This is the moment a Coast Guardsman sexually assaulted me. You won’t see it if you’re not looking. Most people wouldn’t. That’s the nature of this kind of violation. It’s subtle enough to be dismissed by outsiders, but unmistakable to the body it happens to. You can see his hip pressed into my backside, and my foot kicked out of place. What’s not visible is the frozen terror inside me.
This is what a sexual assault looks like when it’s disguised as camaraderie.
This moment was captured in plain sight at Sector Hampton Roads, U.S. Coast Guard. Official USCG photo.
I’d been through a harrowing 1,500-mile voyage aboard a boat with multiple failed systems, the only time in 12,000 miles of sailing that I texted my kids “I love you,” in case our vessel didn’t make it. My nervous system was overloaded and disoriented, and this man, who should have been acting in service to someone who had been through a long ordeal, used that moment to exploit my body for his gratification.
Boatswain’s Mate, second class (BM2) Geoffrey Wells, the coxswain for the operation, slammed against me, simultaneously kicking my boot just before the photo was taken. He held his position, forcing physical contact from head to toe. The BM2’s stance is firm, squared, claiming space that wasn’t his. Mine is defensive: angled away, hands in pockets, a body refusing while a face is forced to smile. This was a deliberate, dominant message: a sexual assault meant to override me and my sense of safety. The perpetrator briefly left the lineup to go forward and take a photo, then returned and repeated his crime.
That is the face of a man mid-assault, smiling for the camera, entirely confident he’ll never be held accountable. His smile doesn’t reach his eyes; his jaw is tense, his expression controlled. He’s not sharing a moment, but maintaining a performance. That’s what makes him dangerous. This is what entitlement looks like.
That Wells posted this photo like a trophy shows the impunity he had come to expect from a system that fostered his predatory career. I had it taken down from the Coast Guard’s official site. Then I had to chase it down across news outlets and stock photo sites. They all took it down eventually. But I’ve decided to put it back up myself. Because it happened to me. Because I know what happened in that moment, even if others pretend not to see it. Because taking back the narrative is the best response to systems that protect abusers more than the people they harm.
I spent years trying to get help for the fallout of this and other assaults, only to find that the systems we’re supposed to turn to for help don’t recognize trauma unless it fits their narrow definition. They punish people like me for having human reactions to harm. They protect predators like him by default. Though I banged loudly on every door, the USCG declined to take any corrective action, signalling its tacit approval. This guy is free to sexually assault other civilians.
What happened in this photo is a perfect example of how power works on the nervous system. When you’re overwhelmed, when there’s no safe place to go, when you’re surrounded by uniforms and guns and official authority, your body shuts down to survive. That’s biology. The only thing that should have changed was the behavior of the man who used his position to cross a line he never should have approached, and the institution that enabled him.
I refuse to carry shame that doesn’t belong to me. I use my words and watercolors to expose the abuses of systems that put maintaining the power structure above human well-being. Naming it puts the shame back on the perpetrator and the institution that supports his predatory ways. Sharing the truth of my lived experience, I reclaim the narrative because this is how we break the domination hierarchy’s grip.
