WADE IN THE BAYOU MAY HAVE SAVED OFFICER'S LIFE

GULFPORT - As a toxic cloud closed in around him early Sunday morning,
Gulfport patrolman Joseph Torres made an unlikely move that may have saved
his life: he waded into a nearby bayou.

The 28-year-old was the first officer to respond to the Channel Chemical
Corp. leak Sunday. Armed with binoculars, Torres traced the chemical plume
to an open tank valve. But the accompanying fog from the gas thickened the
air, making it impossible to get a reading of the tank's identifying numbers.

The distinctive smell and the burning in his eyes and throat, however, gave
him a good idea of what he was dealing with: anhydrous ammonia, a dangerous
gas that can be fatal if inhaled in large doses.

But when Torres turned to leave, his path out was gone. The cloud had moved
behind him, cutting off his exit.

Staving off fear, Torres concentrated on his training. He spotted Bernard
Bayou about 250 yards ahead and radioed dispatch.

Yes, they could get a boat out there. But it would take awhile. That was
enough for Torres. He waded into the water.

"It was cold and I was kind of afraid about getting hypothermia," he said.
"But I knew the chemical liked to go to water, so I figured it might attack
(the water) instead of me."

Wrapping his jacket around his face as a makeshift air filter, Torres
waited. The gas, which had engulfed him on dry land, now hovered close to
the surface of the water, affording him gulps of air when the wind wasn't
blowing. He called it "15 minutes of hell with occasional five-minute breaks."

His eyes and throat were burning. He called his wife, suggesting she meet
him at Garden Park Medical Center.

"That was halfway for my own peace of mind and halfway for hers," he said.

After nearly 45 minutes, searchlights from the Gulfport Fire Department
boat cut against the darkness.

The chemical fog was thick and Torres, who dropped his flashlight stumbling
over a fence, knew they would have difficulty finding him.

Again, he turned to his training. He pulled his service revolver and fired
two shots.

"That was the only signal I could give them," he said, smiling at the memory.

It worked.

Within minutes, firefighters had him back on shore, where he was sprayed
down with decontaminating agents and given oxygen.

In less than a few hours, Torres was home at his Gulfport apartment. His
throat was sore. His eyes raw. But he was OK.

Throughout his ordeal, Torres' fellow officers had been calling in, asking
about his condition and offering encouraging words.

Moments before heading off to the hospital, Torres made one last call over
his radio: It was a 10-43, the code for "Everything is OK.