A Knee-Deep Deluge Soaks Trainee’s Zeal

Whoever said the life of a reporter is exciting and glamorous lied. That person clearly never worked in the rain.

The day of the big storm two weeks ago, I arrived at the office at 8:50 a.m. I wore a conservative black skirt, brown shirt and a taupe rayon jacket accessorized with brown suede pumps, brushed gold earrings and bracelet.

Sure, I knew the forecast called for heavy rains, but I like to look good! Besides, I had brought rain gear: an umbrella and sneakers.

About 15 minutes into the day, my editor sent me a computer message.

“Have one for you,” it said.

As a reporter trainee, those words were lyrics for my eyes. The more bylines I get, the better. I walked over to the city desk, eager to hear my assignment. I hardly suspected the tears and difficulties to follow.

We want you to do a feature on the guys who watch our water levels in rivers, dams and storm channels, he said.

I immediately began calling environmental agencies and public works departments trying to get the names of the various dams in the county.

In the next hour, several things happened. The city desk received word that Prado Dam was releasing water at 1,000 cubic feet per second and accordingly sent a reporter there to get information on the dam operator. All of this would be incorporated into my story.

I continued my calls, but I was starting to feel a bit overwhelmed. A flood of statistics were being hurled over the phone to me: volume capacities, elevation levels, cubic feet per second. The sweat started pouring.

I was not quite sure how to approach the story, and I was equally confused about what my editor expected.

After a series of computer messages back and forth, then a sit-down discussion, I had it generally figured out. It was just going to be a profile of a sort--a day in the life of a dam operator.

I got the name and phone number of a dam operator in Villa Park and set up an afternoon interview. After borrowing another reporter’s raincoat and changing into my sneakers, I dashed out to the parking lot, pen and note pad in hand and my Times ID dangling from my neck.

I wasn’t a block away from the Costa Mesa office when my car stalled at the intersection of Sunflower Avenue and Harbor Boulevard. I panicked.

What was I going to tell my editor? I needed to get to Villa Park, about 18 miles away, but I was stuck in knee-deep water.

As old as my car is (a 1982 Datsun 210), it had never failed me before. Why me? Why now? I thought.

I choked back tears and blew my horn at the men directing traffic. One guy came over and said he had called a tow truck, and it would be there shortly.

I got out of the car and stepped into a flood of water. When I got to the curb, one of the traffic directors shouted at me to get back in. One of the police vehicles was going to push me out of the intersection, to a drier spot at the curb.

“Put it in neutral and take off the brakes,” he said.

I did as I was told.

Afterward, he told me to wait about 15 minutes before driving it.

Rather than wait there, I ran back to the Times Orange County Edition office and told my editor about my heart-wrenching ordeal.

“Go do the interview by phone,” he said looking at me as if I was a big dummy.

No kind words. Just get the story.

I walked away from him and tried to fight back the flood of tears welling inside, but on the way to my desk, they trickled down uncontrollably. I found solace in a veteran reporter and poured my heart out.

“Don’t make it bigger than it is,” she said soothingly. “Go do the interview, and then worry about the car. . . . If you’re worried about it being towed, I don’t think it will happen.”

So I did my interview and wrote an 11-inch story. By this time, the reporter out at Prado had returned. I sent my story over to her and she combined them into one.

I then went to check on my car.

Before I got to the intersection, I knew it had been towed. I didn’t see the familiar Columbia University or SUNY Binghamton stickers glaring at me from the back window.

Again I panicked and started feeling sorry for myself.

Was this worth it? I thought. It could only happen to me.

Another reporter assured me that towing isn’t all that uncommon.

After a series of calls to the Santa Ana and Costa Mesa police, I found my car.

I started to feel a little better about my ordeal. It even started to seem funny. Then I was told about the towing fee: $85.