In the midst of the July 4th flash flood catastrophe that ravaged Camp Mystic along the Guadalupe River in Hunt, Texas, one name has emerged with singular clarity and awe: Scott Ruskan. A newly certified U.S. Coast Guard rescue swimmer on his very first mission, Ruskan was instrumental in saving 165 lives from the raging torrent—an act of service that now stands as a defining moment not just in his career, but in the annals of modern rescue operations. As the water surged, as cabins crumbled, and as cries for help echoed across the riverbanks, Ruskan dropped into the chaos with only his training, his courage, and his unwavering commitment to duty.

His extraordinary feat—saving nearly two hundred individuals in the most harrowing conditions imaginable—occurred during a flood event that is already being described by emergency officials as one of the most devastating in the history of Texas Hill Country. Camp Mystic, a cherished summer camp for girls dating back decades, had become ground zero in a humanitarian crisis precipitated by a wall of floodwater triggered by torrential rains upstream. Families from across the state, even across the country, sent their daughters to the storied camp, a place of sunshine, river tubing, horseback rides, and lifelong friendships. But in the early hours of July 4, nature turned hostile—and the fate of those at the camp rested in the hands of responders like Scott Ruskan.

Ruskan, a young man trained in the grueling rescue swimmer program, had never faced a live rescue before that day. Coast Guard rescue swimmer training is among the most physically demanding military programs in the U.S., preparing individuals to leap from helicopters into violent seas, swim through treacherous currents, and carry out rescues under conditions that would cripple most. Yet no simulation could replicate the surreal horror unfolding at Camp Mystic, where entire cabins were being pulled from their foundations and young girls, some as young as seven or eight, were clinging to rooftops or floating debris, separated from counselors and scattered across flooded terrain.

His deployment was swift. Responding to a call for aerial rescue support, a Coast Guard aircrew from Corpus Christi or Houston deployed by helicopter toward the disaster zone. Once overhead, the full scale of the emergency revealed itself in haunting detail: a maze of submerged structures, clusters of survivors waving desperately from rooftops, others huddled in treetops or swept away entirely. Wind shear and turbulent conditions from the ongoing storm made maneuvering dangerous, and the pilot had to carefully hover over viable drop zones. Then, with a brief nod, Ruskan was in the water.

From that moment on, the clock seemed to bend to his rhythm. Over the next several hours, Scott Ruskan executed rescue after rescue—lowered by hoist into flooded fields and roaring currents, navigating tree branches, loose wires, and submerged fences. He carried or assisted panicked children into harnesses, calmed counselors who had lost contact with entire cabins, and held on to terrified campers awaiting extraction by basket lift. At times, he made multiple trips per lift zone, coordinating between survivors and his crew overhead via waterproof radio.

Witnesses later reported that he seemed tireless. As the helicopter rotated between refueling runs and load limits, Ruskan remained in the fray, returning again and again to pluck more survivors from danger. Local law enforcement and emergency management teams on the ground—already overwhelmed by collapsed bridges and flooded access roads—were reportedly in tears watching Ruskan at work from vantage points along the riverbank.

What made this operation all the more extraordinary was the inherent risk. Water rescues during floods are notoriously treacherous. Unlike ocean rescues, flash floods often carry debris: downed trees, propane tanks, sections of houses. They also present an unpredictable current pattern due to the uneven landscape. Ruskan not only had to locate survivors, but had to calculate where the water would push him, when it might recede momentarily, and how to navigate both to and from the target while keeping panicked survivors calm. Each child he reached was a puzzle of size, fear, and environment. Some had already been in the water for over an hour. Some were hypothermic. Others were separated from siblings and inconsolable.

The number “165” is not just a statistic—it is a profound marker of what it means to do one’s duty with honor, precision, and heart. In a crisis that claimed lives—reports confirmed that at least three individuals associated with the camp did not survive the flood—Ruskan’s role turned the tide for dozens of families who will now forever remember him as the reason their daughters came home.

It was only after the final extraction, when the helicopter completed its last evac run and landed safely at a staging area set up by local authorities, that Ruskan reportedly allowed himself to sit down. Colleagues noted that his uniform was soaked, torn in places from tree limbs and fencing. His face was streaked with river mud. But the stoic professionalism remained. He had done what he was trained to do—but the scale, he would later admit, was unimaginable.

In the aftermath, as media crews descended on the region and the governor declared a state of emergency for Kerr County and surrounding areas, word of Ruskan’s heroism spread quickly. Social media lit up with posts from parents, many of whom had been unable to reach their children during the flood, expressing tearful gratitude to the “angel in the water.” One mother wrote, “We will never forget what this young man did. My daughter said he told her, ‘You’re safe now. I’ve got you.’”

The Coast Guard itself acknowledged Ruskan’s heroics, though official commendations take time. What is already certain, however, is that this first mission will forever define the measure of his character. While many spend their first deployment learning the ropes under supervision, Ruskan was thrust into the epicenter of chaos and responded with leadership, physical endurance, and an ironclad focus on human life. No matter where his future assignments take him—whether aboard cutters in Alaska or deployments to hurricane zones—his name is now etched into the legacy of American rescue service.

The broader implications of the Camp Mystic rescue, and Ruskan’s role within it, stretch beyond the immediate. As climate change accelerates extreme weather events across the U.S., the number of flash floods in regions like Texas Hill Country is rising. Emergency planners, educators, and lawmakers are already looking at the Mystic incident as a bellwether for the kinds of high-stakes rescue infrastructure that will be necessary going forward. That this flood struck during a holiday weekend, at a children’s summer camp, makes it a case study in risk amplification. It has underscored the need for improved flood forecasting, real-time alert systems tailored to isolated institutions like camps, and faster aerial response capability from regional Coast Guard or National Guard units.

Experts in emergency management stress that the success of the Camp Mystic rescue—particularly Ruskan’s portion of it—was not due to luck but rather to the systematic training and preparation undertaken by the Coast Guard. The rescue swimmer program, they note, is built precisely for situations where seconds matter and there’s no margin for error. “What Scott Ruskan did,” said one retired Coast Guard aviation commander in a regional press briefing, “was exactly what he was trained to do. The only difference is the scale. And the fact that it was his first mission makes it historic.”

Camp Mystic itself, while devastated physically, is expected to rebuild. The community surrounding the camp—alumni, families, staff—have already mobilized to offer support, raise funds, and provide mental health counseling for survivors. Yet the psychological trauma of the flood will linger, especially for the children who experienced the terror of nature’s fury firsthand. For them, the image of a lone man in a wetsuit dropping from the sky, lifting them to safety, and telling them they would be alright will remain a symbol of hope in the darkest moment of their young lives.

For Ruskan, it may take time to fully absorb what he has accomplished. He may downplay his role, as many heroes do. But for those whose lives he touched, he will always be remembered—not just as a rescuer, but as a guardian who emerged from the clouds when they needed one most.

His story reminds us of the thin, often invisible line between disaster and salvation—and of the individuals trained to stand on that line with courage, humility, and resolve. In the story of Camp Mystic, in the roaring floodwaters of a July morning, that line had a name: Scott Ruskan.