Chapter 9 - Harboring Peace
The evening air was balmy as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky over San Diego in brilliant shades of orange, purple, and gold.
We held a small gathering at a seaside restaurant near the harbor—a long wooden table set up on a outdoor deck overlooking the water.
There were no microphones. There were no public speeches. There was no theatrical performance for an audience.
Sitting around the table were the people who mattered: Captain Reeves, now retired and wearing a comfortable linen shirt; Master Chief Vance and his wife; Garrett; three young lieutenants from my operational command; and myself.
The waiter brought out a tray of champagne glasses, filling them to the brim with bubbling gold.
Captain Reeves stood up, holding his glass high.
“A toast,” Reeves said, his voice carrying the deep, warm resonance of a man who had served his country honorably for thirty years. “To family. Not the ones we are born into by biological chance, but the ones we choose in the storm.”
“Hear, hear,” Vance called out, raising his glass.
“To the team,” Garrett said, looking across the table at me, his eyes sparkling with deep respect and affection. “And to my sister. Commander Voss. Harbor. The finest officer I have ever known.”
We clinked our glasses together. The sharp, crystal ring sounded like music in the warm summer night.
I took a small sip of champagne, listening to the laughter and easy conversation flowing around the table. Garrett was telling Vance a story about his recent port call in Yokosuka, gesturing animatedly with his hands, his face lit up with absolute joy.
I reached down into my small clutch purse and pulled out a small, worn piece of paper.
It was a folded piece of yellow notepad paper, yellowed with age, edges frayed from years of being carried in my uniform pocket.
It was the voicemail transcript from my father—the message he had left me forty-eight hours before he passed away in Ohio six years ago, while I was sitting in that windowless operational bunker in Syria.
I unfolded it beneath the table, reading the faded black ink one last time:
“Mara, honey. It’s Dad. I know you’re somewhere far away doing important things. Don't worry about coming back. Don't listen to your mother. You were born to fly, Mara. You were born to protect people. I am so damn proud of you, Harbor. I love you, kiddo. Keep your head down.”
I looked at the words.
For six years, I had kept this paper as armor against my mother’s accusations. I had held onto it like a weapon, waiting for the day I could throw it in her face and prove that Dad loved me more than he feared her.
But sitting here tonight, surrounded by thirty people who would die for me, looking at my brother who had finally found his own strength... I realized I didn't need armor anymore.
I didn't need to prove anything to Evelyn.
I didn't need her apology.
I didn't need her validation.
I took a small box of matches from the table candleholder, struck one, and held the small piece of yellow paper over the glass ashtray resting on the wooden deck railing.
The flame caught the edge of the paper.
The black ink of my father’s final words turned to bright, warm orange ember, and then into soft, light grey ash.
The ocean breeze caught the ashes, lifting them up over the railing, carrying them out into the dark, open expanse of the Pacific Ocean.
“Mara?” Garrett asked, turning toward me, noticing the small match flame dying out in my hand. “You okay?”
May you like
I looked at my brother. I looked at Vance. I looked at the dark, vast ocean that had been my home, my battlefield, and my sanctuary for fifteen years.
“I’m better than okay, Garrett,” I said softly, picking up my glass of champagne and leaning back in my chair. “I’m finally home.”
