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She looked glamorous but chaste in her stockings and patent leather purse, like a flight attendant from a religiously conservative country.
This was, I assumed, the person who had been living, latent, inside Chris Beck for years.
There are those types, of course, men chiseled from granite at 120 percent human scale, men who seem to drain several drams of testosterone from everyone else when they walk into a room.
But you’d be surprised at the body types you find in the SEAL teams.
But I know Chris would be awarded the Bronze Star with valor, the Purple Heart, the Meritorious Service Medal, and about 50 other ribbons and medals.
He would dislocate a shoulder, shatter a kneecap, be hit by a rocket-propelled grenade on his fortieth birthday, break two vertebrae in his back on a boat near Somalia and complete the mission anyway, and fly home sleeping among the flag-draped coffins of 19 of his brothers.
If you consider that five years ago there was no such person named Kristin Beck, you could say that I’ve known her for 30 percent of her life.
That first time I saw Kristin, in 2014, she was a vision.
Chris Beck was never one of your gargantuan-type Navy SEALs.And yet, as he slipped on a pair of panty hose in his sailboat on this night in 1996, Chris couldn’t help wishing he were more petite, more womanly. Chris finished putting on his outfit and walked barefoot up the ladder and onto the deck of his boat.He always wanted that when he wore women’s clothing. Dusk was fast disappearing in San Diego Bay, the red lights of the Coronado Bridge blinked on, the weaponized beachhead of the naval station loomed cloud-colored to the west.But even coming back from a training deployment in Thailand, it would usually take Chris a few days to find the release valve on his psyche.And by tonight he’d gotten the boat all opened up and aired out—made a run to get beer and another to a vintage store where he bought his dresses and shoes.