And so I wrench the wheel to the right, step hard on the brake. But this is too
little, too late. We hit the side at 45 and there is a long moment when I gaze
downriver. As far as the bend, the Louis Park, the Golf and Country Club.
The sun goads the water to blue; roads are substitute rivers.
Then, after the shock of impact: cries of panic, pain. The windshield is
completely gone. Blood on my hands and face.
“Go to the back,” I shout, and surprisingly they do. They huddle and gasp
and cry while I remain at the front. Soon there’ll be police and sirens; many
kinds of relief. She will cry and he will hold her. This is how it will be.
I allow myself one final glance. Then I am following the water’s great push.
Bend after bend, through the False River, along the New York Slough. Down
the Carquinez Straight, into the San Pablo bay. A pause to gather will and
then. On to the Pacific. To its horizon without feature. Its waves beyond
count.