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The Silver Jaguar The big silver 1962 Jaguar XKE stood by the road side. The full moon reflecting off its curved front fenders, sparkling like a thousand fire works in the night time sky. Just then the Lucas Flame Thrower lights on my TR4 completely flooded the scene with white light and in an instance the vision was passed. I was headed down coastal Hwy.101 on this pre dawn summer night. I'd been on a date with a girl I had met the previous weekend. Like all first dates this one was awkward and slow at times, but she laughed at my jokes and appeared to be interested in hearing about my youthful adventures. I had drank just enough wine with dinner to be in a relaxed mood. I was heading back to Camp Pendelton and duty as Medical Officer of the Day. The flash of the Jag had brought me back to reality and down form the 100 mph speed I was traveling. It took a few seconds for the image of the Jag to completely register on my brain and for me to pull up hard and reverse direction. A fellow British car enthusiast in trouble. You just have to stop, it is an unwritten obligation and a sin not to do so. British car guys always stop. As I approached, I dimmed the driving lights and swung the TR off the roadway onto the sandy shoulder next to the Jag. I hopped out and looked into the cockpit of this beautiful car, but no one was inside. The hood was still warm and the slight odor of hot Castrol hung in the air. The doors were unlocked, a pair of black driving gloves were neatly draped across the gear shift. The inside of the Jaguar had the smell of Channel Number 5 and leather. I walked around behind the Jag and it was there I noticed the right rear flat tire and set of foot prints leading off towards the beach. I grabbed my jacket out of the TR, as a cool breeze was coming of the ocean and an early morning fog had begun to form. I called out, trying to be heard over the breaking waves as I followed the tracks down towards the surf. The ever increasing fog was causing the full moon to fade in and out and to dampen my shoulders and face. The foot prints led into the ocean and were lost, swept away by the rise and fall of the tide. I called out once more and turned back towards the cars. In the silence between the breaking of the surf on the shore I heard the faint cry of a woman. I held my breath, hoping to ascertain the direction of the shouting and to help calm the now rapid beating of my heart. I retraced my steps in an instance and started to run through the deep sand towards the sound as it became more distinct the nearer I got. I crested a sand dune and almost tumbled head first into a tidal pool. There not ten feet in front of me was this vision of what appeared to be a woman, sea weed and tangled hair, arms and legs. She was fighting the incoming tide and was slowly losing. As the moon shown through the fog, I could see that she was caught on something and it was slowly dragging her further away as the current continued to rise. There was no going for help, I would have to do something. Her screams were now punctuated by sobbing and the time for action was now. I waded out into the fast moving current and caught hold of the thing that had trapped her and was now holding her steadfast. It was a broken dock, half submerged and was continuing to sink into the salty blackness. With all my might I tore at the broken board that had her leg held like a vice, wedged half way up her thigh. With a loud crack and an equally loud scream of pain, from the woman the board gave way and she leaped towards me, almost carrying both of us back into the current. Once again at the cars, I could see that she was shivering uncontrollably, she had been half submerged in cold ocean water for almost an hour. She wore only a light flimsy dress that now clung to her and accentuated her shaking. I grabbed an old army blanket out of the trunk of the TR and wrapped her in it and set her inside the TR. I started the engine and cranked the heater up to full. In an instance the smell of the salt marsh and her perfume were creating havoc with my senses. Her soft whimpering told me she was in a lot of discomfort and pain. I went around to her side of the car and examined her bleeding leg. It appeared that when she had stepped out on the old dock, it had given away and she broke through a weak board, falling almost to he waist. The jagged end of the broken board pinning her, tightening like a vice as her struggled to free herself. There was a line of scratches ascending her tanned leg, like red arrows pointing to this hideous gash on the inside of her thigh. I applied a compress of shop rags I had in the trunk and stopped the bleeding. It was obvious that she needed to get to a hospital for treatment and fast, so I locked her car up, jumped into the drivers seat of the TR and in an instant we were headed towards the General Hospital in Oceanside, a 15 mile trip we made in 10 minutes. The Jag was there when I retuned, covered with morning dew. I changed the tire and returned the lady's keys before she was out of surgery. I doubt she will be walking on old docks in the moon light any time in the future. I don't even remember her name, but that XKE is indelibly etched on my memory. What if I had not been a British car guy? |
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