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.
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.