Bringing James Home: The Final Search for a Missing Father

The morning sun glinted off the steel bridges that cut through the South Side of Chicago, spilling across the slow-moving waters of the Calumet River. From a distance, the river looked peaceful — its surface smooth and unbroken — but beneath that calm exterior lay stories that the city had long forgotten.

One of those stories belonged to James Jackson, a 69-year-old grandfather battling dementia, who vanished one warm August afternoon in 2022.

He had driven off in his white Ford cargo van, leaving his home in Calumet Park for what was supposed to be a short trip. But as the hours turned into days, then weeks, the road ahead of him seemed to swallow him whole.

The Disappearance

James had always been a proud man — independent, kind, and stubborn in equal measure. Even as dementia began to cloud his memory, he clung to small routines: breakfast with his daughter Kiana, a walk around the block, and sometimes a drive to visit an old friend.

On August 8th, he left to see a friend nearby. Security cameras later caught him at a dollar store, smiling faintly as he paid for a few small items. From there, he dropped his friend back home, promised to call later, and drove away — heading in the wrong direction.

That was the last anyone saw of him.

At first, Kiana thought her father had simply gotten turned around. But as hours passed without a call, panic began to take root. She filed a missing person’s report and began posting on social media. The Chicago Police issued an alert, noting that James suffered from early-onset Alzheimer’s and might be disoriented.

Days passed. Then weeks. And still, no sign of the white van.

The Call for Help

In late August, under the blazing summer sun, Kiana stood beside Alderman David Moore at a small press gathering. Microphones caught her trembling voice.

“Please,” she said, holding back tears. “Somebody help us find him. Check all these areas. Make sure a car didn’t go off the side.”

It wasn’t just a plea. It was desperation.

The family’s search expanded — highways, parking lots, wooded areas — anywhere a confused driver might have gone. But with each passing day, hope dimmed.

Then, one night, scrolling through YouTube, Kiana found a channel called Chaos Divers — a volunteer team that searched underwater for missing people. They had worked across the country, helping families find answers long after official searches had gone cold.

She reached out immediately.

Within a week, Jacob Grubbs from Chaos Divers and Britain Lockhart from Depths of History were on the road to Chicago.

The Search Begins

When they arrived, the team met with Kiana and her relatives. They listened carefully as she described the last known sightings, the phone pings, and the possible routes.

James’s van had been captured on a license plate reader heading north on I-57, near 96th Street. But after that — nothing.

Jacob unfolded a large map on the hood of the van. “If he turned right after that exit,” he said, tracing the line with his finger, “he’d loop back toward the Calumet River.”

That was enough.

They decided to search every stretch of the river from I-94 to Western Avenue — nearly eight miles of murky, industrial water.

“We’re joined by Ride or Die and Depths of History,” Jacob said into his camera as they launched the boat. “Our mission today is to find Mr. James Jackson and bring him home.”

Searching the Calumet

The Calumet River was no stranger to secrets. Old cars, stolen vehicles, and discarded junk littered its bottom. The divers had learned to tell the difference between a forgotten relic and something that didn’t belong there.

“First car of the day,” Britain called out. The sonar screen showed a shape — large, metallic. But as they dove, they found only an old red Pontiac, covered in zebra mussels and rust, hollowed out by time.

“Nothing inside,” the diver reported. “No one in there.”

They surfaced, discouraged but undeterred.

Day turned to dusk, and still no sign of James’s van. The team packed up, promising to return the next morning.

A New Approach

Two days later, they launched again — this time from Lake Michigan, accessing the upper Calumet River. The wind whipped against the boat as they passed under the 92nd Street drawbridge.

“Check underneath there,” Jacob said, his voice serious. “Make sure no car went off the side.”

They worked methodically — bridge by bridge, scanning every dark shadow that appeared on sonar. At each stop, they marked the GPS, tossed magnets, and waited for the faint metallic “click” that meant contact.

Hours passed. The sun dipped lower.

Then — a sharp intake of breath.

“Wait,” said Britain. “What’s that?”

On the screen, a large rectangular outline appeared, angled oddly against the riverbed. Not a car. Bigger.

Jacob leaned closer. “That looks like a van.”

The Discovery

Excitement turned instantly to dread. They moved the boat over the target, dropped a buoy, and prepared the diving gear.

Britain was first in. The water was cold and thick, visibility almost zero. Slowly, he descended until his flashlight caught the faint reflection of glass and metal.

He ran his hand across the surface — smooth, curved edges, windows rolled down.

“It’s definitely a van,” he said through the comms. “White. Maybe a Ford Transit.”

He felt his heartbeat quicken.

“I’m going around to get the license plate now.”

There was a long pause.

Then: “It’s him. We found Mr. Jackson.”

The radio went silent for several seconds.

“He’s inside,” Britain whispered. “Front seat. Buckled up.”

The Weight of the Moment

When Britain surfaced, the river erupted with motion. Police sirens echoed from the bridge. Dive teams and detectives rushed in.

Jacob met his friend at the edge of the boat, gripping his shoulder tightly. “You okay?”

Britain nodded, but his voice shook. “All the windows were down… he was still buckled up.”

Jacob knew that feeling — the shock, the sadness, the strange peace of finding what everyone else had missed.

The officers secured the scene, and the team stepped back to give space.

“It’s because of you guys that we’re able to do this,” Jacob told his viewers later. “But I can’t say this enough — it’s because of the families who trust us, and the people who support us, that we’re able to bring people home.”

The Call No Daughter Wants to Get

Back on shore, Kiana’s phone rang.

“Miss Jackson,” Jacob said gently, “we found your dad.”

Her knees gave out before she could speak. For weeks she had prayed for this moment — any news, good or bad. Now it had come, and her heart broke all over again.

She thanked the divers through tears. “You found him,” she whispered. “You brought my daddy home.”

Jacob’s voice wavered. “He’s coming home, Kiana. He’s coming home.”

The Recovery

By evening, floodlights lit up the 130th Street Bridge as divers rigged cables around the van. The air smelled of diesel and river mud.

“Diver up!” someone called.

A moment later, the wrecker’s winch groaned to life. Slowly, the white Ford rose from the water — coated in algae, the metal glistening under the lights.

Family members watched from a distance, holding each other close. For them, the mystery was finally over.

For the divers, it was another reminder of why they did this work.

Jacob turned to the camera, his eyes rimmed red. “Without people’s faith and support, we wouldn’t be here. To Kiana, to the Jackson family — thank you for trusting us.”

A Community Comes Together

News stations picked up the story the next morning.

“A special dive team who travels the country helping families find answers underwater has recovered the vehicle of 69-year-old James Jackson,” the anchor said.

At a small vigil later that week, Kiana spoke again — her voice softer now, but stronger.

“For two weeks, my dad was out there alone. But now he’s home. And it’s because people cared — strangers who didn’t even know him cared enough to look.”

Alderman Moore stood beside her, hand over heart. “This is why awareness matters,” he said. “Every missing person deserves to be found.”

The Team Reflects

After the search was complete, the divers gathered at the water’s edge. The city lights shimmered in the distance.

“It never gets easier,” Britain said quietly. “You hope every time that maybe they just drove away, maybe they’re still out there. But when you find them like this… you realize closure matters most.”

Jacob nodded. “You can’t change what happened. But you can give the family an answer. That’s everything.”

They packed up their gear in silence. The night air was cool now, carrying the smell of rain and steel.

The Meaning of Closure

For Kiana, grief came in waves — moments of relief followed by sudden, piercing sadness. She thought about her father’s laughter, his old stories about the South Side, the way he’d call her “baby girl” no matter how old she got.

Now, she found comfort in knowing he hadn’t suffered alone. The divers had found him still buckled in, calm, as if he’d simply drifted into sleep.

At his funeral, she placed a small toy van on the casket — white, just like the one he’d driven. “You’re home now,” she whispered.

A Ripple That Keeps Spreading

The story of James Jackson’s recovery reached families across the Midwest. Messages poured into the divers’ inboxes — mothers, brothers, daughters — all asking for help in finding their missing loved ones.

Chaos Divers and Depths of History continued their mission, traveling from state to state, searching lakes and rivers, bringing answers to those who had none.

Each time they dove, they remembered James — not just for the sadness of his loss, but for what his story represented: hope, persistence, and the power of community.

Epilogue: The River Gives Back

Months later, Jacob returned to the Calumet River. The sky was overcast, the water still. He stood on the same bank where they had pulled the van from the depths and looked out across the gray surface.

He thought about Kiana’s words: “We just wanted to bring him home.”

He thought about all the families still waiting for that call.

And then, quietly, he said to himself, “We’ll keep searching. Until every family has an answer.”

The river moved softly beneath the bridge — calm, endless, patient. Somewhere within its quiet depths, the echoes of those who had been lost began to fade. And for James Jackson, at last, there was peace.