From The Plunge
A camera crew scrambled around the fire station setting up lights and sound equipment while Rich Tyler gathered his thoughts. The 35-year-old firefighter, EMT and water-rescue diver had seen a lot during his six years on the job. Six years on any job can wear a man down, make him blasé. But this latest incident made him re-evaluate what he did for a living.He stepped between the trucks, walked to the front of the fire station and peered through a window toward the Willamette River, which splits Portland, Oregon, in half. There was the Morrison Bridge -- with a broken guardrail. And flapping in the breeze, the police department's yellow warning tape.
He thought about the frigid water. The woman. And the seven minutes. Seven minutes: a couple of songs on the radio, a midmorning coffee break, the time it can take to die.
Melissa Borgaard rolled over in bed, still half-asleep, on this late Saturday morning and listened as a spring rain tapped a soft rhythm on the roof of her Vancouver, Washington, home. She turned quietly so as not to wake her husband, and glanced at the alarm clock. She had about an hour before her hair appointment in Portland. Traffic should be light on this wet Saturday morning in late March. No need to hurry. During the week, the 31-year-old always rushed. The alarm rang and she was out of bed, hustling to catch the bus to downtown Portland, where she worked as a legal secretary.
Reluctantly she slipped from bed. In the kitchen she pulled a container of yogurt from the refrigerator for breakfast, and then dressed in blue jeans, flats and a light wool sweater. Her husband was still asleep. She gently closed the door as she left home.
Outside, she started her Isuzu Rodeo, a mid-size SUV she'd nicknamed Black Beauty II, and headed south on Interstate 5. There were few cars on the road, so she used a headset and called her sister on a hands-free cell phone. The two women were close, and they talked about plans for that night, maybe getting the men together and going to dinner and a movie.
They were still firming up plans when Melissa slowed to take the city-center exit. The ramp climbed, giving her a view of downtown Portland, then curved and dropped onto the Morrison Bridge. Like all area drivers, she approached the drawbridge cautiously. The surface in the middle of the bridge was a steel grate, and signs warned motorists not to change lanes. Even so, cars occasionally spun out and caused fender benders. It would be slippery this rainy, windy day. Merging from the freeway during rush hour was always tricky, but now, at close to 1 p.m., there was little traffic.
Melissa moved to the center lane. She told her sister she was just coloring her hair today, nothing fancy. As the car moved from pavement to the grate, Melissa felt the familiar rumble, her feet slightly tingling. And then, halfway across the metal, the SUV veered to the left.
"Whoa," she said, a hint of panic creeping into her voice.
"What's going on?" her sister asked.
Melissa couldn't answer. The SUV felt as if it were on ice, drifting left at about 35 mph into oncoming traffic. She quickly spun the wheel all the way to the right, but it was useless. Black Beauty II continued to slide. Melissa, her hands still frantically pulling the wheel to the right, braced herself for the impact.
Then suddenly, the SUV was off the steel grate in the center of the bridge and spinning around on the pavement. The SUV whipped to the right and shot across two lanes of traffic. It bounced up the curb, over the sidewalk, soared three feet off the ground, and smashed through the guardrail.
Melissa Borgaard, whose great fear was drowning, was falling 70 feet into the Willamette River.
"Oh, my God," Melissa screamed to her sister. "I'm going to die."
The Call For Help
Less than a mile away, Rich Tyler prepared for the remainder of his second 24-hour shift. He'd volunteered to work this Saturday. The day had been uneventful -- a few minor runs. Lunch was over, and the squad could take a moment to relax. Tyler called home to check on his wife and three-year-old daughter.He'd wanted to be a firefighter since he was a kid. After college, he'd had various jobs and finally applied at Portland Fire & Rescue, passed the exam and was hired.
The sounds of the station floated up to him: guys talking about sports, politics, the weather and previous calls. The TV was on in the background.
During each shift, eight rescue divers were on duty in the city of Portland. All of them had received extensive training. Some firefighters who'd tried out for the team washed out, discovering that when they were in 60 feet of water with zero visibility, they panicked.
Many of their calls were to the Willamette, often to recover dead bodies. The work was treacherous because decades ago the river had been used as a trash bin of sorts and was filled with old cars and junk that could trap a diver.
Tyler was about to sit down in the sleeping quarters when a loud, two-alert tone sounded.
"DR-1R," the dispatcher said over the speaker -- a high-priority dive incident in the river. "Report of a car off the Morrison Bridge."
The air bag, activated when the SUV hit the guardrail, smacked Melissa in the face, hard enough to shove her into her seat. Then there was only silence as the SUV fell, nose-first, into the Willamette. On the way down, Melissa closed her eyes. Her hands gripped the steering wheel as if she were still driving. Her senses shut down. She didn't hear the engine race or the boom created when the SUV splashed into the river so hard that it sent a wall of water skyward.
Her senses roared to life when her body hit the 48-degree water, about 30 degrees colder than a swimming pool. Melissa opened her eyes and panicked. There was no air pocket. She gasped and took in water. Choking, she felt her heart race and her lungs burn. The SUV was full of water and sinking.
Through the windshield, she saw a hint of light from the surface. Even though she was a good swimmer, the thought of drowning -- being aware you were going to die -- had always terrified her. And now she knew that the SUV would be her coffin.
Sadness, fear, resignation washed over her. And then, something deep within her refused to surrender.
She was floating in her loose seat belt, but still trapped. Clutching her chest, she found the belt and followed it down and across her body to the buckle. In the cold, her fingers were losing feeling. She fumbled, unable to find the button. Where was it?
There! She pushed and felt the tension across her chest vanish as the belt released. Gently, like a weightless astronaut, she floated to the top of the cab. How to get out?
As the SUV sank, the vehicle rolled on its side, passenger side down. Melissa floated in the dark, fumbling, feeling for the door handle.
Tyler ran to the fire pole and slid to the first floor, then rushed to the printer for additional details. A cell-phone caller to 911 said that a car had just gone over the north side of the bridge.
The crew mobilized, yet Tyler was still skeptical. With the advent of cell phones, the department received more calls that turned out to be exaggerations or pranks. A car going off a bridge was rare. The last incident was more than a decade earlier on the same bridge, and the driver, who lost control on the steel grate, was trapped in her car and drowned.
Then firefighters activated the electric bay doors, and Tyler could see the Morrison Bridge. A guardrail had been snapped. He ran to the dive van -- the driver had the engine humming and the lights on -- and jumped in the back with his stored gear. As the van pulled out of the bay, rocking back and forth, Tyler steadied himself and pulled on his dry suit. At most they had six or seven minutes to locate, swim and dive for the victim. They hoped to bring her out alive.
Melissa didn't know how much longer she could hold her breath. She had the strength, perhaps, for one more try. As she reached for the door, she floated out the driver's-side window; its glass had been shattered from the impact. She felt her leg rub the rim of the steering wheel as she slipped past.
As she exited, Melissa pushed off the SUV and headed toward the light. She lurched out of the slate-gray water, gasping for breath -- but was not out of danger yet. Rain pelted her face. Wind buffeted the river, and in the choppy waves she swallowed more of the dirty river.
Breathe, cough, spit. Breathe, cough, spit. Her legs were numb, heavy. Still wearing shoes, sweater and jeans, she found it hard to tread water. Hard even to keep her head up. She flopped onto her back, using her arms as oars to keep herself afloat. The shore was about a hundred yards away, and the current was rapidly carrying her downriver. She was so tired. She saw people on the embankment, staring down at her. In the distance, she heard sirens.
Under siren, Tyler's truck sped toward the embankment. On the way, the dispatcher radioed new reports of someone floating in the river. Tyler decided to leave his dive tank behind -- he could swim faster without it.
The dive truck and a rescue rig crossed a main thoroughfare, and drove to the riverbank. As soon as the van stopped, Tyler jumped out. A firefighter attached a rope to him, and he climbed over the embankment. When his fins hit the water, he slipped out of the rope and began swimming.
Soon, his hands felt numb. He'd removed the heavy gloves he always wore on underwater dives; he wanted full use of his fingers to grab for the woman. In front of him, he pushed a boogie board that would help carry her to shore.
Firefighters from Tyler's station had raced to the Morrison Bridge and the riverbank to act as lookouts, keeping an eye on the floater, pointing to show Tyler her location. A sheriff's department rescue boat had been called in. The whole team was working, but in the next few minutes her life depended solely on Tyler.
The current tugged at him as he cut through the river. He lifted his head up over the chop to check on the woman's drift. He gauged the speed of the current, swimming not toward her but at an angle, trying to estimate where he needed to be to intercept her.
If he guessed wrong, the current would sweep her downriver or sheer exhaustion would pull her under. And if she went down, he wouldn't be able to dive or to search for her without his tank.
He was getting close. He didn't want to panic her. He called out: "Hey! Portland Fire. My name's Rich."
Melissa heard someone yell. She flipped over and tried to swim toward him. But she was so disoriented and just struggling to stay above the surface. She flipped over on her back and tried to concentrate on this man's voice.
"Is anyone else in the car?"
"No."
"I'm coming. Stay calm."
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry."
"I'm almost to you," Tyler said. "What happened?"
He really didn't want to know details. He wanted to gauge if she was coherent, how badly she might be hurt.
"Do you know what day it is? What time?"
She knew the time -- remembered she had a hair appointment.
He reached her.
Tyler pushed the board to Melissa. If she grabbed him, she would pull them both under.
Melissa reached out for the board, wrapped an arm over it, pulled herself onto it. And collapsed.
Tyler supported her. "You're okay," he said.
He began swimming toward shore, moving with the current. Moments later he saw the sheriff's rescue boat. Then, while treading water, he pushed Melissa into arms that lifted her up. An ambulance waited onshore to take her to the Oregon Health & Science University Hospital, which was five miles away.
The call was over.
Start to finish -- seven minutes.