It happens quickly. More precisely, death on the railway occurs at the speed of a train hurtling down the track.
Deputy Mike Baron, a five-year Transit Police Bureau veteran, waves to a
southbound train passing through Palo Alto, Calif., Tuesday morning,
May 19, 2015.
(Karl Mondon, Bay Area News Group)
A conductor must make
the grim trip back down the track to confirm what happened. The transit
police have the heartbreaking task of helping break the terrible news
to loved ones.
It exacts an emotional toll. A 2011 national survey of 363
commuter railway operation employees for the Federal Transit
Administration found that 43.6 percent have been involved in a critical
incident -- like fatally striking someone -- and more than 12 percent of
those reported post-traumatic stress disorder symptoms like anxiety and
depression.
Jim Hartnett, who took over as Caltrain's general
manager in March, said he knew that the recent spate of track deaths
weighed on the minds of employees.
"There's a serious emotional impact with just one incident," Hartnett said. "It's even more difficult to deal with a number of these situations in such a short period of time. Absolutely, I am concerned. It's a lot for people to handle."
Nancy Sheehan-McCulloch, of California Operation Lifesaver, a nonprofit that promotes rail safety, added that engineers and conductors at other railroads sometimes have walked away.
"They decide, 'I can't handle this anymore,' " she said. "They can't live with it, and it's unfortunate."
"When you see someone, all you can do is blow the horn and plug the train," said Gibbs, referring to engaging the emergency brake system. "You can only hope that they realize what's about to happen and get out of the way or get out of their car. I heard an engineer say one time, 'Once you plug the train, you're just a passenger.' That's kind of true."
Gibbs, 40, a retired Marine who now is a Caltrain supervisor with the title of "trainmaster," recalled leaving Tamien Station in San Jose at about 35 miles per hour when a teenage boy cut in front of the train.
"I've talked to some people who also have had fatalities and we all come to the same conclusion: You have to move on," Gibbs said. "We've got people who have been with the railroad 20 years who've had 10 fatalities. The first time I went through the area where it happened, I did get butterflies. But after that, I was fine. My biggest concern still is the family. My mind does go to them sometimes."
While the impending tragedy unfolds in front of engineers, they don't actually see when someone is struck because they sit up high in the cab.
"Maybe that helps a little bit to deal with it," Gibbs added. "But the sad reality is you'll hear something, and you'll feel something."
In the passenger cars, conductors often first know something is happening when the engineer sets the emergency braking.
"It makes a big 'whoosh' sound that's very distinctive," Fick said. "We immediately get that tense feeling and wonder: 'Is this somebody getting hit?' "
The one time his train was involved in a fatality, which occurred at a Sunnyvale crossing, Fick said the engineer was so rattled that it wasn't initially clear if a person had been hit.
"I consider myself very fortunate because it was nighttime and very dark," said Fick, 44, who grew up near the Menlo Park station. "So there wasn't a lot to see, and that was fine with me. But I still think it's harder for engineers because they see the person's last moment. That second of eye contact would bother me more than seeing a body."
Working for the transit police means having to become accustomed to seeing bodies.
"In a normal law-enforcement career, you might see four or five deaths," said Lt. Victoria O'Brien. "We already had seen 10 in just the first three months this year. It's not something that easily forgotten."
The unit is part of the San Mateo County Sheriff's Office, but has jurisdiction along the entire Caltrain line. As the investigative agency in fatalities, deputies also make family notifications.
"You can't work here if you don't have a compassionate temperament," said O'Brien, the head of the bureau. "A lot of times, we've cried with families, we've held their kids."
There are success stories. O'Brien said they prevented 40 people from committing suicide in 2014.
Just this week, passengers at the San Carlos station reported a man on the tracks. Deputy Mike Baron was among those who caught up to him in the parking lot. The man claimed he was trying to get away from someone, not harm himself. He was let go with a warning.
"I told him that we just wanted to make sure that he was OK, and he said he wasn't interested in committing suicide," said Baron, 33. "I took him at his word because when you do intervention work long enough, you can tell. They'll even be upfront about wanting to get help."
In his five years with the transit police, Baron estimates he has been at the scene of between 30 and 40 fatalities. The ones that stay with him involved high school-aged kids.
"You remember those names," he said.
But Caltrain
employees involved in fatalities already are given three days off and
the option of speaking with counselors. Meanwhile, Patrick Sherry, the
author of the railroad employee survey, said it was natural for railroad
workers to feel some measure of guilt or blame.
"The extent they feel they could have changed the outcome influences how deeply they are affected by the incident," added Sherry, a University of Denver professor and the National Center for Intermodal Transportation's executive director. "That's the dividing line. But I tell railroad workers that 99.999 percent of the time, you did everything possible to prevent this. You shouldn't beat yourself up."
Once, while doing research, Sherry was in an engineer's cab when he witnessed a near miss. A boy was trying to free a bicycle stuck on the track.
"It was like, 'C'mon kid, get your bike out of there!'" Sherry recalled. "Finally he falls back out of the way as we go past. The whole time, I was thinking, 'We're going to run over this kid and there's nothing we can do about it.' People who work on the railroad see things like this all the time."
Fick doesn't dwell on that night in Sunnyvale. But occasionally he'll think about it when the train passes the crossing. There are some things, he said, you never forget.
"You always know that it's a possibility, every day," Fick added. "With so many recently, there's more talk. You do wonder. Is this the end of it? Is it going to be like this all year? You just don't know."
Caltrain's website lists suicide prevention resources at www.caltrain.com/ThereIsHelp. The crisis telephone number is 800-784-2433.
Source:http://www.mercurynews.com
"There's a serious emotional impact with just one incident," Hartnett said. "It's even more difficult to deal with a number of these situations in such a short period of time. Absolutely, I am concerned. It's a lot for people to handle."
Nancy Sheehan-McCulloch, of California Operation Lifesaver, a nonprofit that promotes rail safety, added that engineers and conductors at other railroads sometimes have walked away.
"They decide, 'I can't handle this anymore,' " she said. "They can't live with it, and it's unfortunate."
Too late to stop
When an engineer spots a person on the track, it's usually too late.
A
Caltrain commuter train can reach a top speed of 79 miles per hour. A
locomotive and five passenger cars weigh in the neighborhood of 450
tons. So it can take a quarter-mile or more for the train to make a full
stop."When you see someone, all you can do is blow the horn and plug the train," said Gibbs, referring to engaging the emergency brake system. "You can only hope that they realize what's about to happen and get out of the way or get out of their car. I heard an engineer say one time, 'Once you plug the train, you're just a passenger.' That's kind of true."
Gibbs, 40, a retired Marine who now is a Caltrain supervisor with the title of "trainmaster," recalled leaving Tamien Station in San Jose at about 35 miles per hour when a teenage boy cut in front of the train.
"I've talked to some people who also have had fatalities and we all come to the same conclusion: You have to move on," Gibbs said. "We've got people who have been with the railroad 20 years who've had 10 fatalities. The first time I went through the area where it happened, I did get butterflies. But after that, I was fine. My biggest concern still is the family. My mind does go to them sometimes."
While the impending tragedy unfolds in front of engineers, they don't actually see when someone is struck because they sit up high in the cab.
"Maybe that helps a little bit to deal with it," Gibbs added. "But the sad reality is you'll hear something, and you'll feel something."
In the passenger cars, conductors often first know something is happening when the engineer sets the emergency braking.
"It makes a big 'whoosh' sound that's very distinctive," Fick said. "We immediately get that tense feeling and wonder: 'Is this somebody getting hit?' "
The one time his train was involved in a fatality, which occurred at a Sunnyvale crossing, Fick said the engineer was so rattled that it wasn't initially clear if a person had been hit.
"I consider myself very fortunate because it was nighttime and very dark," said Fick, 44, who grew up near the Menlo Park station. "So there wasn't a lot to see, and that was fine with me. But I still think it's harder for engineers because they see the person's last moment. That second of eye contact would bother me more than seeing a body."
Working for the transit police means having to become accustomed to seeing bodies.
"In a normal law-enforcement career, you might see four or five deaths," said Lt. Victoria O'Brien. "We already had seen 10 in just the first three months this year. It's not something that easily forgotten."
The unit is part of the San Mateo County Sheriff's Office, but has jurisdiction along the entire Caltrain line. As the investigative agency in fatalities, deputies also make family notifications.
"You can't work here if you don't have a compassionate temperament," said O'Brien, the head of the bureau. "A lot of times, we've cried with families, we've held their kids."
There are success stories. O'Brien said they prevented 40 people from committing suicide in 2014.
Just this week, passengers at the San Carlos station reported a man on the tracks. Deputy Mike Baron was among those who caught up to him in the parking lot. The man claimed he was trying to get away from someone, not harm himself. He was let go with a warning.
"I told him that we just wanted to make sure that he was OK, and he said he wasn't interested in committing suicide," said Baron, 33. "I took him at his word because when you do intervention work long enough, you can tell. They'll even be upfront about wanting to get help."
In his five years with the transit police, Baron estimates he has been at the scene of between 30 and 40 fatalities. The ones that stay with him involved high school-aged kids.
"You remember those names," he said.
Feelings of grief, blame
The
federal government established new guidelines to ensure railroad
workers receive proper counseling. That's no small matter in California,
which leads the nation in train fatalities.
"The extent they feel they could have changed the outcome influences how deeply they are affected by the incident," added Sherry, a University of Denver professor and the National Center for Intermodal Transportation's executive director. "That's the dividing line. But I tell railroad workers that 99.999 percent of the time, you did everything possible to prevent this. You shouldn't beat yourself up."
Once, while doing research, Sherry was in an engineer's cab when he witnessed a near miss. A boy was trying to free a bicycle stuck on the track.
"It was like, 'C'mon kid, get your bike out of there!'" Sherry recalled. "Finally he falls back out of the way as we go past. The whole time, I was thinking, 'We're going to run over this kid and there's nothing we can do about it.' People who work on the railroad see things like this all the time."
Fick doesn't dwell on that night in Sunnyvale. But occasionally he'll think about it when the train passes the crossing. There are some things, he said, you never forget.
"You always know that it's a possibility, every day," Fick added. "With so many recently, there's more talk. You do wonder. Is this the end of it? Is it going to be like this all year? You just don't know."
The suicide crisis telephone number is 800-784-2433. Follow Mark Emmons at Twitter.com/markedwinemmons.
Getting Help
Source:http://www.mercurynews.com