benson

“Where’s that turn-off?” Sandy Swank thought as she crept along on the pitch-black roads of rural

Hillsboro, Ohio, in torrential rain. She’d had a lovely time at the party she’d attended at a friend’s house.

But now I’m lost, she sighted. Her eyes were searching along the road—until headlights glared in her rearview mirror and the 49 years old grandmother couldn’t help but glance up.

It was only for an instant-but it was long enough that she didn’t see the stop sign until she was upon it! “No,” she screamed, slamming on the breaks as her car skidded and spun, then plunged down an embankment into a rain-swollen creek.

“I’ve got to get out!”

Sandy realized in horror as cold water came up above her ankles. She unsnapped her seatbelt and reached the door. But the electronic locks and window switches were not functioning. And her sudden realization was even colder that the dirty creek water that now reached to her waist: I’m trapped-and I’m going to die! She panicked.

“Please, God, send someone to help,” she screamed.

Help would come-help from someone hoping to erase the memories of another horrifying car crash. And in the nest few minutes, Sand and the stranger would fight a terrifying battle against nature for the life of one, and the soul of the other.

Behind

Sandy, two men in a truck had already called 911 from their cell phone. Now the radio in police officer Jonda Hampton’s patrol car squealed, “Car trapped in Dotson Creek!”

When Jonda and her partner, volunteer officer

Matt Homes, arrived two minutes later, she shone the police car’s spotlight on the car. It was pinned against a fallen tree in the rough water eight feet from the shore. Two men were shouting, “Someone’s trapped!”

“Dear Lord!” Jonda gulped as she ran. “Not again!” This is too much, too familiar, Jonda thought seeing the outline of a woman trapped in the car, hearing the muffled screams as she waded into the torrent.

As memories of another incident years in the past flashed through her mind, the current pushed Jonda off her feet. She grabbed at the tree.

“It’s too dangerous!” her partner yelled as the three men dragged her from the water. But Jonda only was the rising water, minutes away from swallowing the car. Her heart pounded out a prayer: God, don’t let it happen again!

Three years before, Jonda, divorced and the sole support of her babies—Joshua, two, and Morgan, one—had been working with a road construction crew when she waved a Ford to a stop. The pretty teenage driver smiled.

Suddenly, a speeding truck crashed into the Ford from behind, and it burst into a ball of fire. Jonda raced to the Ford thinking, I’ve got to get the girl out of there! But the flames made it impossible for the Jonda and the others to reach the trapped driver—17-year-old Mandy Dotson- who died as Jonda screamed in horror.

Afterwards, her friends consoled her, “There was nothing you could do.” But doubts gnawed at Jonda, and she had nightmares of her own children burning up in her car while she stood paralyzed.

Rocoiling from these images, Jonda channeled her regrets into protecting people like Mandy and enrolled in the police academy. When she took her job as the first female officer in her county, Jonda pledged, “You’ll help people through me, Mandy Dotson.” Now her chance had come here incredibly-in Dotson Creek.

But can I do it? Jonda agonized, eyeing the wild creek. I have to, she decided.

“Take off your belt,” she ordered a passerby as she slipped off her own belt and tied the two together to make a crude lifeline.

“It’s not strong enough!” he wanted as she waded back into the water, holding the belt while three men linked arms to anchor her. Holding on to the belts with one hand, she made her way to the car, raised her head metal flashlight in the other hand and brought it crashing down.

“Hurry!”

Sandy screamed as she heard the crashing sounds on the back window. When Jonda’s spotlight had lit up the sinking car,

Sandy had felt tremendous relief. Someone’s here! She had breathed. “Hurry! She’d screamed as the water rose to her armpits. Now she pressed her face toward the dwindling air pocket just inches from the roof. She thought of her husband, Gene, her three grown sons and her eight grandchildren. The oldest was eight, the youngest, just 10 months. I’ll never see them again. She wept.

“Don’t give up,” Jonda yelled. I’m running out of time. She panicked to herself.

“Give me tire iron!” She called to her partner, who ran to the car, then returned with the heavy tool. But now, the water had closed over

Sandy.

That’s it. I’m dead, she thought hopelessly. Goodbye, every one. I love you!

But Jonda wasn’t ready to let

Sandy say goodbye. Locking her grip on the belt that held her above the fierce water, she clenched the tire iron and then swung it against the glass window. The window cracked. Jonda punched out a hole with the tire iron and reached inside. She felt a swirl of wet hair and caught hold of it. With all her strength, she pulled-and

Sandy shot through the hole onto Jonda’s shoulder!

Sputtering water,

Sandy sobbed, “Thank you!” The others pulled them to shore and wrapped them in blankets. Paramedics arrived, and as they checked Sandy for injury, Jonda rubbed

Sandy’s chilled arms.

“Why did you do this?”

Sandy stuttered through chattering teeth, noticing her rescuer’s exhausted face and soaked uniform. Jonda just smiled, “Because this time, I could do it.”

After a night in the hospital

Sandy was warmed up, and she recovered completely and called Jonda to thank her again for her life. Since then, the two women have become close friends.

“She’s a fantastic woman,”

Sandy says now. “She just refused to let me die. I’m forever grateful to her. “But Jonda feels she has much to be grateful for too. Because finally, she is free of her nightmares. Finally she has made peace with the past and haunting memory. And she knows she didn’t do it alone.

“I had help,” Jonda says softly. “God and Mandy gave me a gift that night. It set both of us free.”

This entry was posted on Tuesday, November 27th, 2007 at 6:05 pm and is filed under 最美的聲音. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.