As you've probably guessed, I haven't died yet. But I've come close. Several times.

I was thinking one day about all the close calls I've had with death in my life, and I was surprised by how many times I came really, really close to dying. Yet for the most part I made it out of these situations unscathed. Not surprisingly, most of these brushes with death came in cars--and I wasn't always the driver, either.

So I decided to write down details about all of my close calls with death. Perhaps I want to do this so that I can appreciate the fact that I'm alive even more.

1978: Death by Sled

I was 14. I was camping with my Boy Scout troop at Camp Ockanickon, in Bucks County, PA. We were staying in a cabin, and there was about two feet of snow on the ground.

Scott St. John had brought his sled along, and on Saturday several of us had found a hill behind the nurse's lodge and had gone sledding. We were so stupid--barely teenagers, filled with a sense of our own immortality. The hill that we picked was in the middle of a pine forest. The trees had been planted in rows, and it was down one of these rows that we were sledding. To increase the stupidity factor, we had piled snow into a ramp farther down the hill, so that we could jump into the air and land, out of control, in the middle of this pine forest.

I got by Saturday without too much injury. We took turns on this single sled, usually falling off near the bottom where the snow was not packed down as much. I took my very last run of the day after everyone had left. I just had to get one last run in. I didn't think for a moment about the fact that no one would know where I was, were I to get hurt.

I watched the last of the boys walk off to dinner and then I rode the sled down. Wham! I hit the ramp. Boom! I came down hard, swerved, saw a tree coming and rolled off. Pow! My leg hit the tree. Ouch! That hurt. I lie there for a minute, letting the pain die away, then I pulled the sled uphill in the gathering darkness.

The next day my leg still hurt, but not enough to keep me off the sled. So when I saw Rich Beaumont, Kevin Ryder, Steve Yutkowitz and Steve Mesaros walking off toward the hill, sled in tow, I ran off to join them. Steve hadn't seen the hill yesterday, so I thought it would be clever to hide from him the fact that there was a snow ramp at the bottom. That way he'd hit it by surprise and flip over, or do some other neat stunt. I whispered my plan to the others. We agreed to run down the hill and hide behind trees near the ramp. Then, when Steve came rocketing down, we would pummel him with snowballs to blind him as he hit the ramp. What a fantastic idea! We were geniuses.

Steve, however, foiled our little plan. He cautiously dragged his feet while sledding towards us, so he hit the ramp without enough speed to even go over it. We plastered him with snowballs in disgust.

"Give me that sled," I ordered, and marched up the hill. I'd show him how it was done. I had no fear. I dragged the sled as high as I could go and laid it down. Then I dropped onto my stomach on top of it. The thought occurred to me that this was a little crazy. I had lucked out yesterday by only hurting my leg. Today something worse could happen. But then I thought of the guys below. I had to put on a good show.

I pushed off. Quickly I gained speed on the steep hill. Pine trees flashed past on both sides as I struggled to stay in the center of the trail. The ramp was straight ahead of me. The boys were on either side, snowballs ready. I hit the ramp and flew into the air, just as snowballs slammed into my face. I landed hard, straining to see where I was going.

I realized with horror that I was heading off the trail. I quickly corrected my direction, swerving hard toward the right. Too hard. I swerved back left.

The tree was waiting.

I can still remember that tree. I remember seeing it speed toward me, much too fast to comprehend. I remember my face flashing past that tree, centimeters away. And I remember the horrible, sickening pain in my left side when I hit it.

I screamed out in agony, putting every ounce of energy I had into that inhuman shriek. And then I rolled to a halt, on my back in the snow, and lie still.

What I didn't know then was that my spleen had been destroyed and my left kidney was severely torn apart. What I did know was that I could not move or make a sound. And I also knew that I had ripped the brand new jacket that my parents had bought for me. They were going to kill me.

The four idiots appeared above me, asking stupid questions like, "Are you hurt?" I could only stare at them as I sank into shock. As Boy Scouts, supposedly trained in first aid skills, these four fools performed abysmally. They sent Steve Mesaros, the youngest and smallest, back for help, while the other three jackasses stared at me like I was a freak.

I remember lying there in the freezing cold, with a pain that wouldn't go away, a pain more horrible than anything I had ever felt in my life, and worrying about, of all things, my ripped coat.

They tried to help me sit up, but I nearly vomited, so they laid me back down. They tried to make me laugh, but I barely heard them. The only light moment came about 10 minutes later when "help" arrived. Rich looked up the hill at the first of my rescuers, Jack Witherington, as he raced toward us.

"Great," Rich muttered, "Jack. Just what we need."

Despite my agony, I smiled.

Soon a lot of people arrived, and they began covering me with coats. A toboggan appeared and they slid me onto it. Then, with about 10 people holding onto the toboggan, they started dragging me up the hill. I remember looking up at Scott St. John, whom I detested, and wondering if he was cursing me for wrecking his sled.

They laid me on the floor of the camp office and then, curiously, abandoned me. I felt helpless and alone, and the pain stabbed me incessantly. A small kid came into the room and stared at me like I was a circus freak. I wanted to punch him. He just stood there staring. Then he went away. The loneliness was even worse than the unwanted attention had been.

Finally I was loaded into the back of a station wagon. Mr. St. John, the Scoutmaster, rode in the front. He entreated me to talk to him, though there was nothing I wanted to do less than hold a conversation just then. He asked me how I was doing and I grunted. He asked me about school and I grunted. I hated him for making me talk. So after humoring him for a few minutes, I called it quits. I didn't answer. Instead I let myself slip away. Slowly I lost consciousness, and as I did the pain began to disappear. For the first time since this ordeal began I felt at peace.

I felt hands shaking me, dragging me back to consciousness, back to life. The pain came back with a vengeance, pounding me mercilessly. Why couldn't they leave me alone? Why did they have to bring the pain back?

Now Mr. St. John sat in the back with me, holding my hand, forcing me to stay awake. He was scared. For the first time I realized that. He did not want to loose me--not on his watch. He kept his full attention on me for the rest of the ride to the hospital, squeezing my hand, talking to me, trying desperately to keep me awake--to keep me alive.

My first hours in the hospital are a blur, like something from a nightmare. Strangers stripped my clothing off and stuck tubes in places that I had no ideas tubes could be inserted into. I threw up all over the gurney on which I lie, and the nurses only partially wiped it off. As they wheeled me down a hallway I looked up and glimpsed my parents' worried, tearful faces, staring down at me.

"I ripped the coat," I muttered. "I'm sorry."

And then they were gone.

I spent three weeks in that hospital and many months recovering. I still haven't really recovered. But I am living a normal, active life now (though I still bear an intense hatred of hospitals). Still, I sometimes think back to that car ride to the hospital, and of my decision to give up and let my pain fade away. What if Mr. St. John hadn't sat with me and forced me to stay awake?

1983: Death in a Quarry

There was an old, flooded quarry near my house when I was growing up, and back before the cops started busting people for trespassing, lots of high school kids used to go swimming there, jumping off the cliffs into the cold water, like in the movie Breaking Away. As a youngster, I had gone there several times, and each of those visits had been accompanied by alcohol, which had only enhanced the feeling of euphoria gained by leaping from the highest rocks and falling through the warm, summer air into the clear water below.

In the autumn of my second year at Penn State, a friend told me about a similar quarry in Allentown that was frequented by partiers, and a bunch of us decided to go up there on a Saturday. Fortified with cases of Heineken, we drove up there and found the place. For several hours we drank and played around in one of the quarries, leaping from the rocks and swimming around in the water.

When we were at our most drunk, one guy named George, who had been there many times, told us about another quarry hole nearby that had an even higher cliff on it. Curious, we followed him on a short hike through the woods until we came upon the pit he had described.

He hadn't been lying. The cliff that he led us to had to be 100 feet above the water. We peered over the edge and saw a bunch of logs floating around far below. George told us he had jumped from up there once, and several of our group dared him to do it again. He agreed, but said we'd have to clear the logs away first.

I had been boasting most of the day about my cliff-jumping prowess, based on my visits to the other quarry. So when George said he'd make the jump of death in this new quarry, my drunken mind told me that it would be very wise to follow suit. So I announced that if George jumped I'd do the same. After all, I had to prove to this crowd of casual, temporary college acquaintances that I was brave. George couldn't outdo me, the cliff-jumping king. (For the record, I haven't seen any of these clowns since 1986, and I can't even remember any of their names, except for George and another guy named Lou.)

So we walked to the waterside, climbed in, and swam over to the logjam to clear it away. As I treaded water, I stared up and up and up at the top of that cliff. Holy shit! It was in the clouds. I mean, this was a 10-story building I had agreed to jump off of. I started to get scared.

While the others stayed in the water, George and I trudged back to the top. When we got there, we gazed over the edge at our pals. They were so tiny down there, heads bobbing in the water. I couldn't believe what we were doing.

Without giving it much thought, George leaped over the edge and was gone. About a half-hour later I heard him splash, followed by the sound of distant cheering. Then came the chanting. "Rob! Rob! Rob!" They were calling me. I was screwed.

I looked over the edge once more and waved. Then I stood up and faced my fate. Despite the 12 beers I had drunk, I was now completely sober. I had never been so scared. But there was no way I was going to back out now.

I still remember exactly how the top of that cliff looked: Smooth rock, with one piece jutting out farther than the rest, forming a sort of final step before the abyss. I mentally planned my footsteps: One, two, three, with my right foot hitting that step and launching me off into the void. But I couldn't do it. I stared and stared at the step, telling myself it was only three steps, three quick steps.

The chanting continued. I had already given them three warnings that I was about to go, but I had balked each time. I knew I couldn't do it if I thought about it too much. I had to go fast, before common sense stopped me. So I looked away for a moment, took a breath, looked back, and ran. One, two, three...

I remember seeing my foot hit that step, and then suddenly seeing nothing but open air in front of me. Though I had felt this falling feeling many times, this time I panicked. My arms started doing circles in the air, like I was treading water, trying to stay afloat. I looked down and could see the other guys' heads in the water, and I was rushing toward them at breakneck speed. But as fast as I knew I was going, the fall also seemed to take forever. I remember every second like it was an hour. My arms flailed, trying to keep me perfectly vertical so that I would enter the water like a knife, not at an awkward angle.

And then, suddenly, I saw the water rush up at me. I slapped my hands against my sides so they wouldn't smack the water hard and sting for three days. The guys told me later that I entered the water perfectly. But something went wrong. Perhaps my legs were apart too much, for the rush of water slammed me in the nuts and shot up into my butt with such painful force that I screamed out underwater. And still I kept going down. The pain was horrible. I needed a deep breath--but I was sinking.

I started kicking, but the pain forced me to stop. With my arms I stroked feverishly for the surface. I kept swimming and swimming, praying I'd make it in time. Where the hell was the surface? After at least 10 minutes I finally broke through and gasped a breath. I heard the surreal sound of cheering, but no one came to my aid. I treaded water with my arms and breathed deeply, hoping the pain would go away. But of course it did not. It was my just reward for such a foolish stunt.

In the coming days, I thought back on this jump with a strong feeling of alarm. I had been so drunk and so off balance, that I could have easily hit the water at an angle that would have broken my back. I could have passed out and sunk to the bottom, never to resurface--all for the respect of a bunch of drunken fools who don't even remember who I am now. What a stupid thing I had done. And it was sheer luck that all I ended up with was a powerful enema that kept me from sitting properly for four days.

1987: Blithely Crossing the Third Rail

This was perhaps the closest I've ever come to instant death--and I didn't realize it till years later.

Back when we used to get snow around here in the winter, I brought my cross-country skis to work one day, intending to ski at lunch. I had noticed a golf course on my way to work, so at lunch I returned there and parked on the side of the road. Between the road and the snow-covered golf course lie a set of railroad tracks, but a nearby pedestrian underpass allowed me to walk beneath the tracks and enter the course beyond.

After about 45 minutes of skiing (and one head-over-heels crash, as I recall), I headed back to my car. I came upon the tracks at a point a few hundred feet away from the underpass, but fairly close to my car. Once I reached the underpass I knew I would have to remove my skis and walk to my car, since there was no snow in the tunnel. But if I were to cross the double set of tracks, I realized, I could ski right up to my car. This was obviously a much better option, I reasoned. All I had to do was watch for trains--and step over the short, thick fence that separated the two pairs of tracks.

I skied up to the tracks and turned sideways, so my skis were parallel to the rails. Looking both ways several times, I determined that no trains were imminent, so I set about crossing. Walking sideways, I crossed the first set of rails and reached the barrier. Only a couple feet high and a foot or so wide, the barrier stretched off in both directions. It appeared to be made of wood. I could have easily stepped over it without skis, but taking them off would have defeated my purpose.

I moved up next to the barrier and lifted my left leg high in the air until the entire ski was high enough to clear the hurdle. Then, pushing my leg outward, I slowly lowered it until my left ski touched the ground. I was now straddling the barrier.

Had I known exactly what I was doing, I would have never attempted this foolish stunt. Indeed, I now shudder thinking about this scenario. For underneath that wooden barrier was something we commonly call "the Third Rail," a conduit for the electricity used to run the trains. It pulsed with enough electricity to kill me instantly, before I could have even felt the shock. The rail was partially covered with a wooden shell, but on the sides near the base it was wide open. And on that winter's day in 1987--nearly my last day--I stood there straddling it, blissfully unaware.

My awkward stance, with my legs spread, made it difficult to kick my right leg into the air. I had to rock myself to the left, heaving my leg up as I did so. I slowly pulled it across the top of the barrier, but at the last second I realized that I had no room to put it down, since my left leg was smack against the barrier. Hopping a little bit on my left ski, I managed to make just enough room to squeeze my right ski into the few inches of space between the rail of death and my other ski.

At that point my leg was perhaps less than an inch away from the Third Rail. I, however, was completely ignorant of this fact as I rejoiced in my successful surmounting of the barrier. I crossed the remaining rails, then skied happily off to my car, ready to head back to work and finish my day.

1983: Near Head-on Collision

I should have died in the spring of 1983, on a sunny day in my 19th year. It would have been a spectacular death: flames, twisted metal, lots of police. I missed out on this opportunity by mere inches.

I had been on my way to college in my freshman year. I was attending the Ogontz campus of Penn State at the time, commuting there each day in my big, white 1972 Mercury Montego.

It's funny how tragedy can sneak up on you and catch you completely off guard. The day I almost died had been sunny, as mentioned, and I had been in no particular hurry that I can recall. I was merely driving my usual route down Huntington Pike, probably listening to Rush on my tape player. There was nothing foreboding about the situation at all.

After I had crossed County Line Road, I had become suddenly fascinated with something going on behind me. Perhaps I'd wanted to see how many cars would make it through the green light before it changed. Whatever it was, my curiosity stole my attention from the road ahead and directed my gaze into my side mirror. I peeked up at the road from time to time, but mostly I looked in the mirror.

You know how it is sometimes when you're looking at something off to the side or in your mirror and you know you should look back at the road, but you convince yourself that you can push your luck just another second and continue to stare. Well that's how it was with me on that day. Except whereas usually when you finally look back at the road, everything is fine, on that day things were definitely not fine.

Going 45 MPH, I tore my eyes from my mirror to glance back at the road ahead, and had 1/10 of a second to realize that the car ahead of me was stopped dead at the back of a long line of traffic--and I was 20 feet away.

With my heart jumping into my throat, I slammed on my brakes, but in a millisecond I realized I was going to slam into the other car. So with the inexperience of a mere two years behind the wheel, I swerved left to avoid the collision and drove straight into the oncoming lane. Only then did I notice the Volkswagen. As my car invaded the other lane, I watched the VW pass right in front of me. I missed it by mere inches and sailed right across the left lane and right into a side street that had miraculously appeared there. I was still doing 45 MPH.

I didn't slow down but drove right into the neighborhood and around the block. Only then did the gravity of the situation sink in. I got really scared as I thought about what might have been. I drove around the neighborhood for 10 minutes thinking about my own stupidity and thanking God for getting me out of that situation alive.

It was snowing in Pennsylvania on February 15, 1991. My friends and I were heading north to Sullivan County for a winter weekend in a cabin. We were looking forward to cross-country skiing and ice skating in a winter wonderland. We almost met a bloody death before we got halfway there.

As I recall, six of us we were stuffed into Joe McNulty's station wagon: Joe, Kyle Roberts and Karl Pfizenmayer were in the front, while Richie Ginieczki, Vince Pinkerton and I were in the back seat. As we drove along the Northeast Extension of the PA Turnpike, heavy blasts of falling snow would periodically blind us. The highway was busy that morning, making conditions particularly dangerous, especially since all those tires had turned the thin layer of snow on the road into a slick mess. But we were in a good mood, excited about our trip, oblivious to danger, trusting in Joe's driving skills.

We were in the left lane, with one northbound lane next to us. Southbound traffic had its own two lanes on the other side of a grassy median. I had just given Joe a jazz tape to listen to, and he didn't particularly like it. That probably had nothing to do with what happened next, though. As we hurtled down the turnpike at 60 MPH, with traffic to our right, in front and directly behind, Joe suddenly announced, very calmly, that the car was starting to slide.

I felt some minor fishtailing and advised him to tap the breaks, to slow us without losing control of the steering. But the fishtailing got stronger. Before I could even summon up any fear, the station wagon suddenly spun completely around, 180 degrees, and continued to slide down the turnpike, still doing 60 MPH. For about two seconds we were facing the car behind us. And then we slid backwards off the highway.

This could have happened when we were next to a ravine or over a river. Or we could have slid off the road into a deep ditch and flipped over. Even worse, we could have hit a guard rail or rocky hillside and bounced back into the lane to be crushed by the vehicles behind us. Instead, only by the grace of God, we exited the road onto a level, paved section of the median, an area for construction vehicles in warmer weather. Like a toboggan we slid smoothly along atop the snow there, holding on tightly, not daring to speak, waiting to see where fate would deliver us.

After a few hundred feet, our speed gradually slowing, we slid into a small hill, coming to a halt with the back of the car elevated. We were stunned that we had gotten off so easily. We got out of the car and stood there in the biting cold, looking at the car and laughing in relief.

Joe subsequently told me that he had glimpsed the flat area while we were fishtailing and had tried to steer us towards it, thus causing our 180-degree spin. Regardless, the result was the same.

A state cop pulled up, having been summoned by someone who witnessed our maneuver. As it turned out, the car had stalled, probably overwhelmed by all the excitement. The cop drove Joe and Vince to a gas station to purchase fuel line cleaner or something, but when they came running back and tried the car, it started anyway. So we continued on our merry way--though never quite forgetting how close we had come to dying.

Comments?

1985: Failing Brakes

Before he found religion in a big way, my friend Brian was much like the rest of us: he listened to rock music, drank beer on the weekends, watched sports events and liked driving his car at high speeds. That last weakness eventually bought him so many traffic tickets that his license was suspended in Pennsylvania until 2002--and that was back in 1988.

But in 1985, when he still had three years left to violate traffic laws, Brian almost killed me in one of his cars. It would have been particularly bad timing for him, since he would have died about five years before meeting his current wife and becoming "born again." God surely took Brian's future faith into mind when he spared us on that dark November night.

Back then we had played volleyball at a Methodist church in Richboro every Thursday night. One night we were on our way there in a car Brian had recently bought from a friend. I was in the front with him, while a guy named Warren was in the back with his brother, a tough guy I had never met before that night. Brian was eager to show off what his car could do, so when we hit a long, straight section of Hatboro Road, Brian floored it, urged on by Warren's moronic brother.

About a half mile past the point where Brian began accelerating, Hatboro Road abruptly ended in a "T" intersection with Almshouse Road, a fairly busy street. Across the intersection was a cement curb, on the other side of which lay the parking lot for a produce and dairy store called Tanners. The building itself sat only about 100 feet from the curb.

So with Brian's foot heavy on the accelerator, we went hurtling down Hatboro Road at 60 MPH. Then 70. Then 80. The idiots in the back were screaming like cowboys at a rodeo: YEEEE-HAAAA!! Brian was grinning like the devil he would later denounce. I sat there quietly, saying sensible things like "stop sign coming up."

With about a tenth of a mile to go before the stop sign at Almshouse, Brian decided it might be a wise idea to hit the brakes. He jabbed the pedal. The car slowed to 70. He put all his weight on it. The wheels locked up. The tires squealed. We skidded crazily toward the intersection, still doing 50. It became instantly clear to me that we were not going to stop before crossing Almshouse Road. I briefly considered the strong possibility that a car would pass in front of us and we would slam into it. But a fraction of a second later we were in the intersection and I had a new worry. With the brakes locked up, the car was out of control, and we were headed right toward a phone pole.

"The pole!" I had time to say, and Brian knew enough to take his foot from the brake long enough to steer us away from the pole. And then "BAM!" we hit the curb, went flying into the air and dropped down into the thankfully empty parking lot. Still moving, but slowed down tremendously by the curb, we continued to skid toward the building. The car turned sideways, finally sliding to a halt about 10 feet from the building.

I was petrified. The yahoos in the back seat cheered to mask their own fear, and Brian looked stunned. Amazingly his tires had not blown, but his rear speakers had popped right out (hopefully they hit Warren and company in the head, but I can't be sure). I was really pissed and told Brian what an idiot he was, and he protested, lamely, that he hadn't known the brakes were bad. After a few minutes, we got back in the car and drove off to volleyball, all knowing how lucky we had just gotten (but only one of us really caring).

I don't see Brian much any more, but I sometimes wonder, when he's sitting in church on Sunday with his family, if he ever thinks about that night when he almost killed himself and three friends, and thanks God for sparing us.