What the River Holds

The mighty Savannah flows through my hometown, separating Augusta, Georgia from North Augusta, South Carolina. The only time it really made a difference which side you were on was during the weekends; this was when the blue laws took effect in our state and we would have to cross over the bridge into the Carolinas to buy beer after 10pm on Saturday night or before 12 noon on Monday with our fake IDs. Georgia expected you to be worshiping the Lord soberly during those times. I’m sure there were other contrasts between the two, but as a teenager that was the only thing that mattered.

It’s heartbreaking now to go down to the riverwalk and view the garish display of wealth across the river. There once stood a dense wilderness as far as my eyes could see, full of secrets and knowing, some trees older than written history itself. Now it is fully developed by the rich- McMansions and yachts, one atop the other, all down the banks to the left and right. I divert my gaze down to look at the flowing water instead, reminding myself that one day we will not be here, and nature can reclaim all that is hers.

The Savannah herself holds pieces of me in many ways, or perhaps she circles in my memories like an eddy. Although she renews every moment as she flows on, the memories I have within her are anchored in her riverbed, never moving from the exact spots they landed.

There are the early mornings rowing with my crew, silently moving in unison as the dark sky begins to fill with light, which spread like a drop of paint in water. The dark thicket of trees on my left, the promenade and hills on my right, the oar blades cutting across the top of the water, my warm breath a dancing cloud in the crisp air, birds swooping in for their breakfast, my body moving to an unsounded beat, my mind clear from human thoughts- I could feel the current course through me as the Savannah carried us.

There are also the other memories that slingshot me right back to a childhood spent outdoors- rope swings that catapulted us into the middle of the river, naps on grassy banks, fireworks for the 4th, a long night stroll in 9th grade with a crush who held my hand and then asked if he could kiss me. When the amphitheater was built at the water’s edge, I watched with a deep envy as a senior played my beloved Medea under a dark sky and a canopy of stars, rowing out in a wooden boat while holding up two bloodied mannequin heads as she swore her wrath and vengeance on Jason. I still occasionally dream that I was Medea that night out on the dark, churning waters.

But it is also hard on my heart to know about the powerboat races and yachting and money-making activities that take place around the railroad bridge that spans the Savannah at one end of the riverwalk. For it is also a sacred space- a watery burial ground for so many names through the history of our town. I will never know them all.

But I do know one.

I went to a small fine arts school, 40 people to a class, 5–12th grades, where everyone knew everyone for most of their lives. Stories were passed down and circulated until they became ours in the collective.

It was graduation night, late May in 1990. After the ceremony and family obligations were completed, the traditional gathering of seniors and juniors took place down at the riverwalk by the bridge. The sun had its last gasp and then dropped beyond the horizon. It was a deep, rich night, the only bit of illumination being a sprinkling of stars through the hunter’s belt and a crescent moon that hung low in the southwest corner of the sky. It was just bright enough to throw a bit of light onto the water so that it shimmered, onto their faces so that their teeth glowed when they laughed, and upon the first row of trees on the opposite bank so that they looked like they stood before an abyss. The small moonlight wrapped itself across the expanse and tremendous height of the old wrought iron bridge, which cast huge shadows across everything below and around it. They could see the shining of the rail ties buried in gravel within the body of the bridge, tracks that had allowed trains to move from one state to the other for over a century.

At midnight, a hush descended upon them and the ritual began. To mark their crossing over into a new chapter, the seniors climbed up a mound of stones and dirt to the point where the bridge was buttressed to land, and walked single file across the train tracks until they reached the middle of the bridge. Their bodies were dark against a dark sky, with just enough celestial light to give them translucent edges. Those on shore watched and held their breath, the only sound a rippling as the water lapped onto the rocks along the river’s edge. Holding hands, those on the bridge counted down from ten and jumped together into the deep, dark, churning waters. As they bobbed up one by one like apples, the lower classmen cheered in jubilation, for the seniors moving onwards and upwards meant that they, too, stepped up a level in the hierarchy that occurs within the halls of a high school.

But suddenly, the joy turned to chaotic fear, as screams of “Charlie! Charlie!” echoed through the air.

He had not come up.

At once, everyone on the riverbanks rushed into the river to join the others, catapulting themselves toward the point under the bridge where their friends had gone into the water. There were 80 bodies diving in, blindly searching with their hands to touch Charlie, frantically coming up for air and going back down to seek a hand, a shirt, his hair, anything that belonged to their friend.

Sarah found him, but his foot was caught in a tangle of reeds, deep down in the river’s bed. They could not pull him out, no matter how hard they tried. It didn’t matter that they had the strength of many or that their hearts were pouring out everything they had in them.

He died that night, in the span of 4 minutes, surrounded by a swirling, flowing river that was also holding the classmates who had known him most of his 18 years on the earth, friends who were hopelessly thrashing in their vain efforts. A primal swell of voices lifted to the heavens in grief and disbelief as they emerged from the Savannah and laid soaking on her banks.

They all broke into a thousand pieces that night, each of them leaving parts of themselves underwater in that bed of reeds with Charlie, their collective memories of the evening passed down through the halls of the school, their grief flowing through all of our hearts and minds. We held their sorrow in our young hands, tenderly and with the strength that comes from experiencing a grown-up situation as a child.

Whenever I visit my hometown, I make a point of visiting Charlie’s spot. I think of him as I stand at the Savannah’s edge, her waters lapping the rocks near my feet, the old rusted bridge looming over me. I also bring to my mind and my heart his friends that were with him that evening, for something inside of them was broken and left there in that riverbed, too.

Grief over time becomes a river itself- constant, never fully disappearing, but where it was once raging rapids gives way to a gentle and quiet flow.

(For T.M. We love you always.)