The Flint River begins as spring water beneath the sprawling Atlanta airport and flows unimpeded for 220 miles through Central Georgia before joining the Chattahoochee River. For the most part, it is a slow-moving, lazy river, draining 8,460 square miles and collecting silt and nutrients as it flows south and east.

The river marks the boundary between Pike and Meriwether counties at one particular bend. Under the new, concrete highway bridge one can find the pilings from an older bridge, a swimming hole, and a boat launch ramp. To get there, you have to drive through the parking lot of the Last Draft Watering Hole.

It is understandable that Billy Joe Harris might mistake that access road for the highway, just yards away, given the state of his inebriation. What is unfathomable is that his mates let him drive away from the Watering Hole in that condition.

"We wondered why he was drivin' down to the swimming hole..." one of them later said. "Thought he might hadda pee or somepin."

It is pointless to pursue the reasons. The facts were, he drunkenly drove down the lane, his friends let him go, and a hundred yards later he drove his pickup through the barrier and into the Flint River.

But not all the way in. His truck got hung up on the concrete retaining wall and tilted, nose first, into the swirling water. Billy did the only sensible thing he could do in the circumstances. He turned off the ignition and reached for his beer, which, miraculously, had not spilled.

Billy's truck, Betsy, was older than he was and like most oldtimers, her seals were a little loose. Scraping her belly across a cement barrier didn't help. A drop of oil formed on a strut, slid slowly down until it reached a knuckle, and fell into the water

Beatrice was not alarmed by the noise of the crash. Sleeping under a highway bridge can be incredibly noisy. She did become alarmed at the first, bitter, taste of oil that reached her moments later. It wasn't a lot. But it was enough.

Raising her head above the surface of the murky water, she quickly determined the source of her aggravation. Annoyed that Humans had once again invaded her space, her first instinct was to flee, to head further downstream. But then the second drop of oil hit the water.

The odor of benzene compounds penetrated deep into her sinuses. With a noise that sounded like a shotgun blast, Beatrice snorted. Without another thought, she swam to the offending vehicle.

Placing her nose under the front of the truck, she lifted her head.

The truck rocked, there was a crunching, tearing noise, and the front bumper tore loose. Beatrice backed off to survey the situation. Billy took another swig of beer. Then he looked up to see a monstrous head peering at him with his bumper wrapped around its nose.

"It's eating my truck," Billy hollered. He reached for the door handle and pulled. Nothing happened. He pulled again then realized he was grasping the window crank. Instead of changing his grip to the door handle, he started cranking.

Beatrice snorted once more (which caused Billy to crank even faster) and ducked her head to try again. This time she found a solid frame. She lifted and pushed and the old truck rocked back and settled on dry land.

Billy stopped cranking, the window was fully down. He pulled on the crank lever to open the door then realized the monster was there, right in front of him, watching and drooling. He decided to stay in the truck. He took another swig of beer, no sense wasting it.

In disgust, Beatrice snorted one final time and turned to head downriver. Lake Seminole was still quite a way downstream and she was running out of time.