0.1 Because of the Angels
Because in the beginning was the girl... hiding just out of plain sight.
Captured on surveillance cam. Image credit: Colleen Banton
Previously: 0.0 How This War’s Gonna End—in which we saw how wars end… on their terms or on yours
It shouldn’t take a lifetime to understand who your angel is.
But she almost never hides in plain sight. Often she’ll be standing just beyond.
And hindsight is almost never immediately 20-20. But she is always there. And was. Even on that day.
I was just graduated Swarthmore, heading for Yale, working that summer as a ferry deckhand on the Cape for reasons I’ll get into later.
But as summers go, if I could live one over, that would be it. Endless days of flawless skies so inexhaustibly blue you couldn't even get a vapor trail to stick. Southwest winds blowing flecks of light off little schools of silver waves, as seagulls screech and jostle overhead.
It was just after supper, a steamy day in the middle of July, sea breezes finally starting to kick up. Night crew coming on shift, me and the day guys counting the take up in the pilothouse, when this red car pulls onto the boat, and out steps this… vision—
Tall, honey-blonde in high-cut denims, black bikini top, useless boyfriend shirt, looking about helplessly.
The guys down on deck turn to stone. The captain and my crewmates look out the window and grin at each other. There was an unspoken courtesy among the guys about hitting on the women. You know, look around at your buddies, and see whose turn it is to go next?
This is gonna be goooooood!
Way out of bounds
Technically I was off the field, and off the clock. I'd had the office manager punch me out so I could ride back to the mainland where I'd parked my car, and head into Hyannis to meet some buddies coming out for the weekend from their Wall Street gigs. It was gonna be goooood....
Until she pulled up.
I took one look, pushed myself back from the window, fell down the stairs in a single bound, slipped past the slack-jawed, frozen statues of my coworkers, and stood before an unearthly beauty I had never seen but immediately recognized.
I'm Harv, I heard my voice say. How can I help you?
Speechlessly she looked at me, eyes brimming, then to the back seat where a dog lay on a bloodstained towel, barely breathing.
I was low man on deck that year, but the first rule of first aid training was nobody pulls rank, everybody pulls together. I stepped out into the middle of the deck and shouted,
Emergency aboard! Load and go!
And in an instant it was all hands-- closing gates, diverting traffic, raising ramps, tossing lines, blocking cars, collecting fares, prepping passengers--- We pulled it off, pulled out, and were booking full throttle across the sound in under sixty seconds.
I went aloft to report on the situation to the captain, who already had the police on emergency radio. They got a car at the landing in two minutes, said Cap, holding the mic in one hand, working the throttle with the other. Where are they going, Baptist or Good Sam?
Bayside, I replied... Animal Hospital.
The mic hit the floor. Cap stared at me in astonished disbelief.
You had me drop a boatload of fares for a run to the fucking vet??
I figured that was the end of my career in maritime transit industry, so I replied: Ask me that when it's your dog. And slipped back down to the deck.
A small crowd had gathered around the red car. Women were sympathizing, men muscling in to impress the damsel in distress with their first aid and medical knowledge. We were pulling into port but still on the water, and I still had my deckhand duds on, making me the officer in charge.
Everyone back in your cars! I ordered. Start engines but do not move until instructed by a crew member or a police officer. We need your cooperation getting this vehicle off first.
I turned to the angel, now sitting in the back, cradling her dog's head. They both looked up at me, and I knew they were not going to make it.
I'll drive, I said. You stay right there. Your doggie needs you.
Death/rebirth
We made the vet's in nothing flat, police cruiser plowing the way. We pulled up, staff with a gurney at the ready as soon as the car stopped.
Angel and dog were rushed to the operating room, while I stayed behind with the officer to answer questions. Then he pulled away, leaving me standing alone in a parking lot with the keys to someone else's car.
I went inside and sat down in the empty waiting room. About forty-five minutes later she emerged.
I stood up. I'd seen the photos of Jackie on the flight from Dallas, but never had I been face to face with someone so stunningly forlorn.
He's gone, she pronounced quietly.
Those were the first words she ever said to me. I walked slowly over and carefully put my arms about her.
I don't know your name, I whispered in her ear. But you need a hug.
Semoira? she quavered. Semoira King? And collapsed over my shoulder in shrieks of grief that threatened to pull her skyward. I held her down tightly, as if in a gale, rocking her convulsing, heavenly body against my own salt-, sweat-, and diesel-redolence. Until she'd sobbed it out enough to remember I was a perfect stranger.
And stepped back. Thank you, she said, collecting herself. Thank you for all your help. I know everyone did their best. His internal injuries were too serious. I’m sorry.
I beheld her in wonder.
I had never held a woman like that. My height, six-oh. Perfect fit. Once you've felt it, you never forget.
I reached out to brush back a strand of hair stuck to her cheek, and left a grimy smudge.
Uh-oh, I ruined your makeup! I pointed to the spot.
No you didn't! she laughed tearfully, grabbed a tissue off the reception counter, and wiped it away.
She was so perfect she didn't wear makeup.
Semoira, I said, I'm Harv, and you've had a hard day. Let's go get a cup of coffee.
Thank you, she said, but I really have to get back.
No, I decided. Not in this condition. There's a phone right behind where you got that tissue, I pointed. Call and tell them you'll be another hour. I'll do the same.
Magic message/magic passage
We stopped at a diner on the way back to the landing. She was coming out of shock, and starting to talk. I learned a few things about her. That she was staying on Island at her mother's summer house. That her Mom and twin siblings had just come out from the City for the weekend. That Kaz, her father's present for her sixteenth birthday, had slipped his leash, run out onto the double line in front of their house, and into the path of someone speeding for the ferry.
That stretch of road is very dangerous, she fumed. You can't be careful enough pulling in and out.
I furrowed my brow, trying to visualize it.
98, she said. 98 Ferry Road. Right across from Wade's Beach.
Cops should set up a speed trap, I agreed. Offer them donuts and coffee to hang out in your driveway.
She seemed to take comfort in that idea.
Semoira told me she was at Holyoke, and waiting tables that summer down at the yacht club.
No wonder we never cross paths. I marveled. We move in different circles! Do you like it?
It's okay, she avoided. My mom's happy, but Holyoke's not exactly a science powerhouse. A couple of my classmates' families belong at the club, but I never run into them.
It was getting late. The diner was closing. People were waiting to go home.
Semoira dropped me off at the landing, thanked me again for everything, and apologized for all the trouble. I knew what I was supposed to say. Instead I told her to wait.
I opened my still baking Jeep, gunned it to life, grabbed the mirror tag, and handed it to her.
Here, show this to the crew, I said. It'll get you back across tonight. And as many people you can fit in your car over here tomorrow. You'll have to fill out the forms for Kaz, pay the bill, say goodbye... maybe hello to a new dog? Or just go shopping, hit the beach, do something to get your mind off it. On me.
She tried to refuse but I reminded--- Kids don't ride free. Weekend rates are higher. I don't need this until Sunday night. And I'm probably not going to have it after that.
She still looked less than convinced. So I reached in and stuffed the tag between her perfectly gapped thighs.
Take it, I ordered, feigning half-disgust. But don't lose it!
Next: 0.2 Seeking Her Kingdom—because men shall not live by dreams alone.
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Harvey Oxenhorn, is a cybersecurity consultant, author of The Five Stages of Unf*ck, Red Pill Journey to January 2.0. for the millions of men mangled by years of unchecked and unquestioned feminism, globalism, and Woke. He is also founder of Malwords Weekly, and author of the upcoming book, The Atrocity Algorithm, How The Media Became The Enemy of The People. Follow him on Gettr, Gab, and MeWe @HarveyOxenhorn