One Week Later: The River Still Holds Its Secrets

It has been more than a week since the devastating floods tore through parts of Texas, and while for many the waters have receded and the roads are reopening, the disaster is far from over. For families of the missing, time has become a painful blur of waiting, and the work to recover those lost continues beneath the surface—relentless, dangerous, and heartbreakingly slow. Along the banks of the Guadalupe River near Center Point, volunteer divers and local rescue teams remain committed to a mission that goes beyond mere duty. They brave shifting currents, submerged debris, and zero visibility—not for pay or recognition, but for love, loss, and the belief that every soul matters. “Divers are encountering snakes, sharp wreckage, and unstable currents as they peel back thick layers of debris from the surface of the river,” explained a spokesperson from the Center Point Volunteer Fire Department.

The danger doesn’t stop at the surface. Once cleared, divers must gear up again, descending into the dark, tangled underworld of the riverbed, where visibility is near zero and every movement is a gamble. Underwater cars, twisted tree roots, shattered windows—each element poses a threat. But the searchers press on. Volunteer diver Chelsea Ramirez, who joined the effort three days into the flooding, describes the experience as swimming blind through wreckage.

“You reach into black water, knowing there could be glass, metal, or worse—sudden currents that pull you under,” she says. “But you do it anyway, because someone out there is waiting for you to bring their loved one home.” That sense of purpose keeps the teams going. So far, seven bodies have been recovered—each one a chapter of heartbreak. The youngest victim, a 5-year-old girl named Emily, was lost with her father when their truck was swept away.

Their bodies were found days apart. Emily’s mother, Alyssa, now waits on the shore each morning, holding her daughter’s favorite stuffed rabbit sealed in a plastic bag. “I just want her to have it again,” she says quietly. These moments, say rescuers, are why they cannot stop. They are not just searching for bodies.

They are recovering lives, stories, and dignity. Chaplain Derek Miles, who offers grief support to both families and rescue workers, speaks to the spiritual weight of the work. “You don’t walk away from people in the dark,” he says. “You go in because it could be your child, your sister, your husband. And when you look at it that way, there’s no choice but to keep going.”

For the families of the missing, each hour is agony. Many have refused to leave, sleeping in cars or makeshift tents near the water’s edge, hoping for news. Jordan Mills, whose 17-year-old son disappeared while kayaking during the early storm, says the waiting is its own kind of torment. “You wake up hoping today’s the day. And if it’s not, you go to bed hollow again.”

Still, in the depths of despair, they are not alone. Volunteers arrive daily with coffee, sandwiches, dry socks, and quiet words of comfort. “They don’t just search,” says Maricela Reyes, whose brother is missing. “They care. They sit with us. They cry with us.”

The volunteers themselves are local fathers, mothers, mechanics, and teachers—people who stepped forward because they couldn’t bear to stay back. Ian Peterson, one of the divers, knew one of the missing personally. “He taught my daughter algebra,” he says. “I’m not leaving this river until I know he’s found.” The emotional toll on the teams is immense.

Some cry in their cars after a long day. Others have developed stress injuries, both mental and physical. “We break in silence,” says one paramedic. “Because if we cry in front of the families, it becomes their burden too.” Mental health support has been provided, but many acknowledge that true healing can only begin once every person is brought home—or until there is nothing left to search for.

At the temporary command post by the river, hand-painted signs hang on trees and fences: “Come home, Alex.” “Still waiting.” “Thank you, heroes.” Stuffed animals sit beneath candles. Children’s notes, laminated to protect from the rain, offer messages like, “We love you, Dad. Please come back.”

In these acts of remembrance and hope, the community holds itself together. Donations of food, gear, and funds continue to arrive, coordinated by high school students, local churches, and retired neighbors. Every evening, the community gathers in silence, lighting candles along the shore. There are no speeches. Only presence.

Pastor Eleanor Greaves, who helps provide meals to search crews, reflects on what she’s seen: “In joy, people often drift. In grief, we cling. This river has taken, yes—but it’s also revealed the best in us.” Officials say the operation will continue as long as necessary. K9 teams and drones have been brought in to speed efforts.

The exact number of missing remains unconfirmed, but each day that passes narrows the hope of rescue and deepens the resolve for recovery. “We’re not giving up,” says Lieutenant Marco Allen. “We’ve got people underwater risking everything—not for reward, but because they believe no one should be left behind.” It is a race not against time, but against finality.

“Even if we don’t find them all,” says diver Ramirez, “we will never be the team that stopped looking.” The river continues to flow, silently carrying debris, memories, and the weight of all that’s been lost. But within its currents are also voices—the calls of children, the prayers of mothers, the silent promises of those who dive again and again into danger.

They press on anyway. They do it for the families still waiting. They do it for the ones who didn’t make it home. They do it because every soul matters.