I was a Coast Guard marine safety officer. One night in 1984, I was driving home to Astoria, Ore., on Highway 101 and thinking about the marine investigation I was working on — and the recent loss of my dad, Deward Thomas. He had suffered mightily from colon cancer for over 30 years, but now the battle was over. Mom died when I was 10, and now I felt orphaned, as our parents were both gone from cancer detected in their 20s. (My younger sisters and I surmised the cancers were the result of their unknowing exposure to radiation at the Oak Ridge Atomic Bomb project during World War II.)
Dad’s worth could not be measured in dollars, as he had raised his kids as a single parent and instilled in us ethics and fairness, so I was determined to spend my $7,000 inheritance on something very special. Dad was always a stickler for safety and I was a stickler for conservation, and the two could be found in a Volkswagen Rabbit diesel. It had automatic seat belts and got over 50 miles per gallon.
I purchased and used it for work and personal travel. It was a wonderful car and a reminder of Dad. I had just put on the first two-year renewal plates prior to that day’s investigation.
I was driving back to my Astoria office shortly after sunset. I was noticing how the trees, shooting up from both sides of the road, effectively eliminated the twilight, turning it into night. Familiar with the road, I began looking for a place to pass a slow-moving (at 45 mph) car. Finding a suitable place, I accelerated and started my pass.