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<\/p>\nThe fog in San Diego that morning was a living thing. It rolled in off the Pacific, thick and heavy, tasting of salt, rust, and the kind of cold that seeps right into your bones. It was a perfect shroud, clinging to the gray hulls of the destroyers sleeping in the harbor, muffling the sharp, rhythmic\u00a0thwack-thwack-thwack<\/i>\u00a0of boots on asphalt.<\/p>\n
This base was a world of disciplined motion, of crisp uniforms and sharp salutes, of men who belonged to the ocean. And then, there was me.<\/p>\n
I stood near the base daycare, an anomaly in a worn gray sweatshirt and faded jeans. My hands, calloused and rough from civilian work\u2014or so anyone watching would think\u2014were jammed deep in my pockets. My sleeves were rolled up. I was just a dad, waiting for his son. But even in the fog, I felt exposed. I carried a silence that set me apart more than any uniform ever could.<\/p>\n
The daycare doors finally burst open, and a five-year-old projectile of pure joy launched himself across the small patch of grass. \u201cDaddy, look! I\u2019m flying!\u201d<\/p>\n
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