David Ross, also known as Waterman Dave, hands out bottled water
and energy drinks from his trunk in San Diego. The 75-year-old
retiree has made it his mission to help the homeless — even if it's
just with a hug or a kind word.
March 7, 2011
Hundreds of people sleep on San Diego's streets each night, on
corners, beneath the interstate and across from the public library.
They hang out in small groups or sit alone, watching the time pass.
But when a wiry man with dark glasses approaches, everyone seems to
perk up.
The man is David Ross, better known as Waterman Dave. For years,
he's handed out hundreds of bottles of water each day to the
homeless. He's a 75-year-old retiree who's made it his mission to
help the homeless — even if it's just with a hug or a kind
word.
Many who live on these streets turn to him for help — and hope.
The city has joined about 70 others in a new national campaign to
get 100,000 long-term homeless people into permanent housing over
the next three years. But many of San Diego's homeless say they'll
believe it when they see it. They've been disappointed before.
Men and women shout out greetings when Waterman Dave approaches
in his old, beat-up black car. He calls it his "Homeless Hyundai,"
though he's not homeless himself.
"Hey, David. It's Waterman Dave," they shout.
Gray hair sticks out from under his Detroit Lions cap. The word
"peace" is embroidered on the arm of his sweatshirt. It looks like
he hasn't shaved for days.
"Hey brother, I got some juice and stuff for you," Ross tells
one homeless man outside the city library, as another kids and
asks: "Do you have my cheeseburger and curly fries?"
'I Care About You'
On these streets, things change in an instant. It can be burgers
and fries one minute, life and death the next. As Ross chats, one
homeless man, Mark Chapman, quickly pulls him aside. Chapman says
he's worried about his friend Randy and points to a young bearded
man, who sits curled up on the curb, his head hanging down.
"He already took out a knife," Chapman says, making a quick
slicing motion along his wrist. "And I was able to stop him from
it. I put some paper towels..." he pauses. Then he adds, "I said,
'Please give me that knife.' I can't get it from him. I'm really
worried about him."
As Chapman talks, his friend can be seen fumbling with a
pocketknife on his lap. Chapman tells Ross they were both released
from the county mental health center that afternoon and decided to
go drinking — a bad move. Waterman Dave sits down next to Randy to
see if he can help and finds out he has a sister.
"If we could call her, and let her know, would that be OK with
you if I did that?" Ross asks Randy.
The man nods. Then he looks up.
"Why are you worried about me?" he asks.
"Because I love you, man," Ross responds. "I care about you.
Hey, let me ask you something, Randy. If I was laying out here in
your situation, would you help me?"
"Yes," Randy replies.
"God bless you, man," Ross says. "And that's why I'm helping
you, because we're brothers."
A Call To The Police
But it's not easy to help in a city where, as in many others
across the country, social agencies are swamped. There are almost
4,600 homeless people in San Diego. Many are substance abusers or
mentally ill. There are programs to help them, but not nearly
enough. Sometimes an old, somewhat eccentric do-gooder is the only
help around.
Ross calls Randy's sister to tell her what's going on. She says
Randy suffers from mental illness and has tried to kill himself
before. But she lives on the East Coast, so Ross calls the police,
his only real choice this time of night.
The police say they're going to take Randy to a homeless
shelter, but it's full. They take him to the emergency room
instead. But he can't be held there against his will and he soon
returns to the streets. It will be weeks before a police-outreach
team runs into him again and gets him into a treatment program.
Ross is discouraged. He says the city keeps promising it's going
to fix things, but when he goes to a nearby underpass, he can see
almost 100 people camped out for the night.
"This is after a 10-year plan to eradicate homelessness
forever," he says. "I wish somebody could tell me at about what
level we are now in that 10-year plan."
No Answers
Those leading the new campaign to house the city's homeless say
things are different now. Robin Munro, a local businesswoman who
has helped organize the effort, says homelessness has gotten so bad
that people in the city — the government, businesses, nonprofit
groups — have finally come together to get something done.
"I don't think historically we've done a good job, and we
weren't working together," she says. "For the first time, we have
made it one of our top priorities to solve this problem."
In the meantime, at a winter shelter for homeless veterans, Ross
is greeted like an ice-cream man on a hot summer day. Dozens of men
line up less for the water than for a chance to joke around.
Bruce Bulmon, a former Marine who's been homeless on and off for
20 years, says it means a lot to these men that someone is looking
out for them.
"They die on the streets out here," he says. "If it wasn't for
Dave, there would be nobody out there except for maybe some church
groups, and it would be hit and miss."
But some people here think, in a way, Ross is part of the
problem, that people like him make life easier for the homeless so
they're less inclined to seek help in programs that have lots of
rules, like no alcohol. With his own money and donations, Ross has
provided portable toilets in neighborhoods where the homeless hang
out. He successfully sued the city to get a place where the
homeless can store their belongings, so they can go to job
interviews or doctor's appointments without bringing a shopping
cart.
Ross says, if he's an enabler, so be it.
"I've been called a whole lot worse than that," he says. "I was
a car dealer, give me a break!"
Ross says he helps the homeless now that he's retired because he
had an unhappy childhood spending time in a boys' home. He says he
understands what it's like to be unloved and discarded.
Under a highway bridge where more homeless people are camping
out, Ross sighs before getting out of his car. He admits he doesn't
have the answers.
"It just makes me so sad," he says. "Because when I get out of
this car right now, the only thing I can bring to them is a smile,
a hug, a little encouragement and a laugh — and a bottle of
water."
People line up to receive water from Waterman Dave. Aside from
water, many come for the chance to joke around with Ross.