On fitting in

I worked with a woman once who was a caver. All of about 80 lbs wet--she could slip her body through a wire coat hanger without bending it. And so when a (typically) untrained adventurer ended up trapped or lost in a cave, and the regional alerts would go out at 2am through local speleological clubs, she'd call in sick, pack her gear, and head out; she was often the smallest trained rescuer available--the only one who could fit through the tiniest, darkest openings 14 miles into the earth. And so, though she was awkward above ground--stared at your shoulder when she talked, blinked her eyes furiously, dressed in knee socks and plaid skirts like a middle schooler, was never part of our cool club, never part of our boozy lunch hours, never included in author presentations--I admired her.

One day, shortly after I'd bought my very first new car, I drove her into DC for a meeting, and on the way back, stopped at a light on Connecticut Ave. A guy in a jaguar came screeching up behind us and slammed into the car in the lane next to me. Then he backed up, revved, and slammed into him again. Then got out of his car and stumbled across the road and into the park. Crazed with something, or a thief. I was so relieved my new car hadn't gotten slammed, but beyond that I was fine. My colleague, though, was balled up in the passenger seat, blinking back tears. Her frailty always surprised me; her vulnerability. I always felt I needed to protect her, though in another context she was the only one who could be a hero.

Anyway, I thought of her this morning when I read about the plan to retrieve the body of James Mitchell, who got himself corked into a vertical passage with icy water pouring down on his head. And died. And couldn't be pulled back up, and so the cave was sealed and a grave marker was erected.