into the hole.

The sound of voices underground was hailed as a miracle.

They had somehow survived without food and proper ventilation.

The ensuing dialogue between rescuers above ground and trapped miners below held the attention of the world for the next nine days.

The impact of the story was woven into hour-by-hour updates in communication.

What were their first words? What are the men saying? Are they OK? The saga kept people spellbound.

Eventually, a larger bore hole was drilled. Throne and Fellin were hoisted to the surface after 14 days underground.

President John F. Kennedy followed the progress and sent a message to hail the miraculous feat.

Sixty years later I can still recall details. That’s because I was an impressionable young boy at the time. And all of this happened just 19 miles from my home.

It held my attention like nothing else.

It made me realize how essential words are. How words matter. How words are existential. They can be life or death.

The Sheppton Mine Disaster was responsible in part for nudging me toward a career in communications.

Today, seven years into retirement, I can say that no story impacted me more than what took place in that tiny village.

Yet the thrill of the rescue wasn’t absolute. The tragedy taught me that miracles and heartbreak can exist side-by-side.

That’s because third miner Bova wasn’t saved. He was never found. He’s still there, somewhere in a tunnel called Oneida Slope #2.

That reality hurt me. I never knew the man, but the idea that he was left behind always bothered me.

I felt compelled to do something.

So years ago, I searched and contacted Bova’s only child, his son John.

I wanted to meet him. I wanted him to know that somebody cares. I wanted to give him a hug.

John invited me to his house, a rustic dwelling on the mountainside in the woods of Lost Creek.

Turns out, he’s close to my age, a few years younger.

A rugged biker with lots of tattoos, he’s a no-nonsense, straight shooter.

We spent time together discussing the tragedy. A heart-to-heart talk.

He described details I’d never read in any book, and how the painful loss of his dad had shaped his life.

We decided to meet again. Days later, we hiked to the remote site where his dad is entombed.

We actually did it a few times. John understood that I shared his grief in a personal way.

He and I became friends. I suppose it was bound to happen.

All it took to make a difference was to care. And to reach out.

It was just a matter of communication.

dserfass@tnonline.com