To the Editor:
There I was, relishing my steamed lobster-on-special at the Net Result picnic table on a gorgeous, sunny June 1. In point of fact, I was a tad too enthusiastic about that little crustacean, what with it being my first day of a month’s stay-cation. I gulped entirely too much of the tail section entirely too prematurely, and there I was, essentially and shockingly on the way out. Completely stopped up. Choking. Unable to breathe at all.
Panicked, I tried to swallow water, but I couldn’t swallow at all. I was sitting near the door, so I rushed in, waving my hands frantically over my head, trying to voice, “Heimlich, Heimlich,” barely audible what with zero air to push the words out.
Up stepped my lifesaver. This man looked me in the eye, said, “Heimlich?” I nodded, ferociously, desperately. He dropped his things, turned me around performed the maneuver, and out, as they say, popped the nearly (it seemed) golf ball size offender.
Hal Child is that man’s name, a lovely local of West Tisbury. To sing his praises, to warble thank you from that moment till the end of time seems so inadequate, so feeble a gesture. Hal, you most assuredly saved my life. That pretty pink perfection of the sea was very nearly my last meal, but for the divine intervention of yourself. Never will I ever forget you. I plan to pay it forward. God bless you, Hal Child.
In careful ecstasy, I polished off the remaining lobster.