60 Minutes - 6/5/2022: The Longest Running Oil Spill, Canada’s Unmarked Graves, Carnegie Heroes

Episode Date: June 6, 2022

On this edition of "60 Minutes," Jon Wertheim talks with two men trying to end the longest running oil spill in U.S. history, spanning almost two decades. Anderson Cooper investigates the brutal past of Canada’s “residential school system.” Scott Pelley reports on the science behind what makes people heroic.  To learn more about listener data and our privacy practices visit: https://www.audacyinc.com/privacy-policy Learn more about your ad choices. Visit https://podcastchoices.com/adchoices

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This is an underwater volcano. He is talking about the longest-running oil spill in U.S. history. And tonight, you'll hear how this homegrown Cajun engineer and this no-nonsense Coast Guard captain said enough is enough and hatched a plan, first tried in a backyard pool, to stanch a spill that has sullied the Gulf of Mexico for almost two decades. I grew up a very, very mean woman because of all what happened to me. You learned that here, you think? Yeah. She is not the only one.

More than 150,000 children were sent to residential schools, which Canada's first prime minister supported to, in his words, sever children from the tribe and civilize them. My name was number 65 for all those years. Just a number? Just a number, yeah. 65, pick that up, stupid, or 65, why'd you do that, idiot? How do you define hero? We define it as, at least in terms of our medal awarding requirement,

is a man or a woman that willingly and knowingly risked their life to an extraordinary degree to save or attempt to save the life of another human being. Thousands have been awarded the Carnegie Hero Medal, along with a $5,500 prize. We wondered why some people are heroic. So we went to Georgetown University to see the neuroscience for ourselves. I'm Leslie Stahl. I'm Bill Whitaker. I'm Anderson Cooper. I'm Sharon Alfonsi. I'm John Wertheim. I'm Scott Pelley. Those stories tonight on 60 Minutes. The hurricanes keep coming with increased force and increased frequency. Even before hitting land, they're often wreaking havoc. Katrina, Sandy, Ida, name a tropical storm and odds are good it's caused an offshore oil spill.

And these messes aren't easily cleaned up. Tonight, we bring you a distinctly Louisiana story, one we first reported last November. The saga of the Taylor Energy oil spill, a storm-caused environmental crisis that sullied the Gulf of Mexico since 2004. Then along came an unlikely duo, a no-nonsense Coast Guard captain who said enough is enough, and a homegrown Cajun engineer who brought with him the power of local knowledge. Together they would resist a deep-pocketed energy company and help stanch the longest-running oil spill in U.S. history. How many miles offshore are we now? We're about 12 miles offshore from the coast of Louisiana.

A seventh-generation Cajun, Timmy Cuvion grew up on the Louisiana Delta, where river mingles with sea. Even as an engineering student, he moonlighted as a fishing captain. I've caught, you know, 150-pound tunas this close. He showed us the precise site of a groundbreaking contraption that's consumed him lately. We're right above it now, aren't we? Yes, sir. The Taylor Energy Platform will be laying on its side just below us. His engineering company has conceived of and installed a system to help contain a stubborn oil spill. It's directly below this spot, nearly 500 feet underwater. If we didn't have GPS coordinates, we wouldn't know

that we had a functioning system that was actively collecting a thousand gallons of oil a day. Catch that? An average of 1,000 gallons of oil a day that would otherwise be contaminating the Gulf of Mexico. It's being captured by Timmy Cuvion's system and transferred to these tanks to be sold later as recycled oil. 100,000 gallons, the major oil spill. This is seven major oil spills that we've collected since April of 2019. How many years have you been doing this? Two years. The mouth of the Mississippi forms the heart of Louisiana commerce.

This region is nourished by a mix of fish, water, gas, and oil. But increasingly, both the terrain and the economy are getting beaten up by Mother Nature. In 2004, Hurricane Ivan devastated the Gulf, including bringing down this massive oil platform operated by Taylor Energy. Cuvion made this video simulation of what likely happened. To see the energy that it took to shear the legs of this eight-pile platform, the Taylor Energy platform, it's hard to comprehend. The underwater mudslide toppled the oil platform, damaging the connections to as many as 28 oil wells below.

To this day, the structure lies horizontally on the floor of the Gulf. The sheen caused by the oil spills spread for miles. For years, ships traveling through were coated in the slick. Pools of oil bubbled up to the surface. And marine life, like these schools of giant amberjack, had to swim through the muck. How could this spill have gone on for 17 years and counting without much public awareness? For one, Taylor Energy is not a Fortune 500 giant, but a local company, and a beloved one at that. For people not from here, who are the Taylors of Taylor Energy? This is a family which has built its reputation as a benevolent community corporate citizen of the highest order. Pat McShane is a prominent Louisiana maritime lawyer,

whose clients include Timmy Cuvion. He says that in New Orleans society, the Taylors are known for their educational philanthropy. How you doing, man? I'm Pat Taylor. Nice to see you. How y'all been? In 1989, 60 Minutes reported on the Taylors' generosity. When the spill occurred, locals assumed that tailors would clean it up. Taylor has been tasked under the Federal Oil Pollution Act with the responsibility for containing the oil and coming up with a permanent solution.

And during that time, they worked hand-in-glove with the United States government. The U.S. government makes money, billions in fact, leasing offshore oil rights. So when there is an oil spill, the government has ultimate authority. But we were surprised to learn how much the government relies on the leasing oil companies themselves to lead the recovery efforts. People might hear the story and say, wait a second, it's up to the oil companies to give the estimate how severe this is? It is. And in general, the industry is very responsible in reporting those type of amounts and even cleaning up the spill and securing the source. Captain Chrissy Luttrell, a veteran of the Coast Guard, was placed in charge of overseeing the Taylor Energy spill in 2018.

This is the biggest pollution response case I'll see in my 28-year career. Taylor Energy was required by federal law to set aside $666 million in a trust to fund cleanup costs. Taylor says that by 2011, it had spent hundreds of millions to plug nine of the most active wells at the site. Then in 2013, Taylor Energy, along with U.S. government agencies, including the Coast Guard, issued this report, concluding the best option was to leave the underwater site alone. It said only small amounts of oil, about three gallons per day, were likely flowing, and further action could hurt the environment.

For years, they were claiming this was about three gallons, per day were likely flowing, and further action could hurt the environment. For years, they were claiming this was about three gallons a day, not a thousand, three gallons a day that was seeping out. I honestly could not speak for their opinions on their science. But measuring oil spills deep underwater is difficult, and estimates varied wildly depending on the source of the data. Captain Luttrell says that by 2018, the Coast Guard had access to improved sonar, revealing that oil was still escaping, a lot of it. We believe there's multiple wells still leaking inside the erosional pit

at the site. At what point did you say, you know what, enough, the Coast Guard's going to take over this containment? I came to that decision sometime in late summer of 2018. It didn't take me long to realize that we were going to go ahead and have to federalize this case when I didn't feel like I was getting a timely response out of the responsible party. Luttrell says she was concerned that Taylor Energy was, in her words, not acting in a timely manner. And she took over control of the containment, putting out a call for bids for a temporary solution to collect any flowing oil. Timmy Cuvion's Louisiana firm competed with other engineering contractors to come up with an invention. I'd worked with Timmy at Oceaneering. Cuvion summoned two friends,

former colleagues. They began with a basic concept, oil and water don't mix. I had invented the underwater separator. Jack Couch is a longtime expert deep sea diver. Dr. Kevin Cannelli, a.k.a. Dr. K, is an engineer. The three amigos, they called themselves, hunkered down in Timmy Cuvion's man cave in Belle Chase, Louisiana, taking breaks only to shoot pool and eat po'boys. Take me back to when you guys were using this room to solve problems.

I remember Jack sat there, Timmy sat there, and I sat over here, and we each had a desk. It took the three amigos five days before, as they put it, they went from can't to can. There was even no moving parts. There's no pumps, no nothing. We just used the natural buoyancy of the fluids and stuff. I looked at them and I'm like, is there any reason why this won't work? They even tested their invention in the backyard pool. We did everything from testing in a swimming pool to full-scale tests in very, very large tanks to make sure that it worked. Against steep competition, their proposal was chosen by the Coast Guard in late 2018.

The blue box would act like a cap which collects the leaking oil and gas. That would get separated in the white tank. And then the oil would go to storage in the yellow tubes. From there, it would be pumped off to a ship each month. But Cuvion had to make the concept a reality. And the clock was ticking. It was about December 15th. We were on site with our ROVs, which is a remotely operated vehicle, so an underwater robot. Cuvion's team dropped the ROV to get detailed sonar images of what was going on 470 feet down. He says he was shocked by what he saw in his images. The red represents plumes of oil and gas spewing in front of the

downed platform. This is what you're seeing after you have the contract. That's right. My first reaction was, this isn't micron droplets that's coming out from the seafloor. This is an underwater volcano. Cuvion's crew put more than 200 tons of steel pieces together using enormous cranes, teams of expert sea divers, and multiple remote-operated vehicles. To get a sense of proportion, note the size of the men compared to the equipment. I did not sleep very well those nights that I knew the divers were out and about on the seafloor in almost 500 feet of water. And I was concerned about the crane failing and that much weight dropping.

Spring of 2019 brought the moment of truth. This wasn't testing a simulation in a backyard pool. This was the real thing, a $43 million system in the Gulf. When we opened up the valves, and less than a day later, the sheen had largely disappeared, we knew we had really done something. It was awesome. A good day for the environment. No doubt. Look, nobody wants oil in their backyard, right? We proved that we can clean up our mess, right? You send it 500 feet down and dang, it's working.

It was simple, yet effective. And I give the engineers credit for coming up with that design. But like the muddy Mississippi itself, this tail has no clear endpoint. Taylor Energy headed straight to court. In total, it's filed more than 10 separate suits in conjunction with the oil spill. this tale has no clear endpoint. Taylor Energy headed straight to court. In total, it's filed more than 10 separate suits in conjunction with the oil spill, including one against Cuvion. The claim?

He was trespassing and was negligent. Taylor's lawyer also told the court, We very much dispute that these activities need to be going out there at this point in time or that this is even Taylor Energy oil out there at this point in time. In response, Cuvion's maritime lawyer, Pat McShane, characterized Taylor's allegations as, quote, pernicious. And he pointed us to a wealth of evidence indicating that the oil was indeed Taylor's. The National Oceanic Atmospheric

Administration, the United States Coast Guard, have taken all manner of visual evidence of the plumes coming out of the seabed right at the platform. When you say that's not our oil against this overwhelming evidence, you're playing some different kind of game. Cuvion, a former Louisiana State wrestling champion, says he's not backing down from the fight. You're working to fix a problem that an oil company was responsible for, and now they're suing you. Kind of crazy, isn't it? It's intimidation by litigation. Taylor Energy also filed legal action against Captain Christy Luttrell, arguing that she overstepped her Coast Guard authority. You've been named personally.

How do you perceive this situation? As the federal on-scene coordinator, I use my authority to do the right thing and to protect the environment. Phyllis Taylor, CEO of Taylor Energy, declined our interview request. The company said in a statement that it has retained and relied upon the world's foremost experts to study and then recommend a plan of action. We continue to advocate for a response driven by science. Taylor lost its case against Cuvion and in action to recover the $432 million still left in that cleanup trust. 60 Minutes has learned that Taylor is now in mediation with the government to conclude all the outstanding litigation at once. Asked why

he thinks Taylor resisted so intensely, Timmy Cuvion doesn't hesitate. That's the $432 million question. You know, in this case, it seems like if you followed the money, you'd have a better chance of getting your answer. What would you say to Phyllis Taylor if she were sitting right here? I just want to know why. Why are we at this point?

Someone that has given so much to our state, why would you continue to allow this oil spill to happen in our Gulf waters? After our story first aired, Taylor Energy dissolved as a company, settling all remaining cases, agreeing to hand over $475 million to the federal government for cleanup and penalties. Cuvion's system is still plugging away. As of this spring, it's captured more than 1 million gallons of spilled oil. Sometimes historic events suck. But what shouldn't suck is learning about history.

I do that through storytelling. History That Doesn't Suck is a chart-topping history-telling podcast chronicling the epic story of America decade by decade. Right now, I'm digging into the history of incredible infrastructure projects of the 1930s, including the Hoover Dam, the Empire State Building, the Golden Gate Bridge, and more. The promise is in the title, History That Doesn't Suck, available on the free Odyssey app or wherever you get your podcasts. Last year, when archaeologists detected what they believed to be 200 unmarked graves at an

old school in Canada, it brought new attention to one of the most shameful chapters of that nation's history. Starting in the 1880s and for much of the 20th century, more than 150,000 children from hundreds of Indigenous communities across Canada were forcibly taken from their parents by the government and sent to what were called residential schools. Funded by the state and run by churches, they were designed to assimilate and Christianize Indigenous children by ripping them from their parents, their culture, and their community. The children were often referred to as savages and forbidden from speaking their languages or practicing their traditions. As we first reported earlier this year, many were physically and sexually abused and thousands of children never

made it home. The last of Canada's 139 residential schools for Indigenous children closed in 1998. Most have been torn down. But the Muskegon Residential School in Saskatchewan still stands. Its windows boarded up, its rooms gutted. A reminder to a nation that would rather forget a three-story tombstone for generations of children who died here. Sometimes I wish it would be gone for all what happened here. You wish this had been torn down? Yeah, I could hear

everything in here, what was done. It lingers. Leona Wolfe, who comes from the Muskegon Reserve, was five years old, and she says she was taken from her home in 1960. School officials and police would often show up unannounced in indigenous communities and round up children, some as young as three. Parents could be jailed if they refused to hand their children over. When kids arrived at their schools, their traditional long hair was shaved off. If they tried to speak their language,

they were often punished. They put me in a dark room like that. They'd shut the door, and then they'd take off the light. All I had to look through was this much light, like I was in jail. She says the abuse many kids in Muskaugen suffered from the Catholic priests and nuns wasn't just physical. Father Joël was fondling the girls here.

A priest, Father Joël, was fondling girls? Yeah, this used to be a sickbay. They used to have a bed here. And he would take girls into the bed? Yeah, my cousin. He took your cousin in here? How old was she? She was only eight. They used to have a bed here. And he would take girls into the bed? Yeah. My cousin. He took your cousin in here? How old was she?

She was only eight. I grew up a very, very mean woman because of all what happened to me. You learned that here, you think? Yeah. She is not the only one. More than 150,000 children were sent to residential schools which canada's first prime minister supported to in his words sever children from

the tribe and civilize them for much of the 20th century the canadian government supported that mission this report aired in 1955 they learned not only games and traditions, such as the celebration of St. Valentine's Day, but the mastery of words. The idea for the schools came in part from the United States. In 1879, the Carlisle Indian Industrial School opened in Pennsylvania, where this photo was taken of Native American children when they first arrived. This is them four months later. The school's motto was, kill the Indian, save the man. Consequently, ours was kill the Indian in the child.

Kill the Indian in the child. That was the guiding principle here in Canada. Chief Wilton Littlechild, whose Cree was six years old when he was taken to this residential school in Alberta. Then, he says, he was given a new name. My name was number 65 for all those years. Just a number? Just a number, yeah. 65, pick that up, stupid, or 65, why'd you do that, idiot?

What does that feel like, at six years old, to be called a number? Well, I think that's where the trauma begins, not just the physical abuse, psychological abuse, spiritual abuse, and worst of all, sexual abuse. You were sexually abused? Yes. I think that's where my anger began as a young boy.

Chief Littlechild says he was able to take some of that anger out on the school's hockey rink. He won a scholarship to university and graduated, eventually going on to a distinguished career in law. But his story is the exception. They didn't kill my spirit, so I'm still Cree. I'm still who I am. I'm not 65. My name is Maikant Mohtil, so they didn't kill my spirit. In 2008, after thousands of school survivors filed lawsuits, the Canadian government formally apologized for its policies. It also set up a $1.9 billion compensation fund and established a Truth and Reconciliation Commission that Chief Littlechild helped lead.

For six years, the commission heard testimony from survivors across the country. And she put me underwater, slapping me and hitting me, slapping me and hitting me and punching me and punching me and holding me under water. Pulling my hair. And I thought, God, she's going to kill me. I'm going to die. First day of school. We as little boys and little girls, We lost our innocence. In 2015, the commission concluded what happened was cultural genocide. It identified more than 3,000 children who died from disease due to overcrowding, malnutrition, and poor sanitation, or died after being abused or trying to run away.

A government study in 1909 found the death rate in some schools was as high as 20 times the national average. Most schools had their own cemeteries, and sometimes when children died, their parents were never informed. It's really traumatic for those families who don't know what happened to their child or relative in the schools. Why weren't kids who died at the schools, why weren't they sent home? To save money. Last year, archaeologists detected what they said could be 200 unmarked graves at this former school in Kamloops, British Columbia. Weeks later, a further 751 unmarked graves were detected across from the former Marivelle

Residential School on the Cowess's Reserve in Saskatchewan. There was once a Catholic cemetery here, but the headstones were bulldozed in the 1960s by a priest after a dispute with a former chief. And what were these lists for? A small team of researchers has been trying to discover the names of those children buried here, but for decades the government and the church have been reluctant to share their records. Chief Cadmus de Lorme is trying to get answers. Do you know that they're all children?

We can't verify how much are children, but based on the research we're doing, a lot of them were children that were forced to go to the Maryville Residential School and died in the Maryville Residential School. Chief DeLorme says he hopes to give the unidentified children a dignity in death that they never received in life. I want to make sure that Canada knows the truth

because you can't move to reconciliation until you accept the truth. The discoveries of the graves open deep wounds. More than a dozen churches have been vandalized or destroyed and thousands have marched demanding the Pope apologize and the churches open archives to help identify any missing children. Indigenous communities across the country have begun conducting their own searches using ground penetrating radar. We've laid out a number of grids throughout this landscape. Archaeologists Keisha Supernant and Terry Clark say 35 unmarked

graves have been discovered at the Muscalgon School. There's something going on there that's not natural. When we were there this past October, they found what appeared to be another. According to survivor accounts, children sometimes had to dig their classmates' graves. The priests or the school officials would force the kids to dig other children's graves. The priests or the school officials would force the kids to dig other children's graves. Yep. Can you imagine being like 10 or 11 and digging a grave for your classmate?

What that must have been like. Keisha Supernant says the search for unmarked graves will continue for years. This is very emotional work. It's very devastating work. It's very devastating work. It's heartbreaking for everyone who's involved. You feel that too? I do.

Our communities still feel the impacts of these institutions in our everyday lives. We're way overrepresented in child welfare and adoptions and foster care. We're way overrepresented in the prisons. You can draw a direct line with that to these places and the pain of that that has been passed on from generation to generation. I started school here in 1958. Ed Bitter knows whose Cree understands that pain. He was eight

years old when he was taken to the Muskegon school. His parents lived within sight of the school and when he tried to run away, he says the. His parents lived within sight of the school, and when he tried to run away, he says the priests forced him to kneel on a broom handle for three days. That's where my house was. I would sit here and wonder why I couldn't be home. That must have been devastating. Yeah.

It wasn't only adults he feared. Some students, themselves victims of abuse, preyed on other children. Were you abused here? Yeah, actually in this room here by one of the boys. In this very room? This very area here. Later, he says he was also sexually molested by a nun. When he left school, he was rudderless and violent and turned to alcohol.

When he got married, he says, he didn't know how to show affection. You didn't know what love was? No, no. I never felt it here. I didn't start saying I loved her until we were married about 40 years, and then I was very careful how I said it. You didn't say to your wife for 40 years that you loved her? Mm-hmm. Yeah. He says his life changed when he began rediscovering his Cree culture. Raising buffalo and sharing traditional knowledge with children

brought healing and finally an understanding of the word love. You can say that now? I can say that now. And it feels good. And I still joke with my wife about that. Don't say that too loud. So you can say it, you just don't want to say it too loud. Yes.

Okay. You know what? It's better than nothing. Yes, that's what she says. As for Leona Wolf, her life and the lives of her children and grandchildren have been plagued by violence and substance abuse. Intergenerational trauma, she says, that began the day her own mother was sent to school at Muscalgon. Did you see the impact of this place on your mom? Yeah.

How? By drinking a lot, being mean to me, and it impacted us, me and my brother and my siblings. What was done to her, she passed on to you. To me. And what was done to you and others here. Was passed on to my children. This is why sometimes I go into my rage of anger

and I cry. Because it was all done to us. All of us. But it's going to stop now. You know? It is. You know, it is. You believe that?

I'm breaking the cycle with my great-grandchildren. Hail Mary, full of grace. Leona Wolfe has returned to her traditions as well. Walking the halls of Muskalkin, she began to sing Hail Mary, a prayer she was forced to learn here long ago. Now she sings it her own way. That's not how you sang it here when you were in school, though, was it? Nope.

You made peace with the Virgin Mary by singing that song. Yeah, and I made peace with myself. Last April at the Vatican, Pope Francis apologized to Canada's Indigenous peoples for the deplorable abuses they suffered in Catholic-run residential schools. He'll travel to Canada next month to make the apology in person. In 1904, 180 Americans were trapped by fire in a Pennsylvania coal mine. Two heroes went in to save them, but the rescuers and all but one of the miners perished. Still, that act of heroism touched one of the richest Americans, a man whose steel mills were fired by coal. Andrew Carnegie donated more than $100 million in today's money to recognize heroes in the U.S. and Canada. As we first reported last fall, a good deal has changed in 118 years.

Thousands have been awarded the Carnegie Hero Medal, and advances in neuroscience are revealing why some of us may be heroic. We'll get to the science, but first, meet some of the Carnegie Heroes, including Terri Ann Thomas. I remember thinking just almost instantly, I am not going to let somebody die. Terri Ann Thomas was a civilian overseeing confiscated property at the headquarters of the Topeka Police Department. In 2015, an agitated man came into the basement property room to demand his bicycle. Thomas turned to find it. As soon as I turned around and started to walk off, I heard a scream.

The scream came from Officer Tammy Walter. For reasons we don't know, she'd been attacked by the man in the property room waiting area. Thomas hit a panic alarm and charged out of her locked room. And so as I ran out there, I saw there was blood on the wall, and she was down, and she was not moving. And I went over there, and I pulled him off of her. He looked at me, and he punched me in the face. He turned around, and he started back on her. He looked at me and he punched me in the face. He turned around and he started back on her. He's kicking her while she's on the ground and constantly punching her. So I went and grabbed

him again and I pulled him off. Help was slow in coming. It seems no one had triggered the panic alarm before, so the cops upstairs weren't sure what it meant. He grabbed something off her gun belt, and I thought, okay, he has her gun. This whole thing has just changed. He hit the elevator button, and he looked at me, and he said, you're coming with me. Later, it turned out it was the officer's radio the man had, not her gun. But Thomas didn't know that in the fight. What happened then? And so I put my foot in the door.

It opened up. And with everything I had, I grabbed him, and I pulled him out of the elevator. And just as soon as we got out, I ran to the door, I opened it, and I just started screaming. And that's when all the officers came in and took him down. A Topeka cop reported that story to the Pittsburgh headquarters of the Carnegie Hero Fund Commission. Eric Zarin is president of the commission. He's a former Secret Service agent. Well, we look at up to a thousand cases a year, and we award about just a little over 10 percent of that. So in recent years, that equates to about 80 cases a year. How do you define hero? We define it as, at least in terms of our

medal awarding requirement, is a man or a woman that willingly and knowingly risked their life to an extraordinary degree to save or attempt to save the life of another human being. What are some of the things that your investigators go through when they're investigating a case? We write to or contact police departments, fire departments, you know, the victim in the case, who was the rescued party, and other eyewitnesses to the act. And we start to build an understanding of each case. And this is the medal. The Carnegie Medal, molded in bronze,

comes with $5,500 and other financial support. We also pay for funeral costs fully for a hero that is killed in the act. We pay any medical costs for any injury that they incur, to include psychological after effects, PTSD. We don't present a medal and walk away. We stay there, and we stay there for the hero's lifetime and sometimes, you know, far beyond. I mean, we were recently looking at a case that, you know, a gentleman was killed in his heroic act, and we supported his wife and then one of his daughters for a total of 72 years until his daughter died.

On the beach on that day, I just reacted. Pete Ponser fit the Carnegie definition of hero. He was on a North Carolina beach in 2015 when someone pointed to a boy swept away by a rip current. Ponser and another man swam about 150 yards. And we found a young teenager, a 13-year-old boy, and water was starting to wash over his face. This is the boy after they swam him back to shore. As we get to the beach,

a church youth group leader comes out and meets with us. He says, thank you. There's another one. A second boy was drowning. Ponser ran, broke his foot, ignored it, and swam out. He eventually lost sight of the boy, but the child was pulled from the water by others and flown to a hospital. So why you? I didn't think about it. It's kind of like if you put your hand on a hot stove and pull it back right away without thinking. That's kind of what it was like for me.

It just needed to be done, and I did it. It was the same reaction for David McCartney when fate arrived on a two-lane road in Indiana. I was heading south, and there was a vehicle that seemed like it was going a little bit left, a little bit right, and then all of a sudden it went right, and it hit a culvert. What happened next? Well, you could start seeing smoke. It was starting to bellow out, and you could actually start hearing Miss Testerman, who I come to find out was starting to scream because the vehicle was actually starting to catch on fire. Elizabeth Testerman was trapped. Yeah, she's sitting there screaming underneath the dashes on fire. The smoke's just going through your nose, and you're trying to figure out, well, what to do now?

McCartney and another man kicked in her windshield and cut her seat belt with a knife. We pull her feet out and then we kind of wiggle her up to that windshield that was kicked out, and then we pulled her over to the grass and laid her down. A minute later, he told us, the car exploded. That fear of dying in a car is well known to Abigail Marsh. She's not a hero, but she was saved by one. At age 19, she was on an interstate at night and swerved to miss a dog. She went into a spin, which left her facing lanes of high-speed traffic in a car she couldn't restart. And I spent some amount of time 100% certain I was about to die. I mean, I was, you know, any one of these cars hadn't swerved in time and I definitely would have been dead.

What happened? I hear a rap on the passenger side window and I see a man's face staring into my car. And he said, you look like you could use some help. The stranger got her car started and drove her to safety. His act of heroism led her to become Dr. Abigail Marsh, a neuroscientist who studies what gets into the heads of heroes. At Georgetown University, she has published studies on the brains of two kinds of people, psychopaths who have no compassion for others

and people who have so much compassion that they donated a kidney to a stranger. She found a striking difference in a pair of tiny structures near the bottom of the brain called the amygdalae. They subconsciously recognize danger and react faster than conscious thought. One of the big things that we know they do is they're responsible for generating the experience of fear.

What's interesting about that is that not only is the amygdala essential for giving you the experience of fear, it seems to allow you to empathize with other people's fear. As her subjects were scanned, Marsh showed them emotional faces. And whereas people who are psychopathic show very minimal responses in the amygdala when they see a frightened face, people who have given kidneys to strangers have an exaggerated response in the amygdala, which we think means that they are more sensitive than most people to others' distress, better at interpreting when other people are in distress,

more likely to pick up on him. Perhaps like the man who saved her on the freeway. No telling how many psychopaths drove past you that night. Just try to relax and stay as still as possible during this scan. We wondered whether our Carnegie heroes were born heroic. All right, are you comfortable and ready? Was there a difference in their brains? All three volunteered for Dr. Marsh's scans.

To my, I'm not going to lie, I was really pleased and gratified by what we found in the heroic rescuers, which is that just like the altruistic kidney donors, their amygdalas were larger than average and significantly more responsive to the sight of somebody else in distress, which makes so much sense. I mean, you know, these are the people who, when they saw somebody terrified because they thought they were about to die, they didn't just sit there. You know, they have all told us that they sprang into action, as you say, without thinking. You don't think, you just, you're strictly acting. I didn't think about it. I didn't even think about it. It really makes sense when you think about how ancient and deep in our brains structures like the

amygdala are. And I wouldn't want to say that the amygdala is where altruism is in the brain. It's one link in a very long chain of events that's happening that takes us from seeing that somebody's in danger to actually acting to help them. But we know that it's definitely an essential link in that chain, whether you're a mouse or a rat or a dog or a human. It's performing these same functions at a really deep, fast, subconscious level. If the act of heroism is a sprint, the consequences are a marathon. For David McCartney, it was for the better. He's the first to admit he wasn't a good man. In the past, he'd pleaded guilty to battery. But he promised the woman he pulled from the burning car that he would do good. And in 2019, he donated a kidney.

Who did the kidney go to? I have no clue. On the other hand, for Terri Ann Thomas, heroism has been troubling. She wasn't able to go back to work in the police property room. I had a hard time. I still have a hard time. And it's been a hard time for Pete Ponser, who was left with regret. That second boy he could not reach was flown to a hospital but did not survive. A hero would have gotten the second one as well.

And that's a challenge that I always live with. I just couldn't get the second kid. His regret was coupled with curiosity about the boy he saved six years ago, the boy whose name he never knew. The young man that you saved is named Sebastian Prokop. Okay. And we found him. Okay.

And he had something that he wanted to say to you. So let me introduce you. I'm Sebastian Prokop. I'm 18. I recently graduated from high school, and I'm working towards going to college, getting a car, all that good stuff. Thank you to the one who pulled me out and let me be able to achieve all the milestones that I've got and that I plan to get. Thank you, Scott. What is it like to see him today?

It kind of takes my breath away, Scott, because that helps to bring some closure and some help. Help for Heroes has been the mission of the Carnegie Fund for 118 years. It has bestowed 10,000 medals and awarded $40 million. Back in 1904, Andrew Carnegie sensed what science has now confirmed. Heroes, he said, cannot be created. They act on an impulse, a mysterious gift to the few. I'm Scott Pelley. We'll be back next week with another edition of 60 Minutes.