”
What the hell is that guy doing?
”
I asked my sister, Chris, who was driving. The oncoming pickup
crossed the center line as though the driver was momentarily
distracted, but he made no effort to correct his path directly
toward us.
“What the hell is that guy doing?” I asked my sister, Chris, who was driving. The oncoming pickup crossed the center line as though the driver was momentarily distracted, but he made no effort to correct his path directly toward us. Fortunately, there was enough room on the shoulder for us to pull over and get out of the way.
Chris followed the unchanging path of the truck in her rear view mirror.
“Getting into a head-on collision,” she said in answer to my question. BANG, a second later, BANG again, and then an eerie sickening silence. Two cars behind us had been struck. In an instant, a life was lost and other lives were scarred forever.
It was Sunday evening of Labor Day weekend. My sister and I were northbound on Santa Teresa Boulevard returning to Morgan Hill after running some errands in Gilroy. We were about a quarter of a mile south of the stop sign at Fitzgerald Avenue when, inexplicably, the pickup truck gradually crossed into our lane and made no effort to correct its path. We had room to pull over. The two cars behind us did not.
We jumped from the car, called 911 on the cell phone, and ran back to see if we might be of some help. It seemed strange that this scene of scattered debris and demolished vehicles could be sitting is such complete silence. Next to me was a mini-van upside down in the ditch. I was astonished when I realized later that the people standing next to me, a man and four young girls, who I assumed were other witnesses, had been in that van. They appeared so calm and, as far as I could see, only had minor cuts. It was a miracle that they were safe.
A hundred yards further down the road, also in the ditch, was the wrong-way pickup truck, its driver sitting stunned and hurt by his demolished vehicle. In the middle of Santa Teresa, another northbound mini-van was now facing south and was likewise horribly twisted and torn. The driver was moving, the passenger was not.
The silence there was broken quickly by the arrival of an incredible number of emergency vehicles. CDF fire trucks, Gilroy Fire Department trucks, a helicopter, maybe a dozen Highway Patrol vehicles and a handful of ambulances converged from every direction. In an impressive display of professionalism, they leaped into action; providing first aid to the severely injured, comforting other victims, using the jaws-of-life to remove the trapped and badly hurt driver still in the spun-around mini-van, marking and analyzing the crash site, redirecting traffic, getting names and information from witnesses.
We gave our names and contact information and did the best thing we could – go home and get out of the way. We drove slowly – quiet and stunned. What had happened? Why? The lady passenger in the spun-around mini-van was dead. The air bag deployed and the other safety features of the vehicle performed properly, but the impact was still too great. What happens to her family and her loved ones? Their lives will never be the same.
What about the driver of the truck – a young boy, I heard? How … Why did that truck take that gentle but steady angle across the centerline to such unimaginable consequences? He will recover from his injuries, but what about the rest of his life? What about his family and loved ones?
My wife and kids looked especially good to me when I got home. That evening, my teenage children had to endure a short speech about the dangers of driving. It is so delicate, this special gift of life we have all been given. Cherish it for the brief time it is yours.
