That was the man's baseline defense. It was up against a maelstrom of What are they going to do to us?! and the twin towers of the driving questions: What is going to happen to us?
What IS happening to us?
"Well, culturally we've obviously gone to hell in a handbasket to quote my father." Another man said. And, "I hate it when he's right." He skipped a flat stone across the pond that had re-stilled after everyone had a group rebellion against wearing the uniform. We were a mix of service people on a "weekend retreat".
"Would you like to see the Brig, Sir?"
The president swallowed his swig of hot coffee just as a swell ran below the ship and unbeknownst to people on deck lifted and chucked anything not nailed down. His "I would," seemed to come out of him in slow motion. "Were you a surfer, Sir?"
"'Scuse me son?!" The wind was whipping rope against mast.
"You're a natural at this," the person didn't overly look at the coffee drenching the man's clothes. "Least I held onto the thermos."
"Let's go below first and get warm."
"K."
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