Arion and the Golden Bridge

You may have heard my story. I was saved.  But this is not a myth. There was no lyre.Just the gargantuan Golden Gate Bridge  and its steel cables somewhat loudly sweptby that west wind blowing off the Pacific.  It was no murderous crew made me jump.But a voice inside my head: No one cares.  And so I jumped. And felt instant regret.I cried to God. Because this is no myth.  With all I had, I struggled to my feet—No, reangled to point feet to the water.  In free fall, it was my last act of will.My way of shouting out I want to live.  When I hit the bay, my ankle shattered,as did vertebrae in my lower spine.  The cold unzipped and sealed shut above me.My legs went numb. I clawed back to the light,  bubbles—wobbling globules shimmering—rising just out of reach . . . and for an instant  I doubted, when my screaming lungstore the air, hacked out the clotted salt.  Had I done this? I thought. Was this my life?I flailed about until my drunken boots  sunk down, leaden, dead. And I was done . . .when I felt an unseen creature brush me,  then circle, moving faster round andround my cold body, bumping me back up  to the surface, keeping me afloat. Willit eat me? Or was this myth, and I that luckless  lyrist of Corinth borne on a dolphin’s back

to the shore? Truth: a witness on the bridge  that day saw the whole thing, saw the creaturethat saved me—a sea lion—not uncommon  there. And this is not a myth. It is mystory which I have come back now to tell.  That day all color vanished from the world,for the fog, for the overhanging clouds,  for all I could not see that now I see—the red bridge, the gold light, the clear sky.