Bridge Under Troubled Water

The training program on my wall said, “steady 60 min” – this basically meant run hard for an hour. It was a tough ask on a night like that, but it appealed to the doggedness in me. Cross-country season was approaching and I wanted to do well. I pictured myself sprinting clear to the finish tape and a tingle went down my spine.
Outside a thunder clap echoed across the darkening sky. It had been raining all day. The drains had cacked themselves and the road was a river. Part of me said, “Give it a miss tonight, it’s too wet.” While another part countered, “That’s exactly why we’re going!” (I often spoke to myself as “we” especially when “we” needed encouragement.) I hated missing a session. Sometimes I wondered if I was a bit obsessed. Most of my friends didn’t know about my running ability. I liked the idea of changing into Superman and charging out the door while the rest of Melbourne snuggled down to a hot dinner while I was lacing my runners like a warrior preparing for battle.
A crack of thunder made me smile grimly. Bring it on.
By the end of the street I was soaking. My t-shirt clung to my chest and I blinked as water as trickled down my face. The temperature had fallen in the last half an hour and although the wind had dropped, the darkening sky continued to send down a fine drizzle. I wasn’t built for these conditions. My ribs stuck out and my lips shivered. My sodden runners squelched through the Canning St grass and over glassy side streets.
I turned right into Park St and followed the bitumen path. The firm footing was a welcome change. The bike path, normally busy with flashing tail lights heading home, was deserted. Not waiting at the pedestrian crossing, I splashed across Nicholson St waving to a startled motorist. From there I was on my own.
It’s not that often you get to feel completely alone in a city of 3 million. It was like Melbourne had been hit by a plague. The dirty yellow lights of Rushall Station reflected off the empty platform. I ran through the underpass, a brief respite from the rain and down the hill to Merri Creek.
Now it was really dark. Fortunately, the rain had eased and my eyes adjusted until I could just make out the concrete path as it snaked through the trees. I didn’t ease off the pace. My face, though frozen into a grimace, belied my feelings. I was loving it.
The path dropped steeply as it passed under High St. It was then that I saw what Merri Creek had become. On a normal day it was a gentle trickle, meandering through the inner suburbs, something for the kids to play alongside. Not tonight. Tonight it was a hideous torrent; a surging brown mass groping at the blackberries surging over the path. I had never seen it this high. They must have had some rain in the hills.
Still I didn’t slow. I skipped through ankle deep water, laughing, mad, drunk. I could barely see a thing, my shoes were full and heavy and yet I charged on. I could see it. I would arrive home triumphant, flushed with achievement and drip my way to the shower. My house mates, slobbing in front of the telly, would look up momentarily then back to their comfort zones.
The next dip in the path took me past the giant brick supports of the Hurstbridge line bridge. The water deepened to my shins and for a split second I wondered what lurked beneath these murky waters. But reckless abandon was on my side, protecting me. I was a child, invincible.
It grew darker still. The trees hung across the path in twisted shapes. A jagged rock face loomed up in front of me. The path turned to the left, into the boiling brown mix of rubbish, leaves and branches. I knew this bend. It led to the bridge. I raced on
It was a flat wide bridge, made of wood, no handrails. Normally it was a metre above the water. But as I turned and looked I couldn’t see it. The bridge had gone. I looked again and notice saw the debris, the branches, the rocks and leaves, not moving just sitting there, somehow suspended on the water’s surface. A strange sight; a stillness amidst the chaos. Then I realised, it was the bridge, submerged by about 3 inches.
Why didn’t I stop? Why was there no trigger in my brain telling me to proceed with caution? Was it because these things belong to the rational, logical world where people make sensible decisions and never dare get dirty or cold or risk injury? Was it because I was stupid? Or was it just because I was flying.
I was bounding across the bridge, following the trail of debris when, Shooomp! I misjudged and run straight off the edge. I was in the water. Immediately it caught my legs and swung them under the bridge. The sheer force pinned my chest to the upstream side of the bridge. I clung to the top of the bridge with my right arm while my left held the underside. The water flowed over my head and for a moment there was a pocket of air.
I was calm. Everything was okay. I would simply get back up.
But I couldn’t. I pulled as hard as I could, but the water was unrelenting. All I got was a glimpse of the outside world, a snapshot before being dragged back under. Open shutter. A dark place with branches and leaves in the foreground, water swirling all around, a rock wall to the right and away in the distance the light of a house. Close shutter.
Then I was scared. I loved the water. I was used to getting dumped in the surf. It was just a matter of riding it out, holding your breath, waiting till you popped up somewhere. But this water was different. It didn’t let up. It just kept coming. And I knew I couldn’t beat it. I considered letting go, just letting the water take me out the other side and something big and heavy scraped against me.
“In news just in, the body of a 23 year old man, reported missing last week, has been found by a woman walking her dog. The man’s body was wedged under a bridge on Merri Creek in Northcote. Police believe the man may have drowned during last week’s flooding………… …”
I shuddered and pulled up again, more desperately this time. I got my head up, but failed to get a breath. My lungs were empty now and as I slipped further under the bridge, something inside me coolly acknowledged that this was it.
In the outside world, the rain had stopped and the sky was clearing. Anyone on the bridge would not notice the four fingers gripping the upstream edge. They would not pause in their walk through the cold night to consider what it must be like to be held under the water for so long. And if they glanced at their watch it certainly wouldn’t be to count the seconds wondering how much longer.
Panic gripped me. I began to thrash.
My body was stretched out like the tail of a kite. My right hand was the only part of me out of the water. My legs were against the underside of the bridge. I took a chance and put my head down and brought my knees up to my chin until I was in a tight ball. I’m not sure why I did this. Perhaps instinct was finally kicking in. I gradually inched my legs against the flow and towards the edge. The supporting beams of the bridge shielded this movement. I poked a toe out and upwards into the flow and immediately my whole foot was pinned to the side of the bridge. This was positive. Next I got a leg up then the other leg, until my whole body was held fast to the side of the bridge. I wiggled upwards and the instant I was above the height of the main deck the water was working with me. It did the job. I flipped, rolled and then lay sprawled, gasping like a fish.
I can’t remember how I got home. But I remember my housemates, who are normally indifferent to my running, asked me if I was all right. I was about to give them full story but I noticed they weren’t really listening. They were watching reality TV.