Traumatic childhood memories

A Belated Expression of Thanks for the Stranger on The Bridge

I don’t know who or where you are, but you will always have my gratitude

My father didn’t have much in the way of disposable income. Our family vacations were rustic camping affairs within easy driving distance of our home in Houston, Texas.

We had a large family tent, which in those days was a much more complicated contraption, and was always a chore for my father to set up. He became super frustrated with the tent’s assembly, and this caused him to be short with my mother and us kids. Until the tent had been up for a while, we made sure to avoid my dad.

One summer my family went on a camping trip to Palmetto State Park, which is about two hours west of Houston by car. I was five years old, and my sister Gretchen was seven. The state park is situated on the San Marcos River, and Gretchen and I, eager to go swimming after being cooped up in the hot car, were impatiently hassling my mother to take us to the water.

My dad was still working on the tent, so he was especially pissed off. My mom was busy dealing with my sister Erin, who was still a baby. She was also unloading the car and trying to get things organized, so she was quite frustrated as well. We all learned quickly as kids that my mother had a low threshold for pestering. If we were persistent enough we would eventually get our way. Gretchen and I pestered my mom until she reluctantly allowed us to go swimming on our own.

This was the first time my family had visited this particular park, so permitting us to go to the water without an adult was a huge mistake on my mother’s part. She had no idea what we’d find in the swimming area.

There was an oxbow lake at the park, and Mom probably assumed we’d go there. It’s doubtful she even considered the river. Gretchen and I had been swimming since we were babies and were both great swimmers for our ages. The still waters of a small lake should have been fine, but we didn't end up at the lake.

The road that ran through the park crossed the river, and at the crossing, there was a low-water cement bridge. This river crossing not only allowed water to flow underneath, but a crenelated edge on both sides allowed water to flow over the road as needed. It had been a wet year in Texas, so there was a strip of water about five feet wide running over the middle of the crossing. At the bridge’s lowest point, the water was a foot or so deep.

When Gretchen and I walked away from the campsite, the bridge was the first swimming area we discovered. Several groups of people were swimming, wading, and sunbathing in the area, but they were all clustered around each end of the bridge. Gretchen and I were both a bit shy and didn’t want to interact with strangers, so we decided to head for the completely unoccupied space at the center of the bridge.

We started out by sitting in the water where it ran across the cement, but it didn’t take us long to consider the deeper parts of the river. While the water wasn’t terribly clear, light-colored rocks were visible below the surface, allowing us to judge the river’s depth. We decided to jump in.

Almost immediately, we realized we were in trouble.

The depth of the river was not the problem, as it was probably only about four feet deep. I swam in much deeper water at the swimming pool. The problem was the swiftness of the current. We were both swept downstream, but I traveled much faster because I could barely touch the bottom.

Gretchen could touch the bottom and was able to delay her progress somewhat, but she was still being pulled along by the rapidly moving water. My feet would find a larger rock, and I could briefly brace myself, but this only halted my progress for a second or two.

I was terrified — screaming and crying as the current swept me farther from Gretchen and the safety of the bridge.

I was rapidly approaching a right-hand turn in the river. If I went around the bend, I would lose sight of my sister and everyone else in the area.

After a few terror-filled minutes, I saw a man frantically swimming toward me. He was traveling with the current and appeared to be a very strong swimmer, so he was advancing quickly. When the man reached me, he scooped me up, had me hang onto him in a piggyback fashion, and began stumbling against the current toward my sister.

The chivalrous swimmer managed to reach me seconds before I would have entered the sharp turn in the river and lost sight of anything familiar. We got up to where Gretchen was, and he had her cling to his arm as he made his way towards the slower water near the bank — ultimately depositing us securely on the river crossing.

We were both so freaked out, that as soon as we hit the safety of the bridge, we immediately ran to our campsite without saying a word, much less thank you, to our rescuer. I don’t imagine he expected much from two terrified young children, but I wish we had managed to say something to the man who likely saved our lives.

When we made it back to our campsite, Gretchen and I relayed the story to my horrified parents. Mom felt awful and incredibly guilty for allowing us to run off by ourselves. She also expressed a growing sense of shame as we told her about the group of adults who witnessed our harrowing experience.

Mom realized we could have just as easily found ourselves alone at the bridge. She was obviously thankful that there were adults present, especially the man who saved us, but she was also deeply embarrassed.

My mother grappled with her available actions. Should she immediately go down to where the incident took place and thank the man who rescued us? This was something that Gretchen and I did not want to do. Or should she let it blow over a bit, and hopefully get to thank the man later?

Mom could easily imagine the group of adults and the judgemental conversations they’d be having.

“Where were their parents?”

“What sort of mother lets children that young swim on their own?”

I don’t remember how much time was allowed to pass, but Mom eventually had us walk her down to the bridge to face the adults and thank the man who saved us. I’m not sure if we were able to identify anyone present during the incident, but we were sure our rescuer was no longer there. We stayed at the park for close to a week and never saw the man again.

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Special thanks to Christine Schoenwald for editing this piece.