The River

The river was high that spring, running swiftly over unseen stones and hurtling forward so recklessly that I knew it would devour anything—or anyone—in its path. Had I been looking at this scene from a bridge, or the safety of a high riverbank, the swiftness of the river might have been dismissed as just another uninteresting phenomenon. But from my vantage point inches above the rushing water, I was consumed by the fear rising within me. Clinging to what was left of the riverbank retaining wall my friends and I had been happily scuttling across moments before, I felt the full impact of my foolish decision to play in such a precarious place.

On the far side of the wall, Marc had made it most of the way across and was able to climb to safety. Next to me clung my Vietnamese friend Sun, his face bloodied and his hands glued to the stones by some supernatural power as he hovered dangerously close to the angry white foam. In a single moment, the adrenaline running through my veins triggered a “flight” response, and I raced to the top of the riverbank. Hearts pounding, Marc and I fled the scene as though we were being pursued by demons.

Not once did it occur to us that Sun was in mortal danger. In our seven year old minds, the greatest danger lay in what our parents would say if they ever found out where we had been playing. Death was not a part of our world.

But death is a part of the real world, and the only thing standing between Sun and his Maker was a fisherman on a nearby bridge. He watched the scene unfold and chose to risk his life to keep a seven year old boy with a broken nose from being swept away by the furious current. Someday I would like to meet that fisherman and thank him from the bottom of my heart. For now, perhaps, the greatest thanks I can give is to follow his example and reach out to others who need rescuing.