Medellín-Bogotá Highway, Colombia

October 15, 2016

All around, silvery rain fell, mixed with mud and earth and the screams of helpless people trapped on the muddy highway headed away from the city of Medellín, Colombia. 

Trapped inside my smashed vehicle, I tried to breathe normally. Each inhalation was painful, but the sharp exhalation was even more excruciating. Raising my shirt slightly to better examine the bruises on my ribs, I knew my skin would look a deep Barney purple tomorrow by the time I woke up—that was, if I somehow survived today’s catastrophe. Even grazing the bruise made me wince, but fractured ribs and trouble breathing were the least of my concerns right now.

As the angry earth started to rumble again, I clawed my bloody fingers through my hair and watched helplessly as several vehicles and their passengers were swept away by the muddy current and then tossed off the side of the cliff, like small toy boats on the waves of the sea. Then my car started to move. 

I braced myself against the seat as much as possible. Absolutely terrified at what would come next. Fully aware that I was about to be thrown over the edge…and there would be no escape. 

At second impact, the world seemed to shatter as more debris collided with my car. The front bumper scraped against something. I leaned forward in my seat to see only some kind of old, half-demolished guardrail near the edge. Fifteen feet in front of me were several orange traffic cones but no rail, only scaffolding.  If I had to guess, it looked as though a section of the guardrail had been taken down so construction workers could replace it with something new and better. 

The metal below the car creaked as it bent, but the friction had created a sort of resistance that kept me from falling straight off the cliff. The car moved ever so slightly forward—it felt like several feet but must have been only a few inches. I had a National Geographic front row view of the lower valley as the car stopped.

No…no…no. This can’t be happening. Dread coiled in my gut like a snake full of denial and regret. If I die now, what was the point of it all? I haven’t done anything with my life yet. I’ve wasted the last five years buried in books. I haven’t traveled anywhere outside of the United States. And I’ve only ever kissed two guys—real kisses. I’ve never even been in love.

I had the fervent desire to turn back time, and reverse fate. To be better than I was. To live. In high school I never once skipped class or received detention. I worked hard and gladly skipped the bar nights and raves to focus on my work, because I thought one day my research would matter. I wanted to help people. 

Now with my existence suspended on the edge, I realized my life up to this point had been pointless. I hadn’t achieved anything in science yet. And all those self-sacrifices were inconsequential when weighed against the grander scale of my inexperience.

Please. I can’t die…not yet. I’m only nineteen. I want my life to have meaning. I gave up everything because I wanted to make a difference. But I’ll change. I’ll do whatever you want, please just let me survive this…

The minutes ticked by slow as hours, and a cold wind rattled the car windows. I could hear the snap of steel from the guardrail giving way. The metal groaned like a door on rusty hinges. As the steering wheel jerked to the right side, the front two tires of the car slid off the embankment.  

I tried to remain as still as possible as the car hung there like the Scales of Justice beam, teetering on the edge of the cliff. The car did not immediately tip—instead the vehicle dangled there like a pendulum. I could imagine the Fates of old, watching and weighing the balance of my life against some imaginary scale.  Knowing that my life and death were no longer in my hands was scary. There was nothing I could do but repent and pray. 

I let out a deep, whimpering sigh. I wish I’d been braver and realized how little time I had. I would have done more. I would have—

Pop, pop, pop—my weight combined with the pressure of the car and the gushing sludge was too much. In the equation F=μN, mass had won against friction, sending my vehicle careening toward the edge and then over. Like a missile, I plummeted. Mountain and trees and thousands of dollars in ruined backpacks and school supplies flew past. I remember screaming as my conscience roared with should-haves and could-haves. 

A loud crunch sounded like a bomb going off as I was thrown back hard into the seat and then forward into the steering wheel as the car’s frame hit something sharp and hard. This happened again and again as the underbelly of the vehicle scraped against every rock and bush, resulting in the horrific grinding and smashing of twisting, shrieking metal. 

Falling seemed to go on forever. Incredibly, the car felt as though it was picking up speed—I knew I would not be spared. 

Just before the car reached the bottom, I tried to remember the faces of my family. I’d heard people say that in their final moments they watched their life flash before them, but that did not come naturally. Being an only child, my family was small. I forced myself to see my mother Stella’s face. I could picture my father, Richard Steel…or at least the last image of him I remembered. He’d been overseas for most of my life, defending freedom.