Panic shot through Pedro Garcia in the instant before he hit the cold water. At the same time, he felt a sharp pain as something struck his head. As he thrashed about in the rushing current, his fingers found the spray paint can that he had held moments before on the 17th Street bridge over the Santa Ana River, the can that had just left a nice dent in his forehead.

Though not in a gang yet, the twelve-year-old wannabe identified with that lifestyle and had been tagging "Pee Wee," his "short," or nickname, up on the bridge. That was until he slipped on the wet railing and fell headlong into the rain-swollen river channel.

The fact that it had been raining for three days straight in this Southern California late November had probably saved Pedro's life. The Santa Ana River, as it wound through Orange County to the sea, was at most times of the year not much more than a concrete-lined storm drain and was usually bone dry. That fall from the bridge could have killed him. But every winter, at least somebody fell into one of the river channels of Orange or Los Angeles Counties and now the danger to Pedro was drowning.

He could feel his waterlogged clothes grow heavier by the second, threatening to drag him down. The air trapped inside his zipped-up hooded sweatshirt did little to keep him afloat. It was a precarious balance at best. Pedro knew how to swim; four years ago his grandmother had paid for lessons because "Every kid should know how to swim." But in the neighborhood where he lived, there was very little if any opportunity to practice it.

Struggling with all his might, he managed to maneuver onto his back, drifting downstream feet first, head up, but just barely above water. By now, he was spent. He fought the rising panic as he felt himself sink lower. I'm too young to die, he thought. I haven't even lived yet. He knew one of two things would happen—his sodden clothing would soon drag him down to his death, or he would drift down this river to the sea, where he would drown anyway. Just as well, he thought, at least that way, he'd finally see the beach before he died.

As he began to hear the familiar low drumming chop of the sheriff's helicopter that made an almost nightly appearance over his neighborhood, another possibility came to mind. Rescue. Somebody must have seen him fall and called 9-1-1. 17th Street ran three lanes in each direction; there might still have been enough traffic, even at this late hour. And there were lights on the Fairview Street bridge up ahead. Fire trucks with white searchlights and red and blue police lights. On seeing the police lights, he almost hoped they would miss him. A second helicopter now joined the search.

And then the helicopter's bright beacon was upon him. Moments later, a dark shape was descending from a line extending up to the hovering craft. Hands were upon him, securing a harness and then suddenly he was lifted up out of the water and into the dark sky. Pedro knew he was safe. And in trouble. He began to shiver, and it only had partly to do with the cold night air.

* * *

Community Liaison worker Marie Delgado regarded the sullen youth she had been called in to talk to. She had been given the run-down on him by the police officers involved, the little information they could get out of him. At the moment, the poor kid looked even younger than his twelve years, small and frightened. He had been given warm, dry clothes by the fire department's Swift Water Rescue Team; that department was now in charge. They waited now in a comfortable lounge at the fire department headquarters, waiting for Pedro Garcia's mother and aunt to come pick him up. Pedro's father, Marie understood, had never been in the picture.

"Hi, my name's Marie," she said with a warm smile, trying to break the ice. She held out her hand to him but he declined to acknowledge it. "Heck of a night to try to swim from Santa Ana to Huntington Beach."

"I woulda 'jacked a car if I was tryin' to get to the beach," he said defiantly, trying to return to his tough-guy persona. "Me and my hommies, we don't do the beach in my 'hood, know what I'm sayin'?"

"Yes, I do know. I was the same way when I was your age. Still, I find it hard to believe that someone from Southern California, growing up only fifteen or twenty miles from the coast, has never seen the beach. Tell you what," she continued, as an idea began to form in her mind, "I'll take you there myself, this Saturday. Despite what your 'hommies' might think, I believe you'll enjoy it."

Pedro looked at her as if she were crazy, but there was a flash of interest in his eyes that was difficult for him to hide.

But there was more to Marie's vision and she gave voice to it, even as it was still growing in her mind.

"That river you fell into," she continued, "you know it ends up at the beach, but did you ever think about where it comes from?"

"Huh?" Pedro was taken aback. What was she talking about? "I dunno. The Santa Ana River. Comes from somewhere here in Santa Ana, right? I guess. I don't know. Ain't much of a river anyway, just a storm drain. Only place it looks much like a river is where it runs through the golf course. Never thought about it anywhere else but around here."

"Well, there's a place, just a couple of hours from here, up in the mountains, where that river runs as wild as you're trying to be. And it's a small river, to be sure; nothing like the Mississippi or the Columbia you read about in school."

Pedro rolled his eyes. As if he paid any attention to what they talked about in school.

"But if you want," Marie went on, "I'll take you up there, too, say Sunday, the day after the beach. I think you'll have a much better appreciation of our concrete channel out there once you see all its faces. You ever been to the mountains, Pedro?"

Pedro shook his head.

"You think it might be something you'd like to do? Something completely different from the 'hood?"

She noted the gradual widening in his eyes.

"God, you remind me so much of myself when I was your age. And that was only ten years ago. Open yourself to new experiences. It will make a difference in your life. It might be your ticket out of the 'hood. It was for me. Yeah, ten years ago, I was hangin' with my hommies, too."

She finally got a smile out of the boy.

"So what choice do I have?" he asked. "Go with you or do community service? I ain't cleaning no bathrooms in the park. Yeah, it'd be cool, I guess. I could do the beach and the mountains this weekend. Like I got anything better going on."

"Then we'll call it a weekend date. I'll talk about it with your mom. She should be here any time."

* * *

Saturday morning, 10 a.m.

It hadn't taken long to drive to the beach, only about twenty-five minutes or so on surface streets. They could have made it even faster by taking the freeway, but Marie had wanted to impress on Pedro how close the beach really was, even by the slower route. She found parking at the end of a cul-de-sac west of the Coast Highway, just at the bridge over the Santa Ana River, right where the river emptied out into the sea. At another time of year, it might be crowded here, but on this crisp, clear late November day, the beach was all but deserted, save for a flock of seagulls that took flight as they approached, squawking their disapproval at having been disturbed.

Marie advised Pedro to leave his shoes in the car and roll his pant legs up so they wouldn't get wet wading in the surf. Pedro dug his bare toes into the warm sand and felt the scratchy tickle on the bottoms of his feet as they followed the curve where the Santa Ana River joined the Pacific Ocean. "Whoa," he said on first seeing the ocean. "It's like, humongous. There's nothing out there, like all the way to China or something." Pedro's eyes grew big as he imagined what would have happened had he been carried by the river that night all the way down, and been swept out to sea.

Turning left, they followed the shore south. A squadron of pelicans, lined in formation, skimmed low above the water, barely moving a wingtip. Pedro watched as they approached, passed and then slowly faded from sight, gliding their way up the coast. A wave came in and washed over his bare feet. He let out a yell and jumped back. "It's freezing!" he cried. But after a moment, he let another cold wave bathe his feet as he stood there braving the dull ache and feeling the sand wash out from under his toes with the backwash. With each succeeding wave, a bit more sand moved out from under his feet, until he felt himself about to be thrown off balance and pitched forward. He took a big step backward, out of the water.

As the cold ache in his feet subsided, he stood for a moment, smelling the fresh, salty tang of the air, listening to the rhythmic wash of the surf and contemplating the vast sea. Never had he seen anything so big, so open, so much pure space filled with . . . nothing. He turned and looked back at the beach, toward the rich people's houses set along the shore. Then he looked back at the ocean, taking a step forward until one foot touched the water.

"It's an edge," he said. "One foot on land, on the earth, the other on the brink of forever."

"Very well put," said Marie. "I think there's a lot more to you than meets the eye."

They strolled a bit more, picking up seashells. "This one's a scallop," Marie would point out. Or, "That's a sand dollar." And she called his attention to the smooth, richly colored stones washed up by the recent storms. "Jasper and agate," she identified. She took off a pendant she wore around her neck, a polished green stone wrapped in fine gold wire.

"I made this," she told him, "from jade I collected up north, by Big Sur. But we can make neat jewelry from the agate and stuff we find down here, too. We can polish it up and I'll teach you how to do the wire wrapping and you can make a necklace or earrings for your mom and sisters."

"That would be nice," said Pedro. "I think they'd like that."

As the tide began to come in, they turned around and slowly sauntered back toward the car, talking about where to go for lunch before Marie dropped Pedro back off at home. Pedro said that he had enjoyed the morning. "It was really cool to see something so different," he said. "And it's so close. Maybe I can talk my mom into bringing us down here in the summer."

He also told Marie, before saying good-bye for the day, that he was looking forward to the mountains tomorrow.

* * *

They hadn't been on the freeway for more than a few minutes on Sunday morning when Marie turned off for a short detour.

"I thought I'd show you another side of the river, while we're passing through," she said, driving down La Palma Avenue in Anaheim. She pulled into a park-like area. "Santa Ana River Lakes. Reservoirs off the river where you can rent boats and go fishing. They stock the lakes seasonally with trout or catfish. And over there is a kid's fishing pond, just right for your first time out. They'll rent the gear and even clean your catch for you. Maybe we'll go there next weekend."

They continued on their way, taking the freeways out to Redlands, where they picked up Highway 38 and headed toward the San Bernardino Mountains. Along the way, Pedro asked, "So why are you doing all this for me, anyway? What's in it for you?"

"I'm doing it because I was where you are ten years ago. I can see your potential. All it needs is channeling the right way. I know these places because when I was little, my parents took us all over. That's the great thing about living where we do. Everything's within a couple of hours of each other. Where else can you surf in the morning, ski in the afternoon and then catch a desert sunset?

"But anyway, by the time I was your age, my parents had divorced, I was hanging out with my homegirls and getting in trouble. Shoplifting, drugs, and when I was fifteen, I was caught joyriding in a stolen car. We crashed the car, totaled it. No one got hurt, thank God, but for me, it was turn my life around or else. They sent me to Camp High Eagle, an Outward-Bound-style wilderness camp for wayward youth. We were supposed to explore new horizons, set lofty goals, soar to new heights and aim for our highest potential." She smiled wryly, then went on. "So, I turned myself around, finished school, went on to college and that's how I wound up working as a Community Liaison, a job where I feel like I can give a little bit of something back to the people."

Out past Redlands, they began the mountain climb to the hamlet of Angeles Oaks, with its cabins and general store, and wound their way toward Barton Flats. "From here," Marie pointed out, "the Santa Ana River runs down there at the bottom of this canyon. It's accessed at Seven Oaks or at South Fork Campground, where we're going."

As she passed Jenks Lake Road she said, "Good fishing there, too. We'll come back in the spring, when it opens back up."

She parked the car in the small lot just before the bridge where the river's two forks came together. There was a cluster of cabins tucked into a shady forest by the rushing stream. They bundled up in warm jackets, got out and stretched their legs. Marie shouldered a day pack that contained the picnic lunch she had packed.

"This is the South Fork," Marie told Pedro. "Farther up, in the San Gorgonio Wilderness, is a place called South Fork Meadows. Wild. Peaceful. It's on the way up Mount San Gorgonio, the highest mountain in Southern California, for anyone up to a long weekend backpack. But the meadows are a doable day hike. The trailhead is up Jenks Lake Road. It used to be an easy five-mile round trip, but they moved the trailhead down a few miles, so it's a bit longer now. We can do that this summer if you're up to it."

They walked across the highway and followed the river down past more cabins. As Marie had said, it wasn't a big river; more like a cozy, intimate creek of a dozen or so yards wide. Still, it was a peaceful little slice of the natural world, waiting to be experienced by one who had known only concrete before. "Wow," said Pedro. "I never dreamed that cement river channel back home came from someplace like this. This is cool. It'd be neat to have one of those cabins to go to on the weekends."

Marie found a shady nook with a small sandy beach. She laid out the picnic blanket and unpacked the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, oranges and trail mix. As they ate, a blue jay in the overhanging Ponderosa pine scolded in his raspy voice, saying "Save me some." A trio of gray squirrels scampered down and peered around the base of the tree, hoping for leftovers, too. High above, a hawk let out a shrill cry, his eye on the squirrels.

After lunch they hiked the trail back up and under the bridge this time, into South Fork Campground. "In another few weeks, this place will probably be snowed in," Marie said, as they strolled past the deserted campsites. "Maybe we'll come back and play in the snow."

"Can my sisters come? They've never seen the snow either."

"Of course. And I'd like to get your mom a lot more involved, too."

"That's who should really see this," said Pedro. "Maybe then we'd all get out and go places."

"Like a real family should," agreed Marie, remembering her own childhood and how she'd tried to rebel against it as she got older. She wished she could go back and have a do-over on those early teenage years.

Beyond the last campsite the river narrowed and wound its way up-canyon through alder and willow thickets. It was a wild place and it was hard to imagine that the highway was just a short distance uphill. Eventually they came to a wide, flat spot where the river spread out and the golden leaves of aspens shimmered in the afternoon breeze.

"Years ago, when I was little," Marie said, "there used to be a beaver dam here."

"Beavers? I thought they'd been hunted out back in the old days."

"So you were paying attention in school. They re-introduced the California golden beaver to this area in the 1940s. Last I heard, though, they had to relocate them because they were causing too much damage to the aspens. There are only just a few aspen groves in these mountains."

As the afternoon wore on they turned and headed back to the car. As they walked Marie talked of getting Pedro's mom and sisters involved in outings like today's and of getting Pedro in shape for South Fork Meadows.

"That's where the real headwaters of the Santa Ana River lie," she said. "What I've shown you today lets you see how much more there is to that concrete channel that everybody tags with graffiti. But up there in the meadows, that's where you really feel a world removed from the city that's just down the hill."

As Marie started the car and they headed toward home, it was Pedro who brought up school again.

"I know what I'm gonna write about," he said. "We've got this assignment in Language Arts. We have to find out about something we didn't know before and write an essay on it. Most kids are doing something about sports or music or video games. We've had almost a month to work on it. It's due next Friday and I haven't even started. But that's okay. I got it all figured out now. I'm going to write about this weekend. About the river that runs through our backyards that we don't even really know. The river that just wants to run wild and be free."