Fishing with George.

I was walking over the old Newbridge suspension bridge this morning, and I heard what sounded like a man yelling. Then I heard a faint splash. I ran over to the side of the bridge and saw nothing, but then the surface of the water broke. That's when I first saw George. I don't really know if his name was George or not, but that's what I've named him. George was kicking and screaming, frantically trying to stay afloat. He must have fallen in the water while fishing -- I noticed a pick-up truck with a tackle box and a cooler in the back just a few feet from the river bank. After a minute or two, George spotted me. He began yelling for me to call HELP. Our eyes locked. His expression was one of amazement and fear. He was a afraid he was going to drown, and amazed that I, the only person on the planet that could help him, was doing nothing. How often does a man get a chance to see another man meet his end and suffer no repercussions for it? Once in a lifetime? I took the chance.

I don't know if they ever found George's body.