Jumper? Where?

A typical night in Sitka when I wasn’t working involved watching the endless summer sunsets. Most nights I chose the bridge that spanned the water gap from Baranof Island to the airport island because its surface was about 70 feet above the water. Much taller than anything else in town, the bridge also yielded an unobstructed view north.

Many nights I liked to write letters from this point. It served as a nice introduction. It allowed me to talk about the ocean to my west, the fishing boats returning to harbor below my feet, or the never-setting sun to my north. Apparently, many of the attributes of this bridge also make it a prime location for locals to end a long, depressing winter early.

I was having an especially good evening in July of 2004 and was writing a very long letter to a friend. A complicated relationship, this letter contained much and required a lot of thought. As usual on the bridge, I lost awareness of time and of the passing cars just feet behind me. They didn’t pass often and didn’t drive fast and didn’t require my attention.

I was just wrapping things up around 10:30 pm when out of the corner of my eye I noticed something strange. It seemed that a car from the far lane of traffic (my left) was driving across the near lane, straight toward me. My natural reaction was to get out of the way, so I grabbed my journal and jumped to the right. Preoccupied, I failed to notice the two cars that had simultaneously approached from the opposite direction and stopped half on the sidewalk, half in the road, just feet to my right.

Sizing things up (what were my options? I couldn’t move anyway), and with the aid of their flashing lights, I realized that these crazy drivers were in fact the local police - all of them. Unbeknownst to me, they’d stopped traffic on both sides of the bridge and initiated a coordinated attack on my position. My first thought, after realizing that I wasn’t going to die, was that perhaps I’d violated some type of homeland security act regarding sustained time spent on one bridge without exiting.

As the cop from the closest vehicle on my right exited his car, he slowly approached me and casually introduced himself as Officer John. Still not having any idea why I was being approached, I made what must have been perceived as an aggressive move in his direction, removing from my pocket and extending my hand meaning only to introduce myself (also as Jon). I was, however, cut off and told to keep my hands where they could be seen, and not to make any sudden moves.

Looking north from Suicide Bridge at midnight.



Officer John asked me what I was doing on the bridge for so long that night, and still not aware of their purpose, explained that I was writing a long letter to a good friend. It was at about that point that I realized someone must have mistaken me for a possible suicide, and called the police to investigate the situation.

In the process of clarifying my situation, I learned that Officer John was married to one of my co-workers, we’d both lived in Montana, and we were both enjoying the drier-than-normal summer.

The stressful situation successfully resolved, I apologized for taking their time. They explained that it was a slow night and all of the on-duty officers had responded, mostly out of curiosity. I also explained that they may want to re-assess their approach philosophy regarding potential jumpers. I was not suicidal and almost jumped myself, fearful of being smashed into a guard rail by an SUV.

This event propelled me to near-celebrity status for about a week.