<p>Dale Ostrander. 12 of Spanaway Wa., who nearly drowned but was revived Friday August 5th in the ocean near Long Beach is making miraculous progress at the reahbilitation unit at Puyallyp's Good Samaritian Hospital, after being pulled from the Pacific Ocean after being under for a estimated 20 minutes.</p>

PUYALLUP He was dead, and now hes not

To hear the sound of hope, listen to a boy crack his knuckles.

Charles Dale Ostrander bends his fingers, one by one, waiting for each sweet pop. His parents cringe and smile. The 12-year-old boys face curls with pleasure, like a rock guitarist slinging a nasty riff.

He cracks his wrist, too bending his hand to make the sound so he can make the face again.

See, that little stuff, Chad Ostrander, the boys father, said Friday. That sets me off.

Dale is the miracle boy, rescued from the cold Pacific Ocean on Aug. 5, after more than 15 minutes underwater. During a visit to the Washington coast with a church group from Spanaway, a riptide pulled him under.

A rescue crew pulled him out and brought him back. A photographer caught the moment: the limp body of the boy, carried from the sea amid a spray of silver.

Hed been under for more than 15 minutes. There was no hope; it was too long, impossible but Dale came back.

Hes in recovery now, expected to stay several more weeks at Good Samaritan Hospital in Puyallup. Before long, hell be able to go home.

He was dead, and now hes not, said Kirsten Ostrander, Dales mother.

Grace Ndungu, the patient care assistant who takes Dale through his daily regimen of physical therapy, sees progress. Three hours a day, each day another step.

Every day, its a little bit more, Kirsten says.

The story of the miracle boy circled the globe. Cards and letters festoon the walls of the hospital room. They come from all over, from as far as Israel. (Shalom, Dale, the yellow note says.)  

You dont realize how many good people there are in the world, Chad says.

Dales body and brain were hurt. Both are coming back. Hes written his name. Hes climbed stairs, ridden a stationary bicycle. Hes built things with plastic bricks. Hes mastered the hospital remote control. He knows which TV channel has the cartoons. His right hand the stronger one is gaining dexterity. The left is coming along.

Each parent worries differently. Kirsten watches. Chad talks.

I dont want to expect too much, he says. But I want to hope for full recovery.

They worry whether Dale is still there, whether he can come all the way back. Each day brings a new sign. The boy remembers his dog, Peanut. He remembers his four sisters two older, two younger. He was annoyed enough one recent day to tell the littlest one to go away.

Yeah, thats Dale, his father says.

Chad remembers the brainstorm nights, a week back. That was bad. Dales fever climbed to 106.

Dale has spoken a little, but not much today. Those moments are still rare. It is not easy.

To him, its very obvious what hes saying, Kirsten says. To us, its kind of hard.

Chads eyes are blue. Kirstens are green. Dales eyes are a blend, a greenish-gray. They stare with meaning. Sometimes its as good as a command like telling someone to step away from the TV, so he can watch The Amazing World of Gumball.

At other times, his purpose is less clear, and he has to move. He leans forward, then back, inching the wheelchair forward in little jumps. Then come the questions. Does he want the remote? No. Does he want his shoes off? No.

Does he want to stand?

Kirsten hadnt wanted him to perform, to dance for the cameras. But Dale bobs back and forth in his chair, a look of need on his face. By now, after two weeks, both parents know the signals.

Do you want to stand up? Chad asks.

The boy does. With Ndungus help, Chad folds back the foot pedals. Ndungu unties the seat strap.

Push with your hands, Chad says.

The boy pushes, rises, stands on his own, his fathers hand under one elbow.

He walks a few steps, teetering a little, but not much, and turns to his mother. He leans down, wraps his arms around her, his head against her shoulder.

My son, Kirsten whispers. My love.