The moment was captured in plain sight by this U.S. Coast Guard official photo.

Sailing was the only place my nervous system could reliably settle. Having experienced severe childhood sexual abuse, I was not suited to the conventional structure of work and a conventional life. Sailing provided me with regulation, purpose, and survival. I had quit everything to live the sailor’s life I had worked toward for years, at real cost. 

At sea, risk was real, but it was honest. Weather, navigation, equipment, and judgment are dangers that do not lie. They do not pretend to protect you while plotting to violate you.

At the end of a 1,500-mile voyage from St. Thomas to Hampton Roads, Virginia, our vessel was disabled in five to six-foot seas with thirty-knot winds. We spent the night spinning in the busy harbor, struggling to avoid other vessels in the dark. It was frigid, wet, dangerous, and exhausting. At dawn, the United States Coast Guard finally arrived and towed our Lagoon 42 catamaran to a dock. Up to that point, their role was what it should have been.

Afterwards, the Coasties asked us to line up for a photo on the deck of our vessel. A trophy photo. We were positioned and told where to stand: alternating Coastie, crew member, Coastie, crew member. During that lineup, I felt the boatswain’s mate, second class (BM2), slam into and then press up against me. The photo shows my foot turned where he had kicked it as he moved in. He felt like a lion at my neck.

I filed a complaint, which put me through an arduous and triggering process. Not only did I need to write about the event and its impact on me, but I also had to go to Philadelphia. There, I had to speak to a male investigator, who, without a heads-up, brought another male investigator into the small, windowless room. The two of them sat between me and the door. The meeting could have been much less trauma-informed. No action was taken. The complaint was dismissed. 

The BM2 had posted the picture on the Coast Guard website. I had to fight just to get it taken down. The article is still up. I have tried repeatedly to get it removed, getting the runaround for years.

This is not a single story with one bad actor. This is a structure that provides opportunity, protection, and impunity. The lineup felt like a setup. There was no operational reason for it. It served no safety function. It created the conditions for what I experienced. 

It is worth asking whether the traditional post-assistance photo functions as a setup rather than a harmless ritual. Lining civilians up, telling them where to stand, directing their bodies, and framing the moment as celebratory or routine creates forced proximity under authority. It lowers vigilance, introduces confusion, and produces a moment of compliance rather than consent. An assault in that situation would be sudden, unexpected, and difficult to interrupt. The shock alone would immobilize many people. That is how surprise attacks work, and why someone intent on assault would choose that moment. I froze, which was the predictable outcome of how the situation was structured.

What this took from me cannot be overstated. The Coast Guard is the federal military agency to which sailors answer. As a sailor, my sense of safety with them was important. That sense of safety was permanently damaged. Everything connected to them was tainted after that, including visits to bases I had made with my Sea Scouts. An institution that was supposed to represent rescue and protection became associated with threat.

There was no justice, no accountability. The system closed ranks, protected itself, and left me to carry the consequences.

So this is where watercolors, words, and wits come in. When formal channels fail, truth-telling becomes the only remaining leverage. I’m not seeking revenge, but refusing erasure by making a record. This assures that what I experienced, documented by their own camera, does not disappear into institutional silence that protects the hierarchy. Sharing the truth of my lived experience is the only justice I have known.