The light had turned green. Kathy and I were standing at a busy Paris intersection when the lady in front of us started to step into the street. Kathy reached out and touched her arm just as a fast moving car passed in front of us. “Close call”, or Devine intervention? It’s your call –
My friend Bob and I were about 9 years old, in our swimming trunks and barefooted, when one afternoon we were on the shore of the Playa del Rey Jetty just in front of a concrete pile which supported an overpass situated about 20 feet above. The near-side piling was located only a few feet from the shore, and appeared to be in shallow water. Just above the water line there was a ladder attached to the piling which extended to the cap railing at street level. Walking back to the street above would take considerable time, so we agreed that I would wade out to the piling and climb up to the street. He would either follow, or meet me at the top.
I walked casually into the water and began to approach the ladder which was immediately in front of me. At that moment I was under water, unable to swim and with no way back to the shore. I reached for the ladder. It wasn’t there. I could see Bob’s face the last time I went down. He looked on helplessly. He couldn’t swim, either.
At the moment when I was losing all hope my hand felt the barnacles which had grown on the piling. I grasped enough to pull my head to the surface, and just within reach of the ladder which was still above my head. But for my athletic ability, I would never have able to pull myself to safety.
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While in the Air Force I was returning home from a temporary assignment in England. Our C-135 was over White Plains, New York and I was standing on the speaking to the co-pilot when we encountered a B-52 Stratofortress at about 35,000 feet. The plane fish-tailed directly under us less than 100 feet below. So close that I could see the pilots. They wore white helmets with tinted visors.
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It was between Christmas and New Years day 1965, and I just passed the Continental Divide east on Interstate 80. I had driven through the night threading my way up the western slope of the Rockies during a heavy snow storm beginning at Saint George, Utah. I was now on the downside, the road was clear and the sun was rising over a beautiful morning in the High Sierras. Suddenly, I was sliding backwards down the highway at about 70 miles per hour. The last thing I remember was the sound of snow drift markers stripping the chassis of my 1964 Impala before I left the roadbed.
The car settled gently upright in a snow drift at the bottom of a steep grade. With the motor still running, I stepped on the accelerator pedal and drove up the shallow side of the grade to the highway above.
Once, perhaps. Twice. Three times? It’s your call –