Where the River Runs Wild

Panic shot through Pedro Garcia in the instant before he hit the cold water. At the same time, he felt a sharp pain as something struck his head. As he thrashed about in the rushing current, his fingers found the spray paint can that he had held moments before on the 17th Street bridge over the Santa Ana River, the can that had just left a nice dent in his forehead.

Though not in a gang yet, the twelve-year-old wannabe identified with that lifestyle and had been tagging "Pee Wee," his "short," or nickname, up on the bridge. That was until he slipped on the wet railing and fell headlong into the rain-swollen river channel.

The fact that it had been raining for three days straight in this Southern California late November had probably saved Pedro's life. The Santa Ana River, as it wound through Orange County to the sea, was at most times of the year not much more than a concrete-lined storm drain and was usually bone dry. That fall from the bridge could have killed him. But every winter, at least somebody fell into one of the river channels of Orange or Los Angeles Counties and now the danger to Pedro was drowning.

He could feel his waterlogged clothes grow heavier by the second, threatening to drag him down. The air trapped inside his zipped-up hooded sweatshirt did little to keep him afloat. It was a precarious balance at best. Pedro knew how to swim; four years ago his grandmother had paid for lessons because "Every kid should know how to swim." But in the neighborhood where he lived, there was very little if any opportunity to practice it.

Struggling with all his might, he managed to maneuver onto his back, drifting downstream feet first, head up, but just barely above water. By now, he was spent. He fought the rising panic as he felt himself sink lower. I'm too young to die, he thought. I haven't even lived yet. He knew one of two things would happen—his sodden clothing would soon drag him down to his death, or he would drift down this river to the sea, where he would drown anyway. Just as well, he thought, at least that way, he'd finally see the beach before he died.

As he began to hear the familiar low drumming chop of the sheriff's helicopter that made an almost nightly appearance over his neighborhood, another possibility came to mind. Rescue. Somebody must have seen him fall and called 9-1-1. 17th Street ran three lanes in each direction; there might still have been enough traffic, even at this late hour. And there were lights on the Fairview Street bridge up ahead. Fire trucks with white searchlights and red and blue police lights. On seeing the police lights, he almost hoped they would miss him. A second helicopter now joined the search.

And then the helicopter's bright beacon was upon him. Moments later, a dark shape was descending from a line extending up to the hovering craft. Hands were upon him, securing a harness and then suddenly he was lifted up out of the water and into the dark sky. Pedro knew he was safe. And in trouble. He began to shiver, and it only had partly to do with the cold night air.

* * *

Community Liaison worker Marie Delgado regarded the sullen youth she had been called in to talk to. She had been given the run-down on him by the police officers involved, the little information they could get out of him. At the moment, the poor kid looked even younger than his twelve years, small and frightened. He had been given warm, dry clothes by the fire department's Swift Water Rescue Team; that department was now in charge. They waited now in a comfortable lounge at the fire department headquarters, waiting for Pedro Garcia's mother and aunt to come pick him up. Pedro's father, Marie understood, had never been in the picture.

"Hi, my name's Marie," she said with a warm smile, trying to break the ice. She held out her hand to him but he declined to acknowledge it. "Heck of a night to try to swim from Santa Ana to Huntington Beach."

"I woulda 'jacked a car if I was tryin' to get to the beach," he said defiantly, trying to return to his tough-guy persona. "Me and my hommies, we don't do the beach in my 'hood, know what I'm sayin'?"