a small acetylene torch. I turned my head away from the welding arc and began to quickly work on the driverâs side door. It didnât take long for me to cut through the door lock and the hinges. The force of the water trying to pour through the door finally tore the door free. Water now gushed into the compartment, causing the body of the driver to shoot out of his seat and strike me in the chest. His seatbelt had either been dislodged during the impact, or had never been fastened. I clutched his ankle and held his body so that I could check quickly for vitals. I touched his throat. He was dead. I noticed a large, horizontal laceration across the length of his forehead. Blood flowed from his wound causing the water around his head to turn cloudy. I let go of the corpse, allowing it to float gently to the surface.
There was another body, still strapped in the passengerâs side. I reached deeper into the compartment and cut the line to the lap belt and the one secured around her shoulder. Her head was tilted back against the leather seat. I touched her throat. She was alive, but unconscious. However I was soon gasping for air from my tank as I recognized the small figure of eight birthmark on the womanâs neckline.
Hannah Cohen, age 27, Documentary producer, married, no children. Was last seen filming a documentary on lighthouses and their keepers in California.
I was exhausted as I ascended from the water, her body cradled in my arms. In retrospect, I never should have come up. People from the department just stood and watched as I carried her. As I looked across my shoulder, I saw a news photographer, standing on the riverbank taking photos. Without uttering a word, I handed her body to a medic.
The dead man rested face down some twenty feet from the shore. An officer entered the river and with the help of two others, lifted his body into a raft. After they laid his body on a tarpaulin on the side of the river, I walked over and knelt down in front of him. I rolled over his body so that I could see his face which was covered with sand and debris from the river.
As I started to reach for his wallet, two officers restrained me. Iâm not sure if they understood that the woman I had surfaced with was Hannah. I lifted the diving mask over my head and tossed them to one side. Then the brutal reality of the situation truly hit.
I stepped back violently and quickly, vomiting hard several times. The bodies, the people that I pulled out of the water werenât supposed to be alive. They werenât supposed to possess life, breath, characteristics of morality and fear. And they definitely werenât supposed to have a personal, direct consequence upon me. Distraught, I ran my fingers through my hair, feeling the coarseness created by the impurities in the water. My hair felt like scattered pieces of dead, fallen leaves; reminding me of that time when I was a child and had drifted asleep in the backyard near that pond in early October. While asleep, my father had amused himself by covering my body with that inescapable autumn debris; while at my feet, he had lined up half rotten peaches to resemble candles marking a body lying in state.
***
The rest of the morning after I pulled Hannahâs body from the water was tense and reflective. She had been taken directly to the local hospital, so I came home to pack a bag of clothes for her. However, in the end, I did not make it back to the hospital. The home telephone rang out endlessly. The incessant rings echoed throughout the deserted places of where we must have faltered as lovers, where we somehow became misguided within one anotherâs arms. Someone was leaving messages, and I could faintly hear their voice on the answering machine despite the volume being turned to its lowest setting. However, the sound was too soft to distinguish whether it was Mull, another member of the department or perhaps a member of the hospital staff.
I remained
There was another body, still strapped in the passengerâs side. I reached deeper into the compartment and cut the line to the lap belt and the one secured around her shoulder. Her head was tilted back against the leather seat. I touched her throat. She was alive, but unconscious. However I was soon gasping for air from my tank as I recognized the small figure of eight birthmark on the womanâs neckline.
Hannah Cohen, age 27, Documentary producer, married, no children. Was last seen filming a documentary on lighthouses and their keepers in California.
I was exhausted as I ascended from the water, her body cradled in my arms. In retrospect, I never should have come up. People from the department just stood and watched as I carried her. As I looked across my shoulder, I saw a news photographer, standing on the riverbank taking photos. Without uttering a word, I handed her body to a medic.
The dead man rested face down some twenty feet from the shore. An officer entered the river and with the help of two others, lifted his body into a raft. After they laid his body on a tarpaulin on the side of the river, I walked over and knelt down in front of him. I rolled over his body so that I could see his face which was covered with sand and debris from the river.
As I started to reach for his wallet, two officers restrained me. Iâm not sure if they understood that the woman I had surfaced with was Hannah. I lifted the diving mask over my head and tossed them to one side. Then the brutal reality of the situation truly hit.
I stepped back violently and quickly, vomiting hard several times. The bodies, the people that I pulled out of the water werenât supposed to be alive. They werenât supposed to possess life, breath, characteristics of morality and fear. And they definitely werenât supposed to have a personal, direct consequence upon me. Distraught, I ran my fingers through my hair, feeling the coarseness created by the impurities in the water. My hair felt like scattered pieces of dead, fallen leaves; reminding me of that time when I was a child and had drifted asleep in the backyard near that pond in early October. While asleep, my father had amused himself by covering my body with that inescapable autumn debris; while at my feet, he had lined up half rotten peaches to resemble candles marking a body lying in state.
***
The rest of the morning after I pulled Hannahâs body from the water was tense and reflective. She had been taken directly to the local hospital, so I came home to pack a bag of clothes for her. However, in the end, I did not make it back to the hospital. The home telephone rang out endlessly. The incessant rings echoed throughout the deserted places of where we must have faltered as lovers, where we somehow became misguided within one anotherâs arms. Someone was leaving messages, and I could faintly hear their voice on the answering machine despite the volume being turned to its lowest setting. However, the sound was too soft to distinguish whether it was Mull, another member of the department or perhaps a member of the hospital staff.
I remained
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