When I was in high school, we were stationed on Governor's Island, a small little piece of earth situated between Brooklyn and the Statue of Liberty. It was an interesting little microcosm, a green little suburb off the tip of Manhattan and it was an interesting place to spend your most formative years. I also took a ferry to school every day.
But to the point.
During my senior year, while Paul was away at Boot camp in Paris Island,my parents and I drove off the ferry, onto Manhattan, and, as is typical any time of the day or night, we drove right into traffic. Back and forth, back and forth went the cars as they traded the lead in what seemed like an eternal parade of cars going nowhere.
Then, out of nowhere, a car appeared to the right of us driven by a young guy with a high and tight and a Marine Corps sticker on the back. He looked as miserable as everyone else, but as he passed, he gave us a casual salute before pumping his fist.
I was confused at first.....my Dad was a coastie after all, a different breed entirely.
But then I realized that we were driving Paul's car and the greater reality of what he was embarking on set in.
This is Day 121.
3 years ago