Safe Harbor

foreword

There's a certain type of peace you gain when you realize your world is about to change.

One might think a person would get sad, or angry; maybe desperate and sulky, and they'd be right. Human instinct reacts negatively to change, at first. But those emotions are only part of phases, and they pass quickly when you realize there is absolutely nothing you can do to stop it. The sooner you accept that, the easier your journey becomes.

Life is a lot of things. It's the light at the end of the tunnel, a gift from nature to the world, and the reason that each and every one of you reading this now is alive. It's also an avalanche that buries you in, a bringer of perpetual sorrow, and a constant reminder that you have no control over anything around you. Life is mysterious, yes, but if there's one thing it will never be, it's a liar. Life is not as petty as us human beings; it does not boast, it does not complain, and it certainly does not destroy like we do. Life is better in that way, because it never leads us along and promises a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. It never plays games, spins tales, or messes with our brains. With the good and the bad, life is undeniably beautiful. But if there is one thing about life that holds true above all else; it never promised to be fair, either.

The war started like a blaze and petered out like a candle. However, what ensued in between was a raging inferno of events that changed my life, forever. For the better or for the worse, I will leave that up to you, my dear reader.

There's a man here, his name is George. He's the grandson of a good friend who passed away some years ago. He's a good man; in many ways remarkably just like his father. God knows he's got the same pearly-white smile, like a blinding flash from the past. You're probably curious as to why I've even mentioned George at all. After all, he's got nothing to do with the story I'm about to tell you. Well, I suppose that's true and false. He is the one capturing my words and putting them on paper. But, perhaps more importantly, he is the reason I have chosen to tell you at all.

You must forgive my rambling. I'm not as eloquent as I used to be when I was younger. Certainly not as memorable either, so there will be details missing, I'm afraid. But I need to do this; if not for me, then for them. I've written many tales, but this is the only one that will truly matter in the grand scheme of things. I'm not going to lie to you and tell you it is one you will enjoy. You will experience, no doubt in my aging mind, a plethora of emotions, many of which will be confusing, to say the least. But hand in hand with sadness comes happiness; so long as you give it a chance.

I'm 85 years old, and my days are numbered. But before I go, my story will be told. Our story will be told, and I can only hope it will be remembered, if not by the world, as a tale for the ages, but by you, friend. It's a tale I haven't forgotten even after 69 years, nor will I ever.

If there is one thing I will ask of you, dear reader, it is to heed my following words with care. Life is what you make of it, so make of it what you can. Otherwise, it will be too late. Take it from someone who knows.

Alexander S. Blake