Ash Thoreau

When I was 12, a guest speaker visited my Physical Education class. I was in seventh grade, and she was there to teach the girls basic self-defense.

Before demonstrating any moves, she gave us some critical advice. She told us that if we could help it, we should never let someone touch us—because once they got a hold, escaping would become significantly more difficult. She also warned that at some point in our lives, we would get a bad feeling about a situation. She guaranteed it would happen to everyone in that room and tried to convince us to accept that fact.

She explained that predators often try to gain the upper hand by asking an innocent question—something as simple as “Do you have the time?” or “Can you give me directions?”—to distract and lower our guard. She stressed the importance of staying alert and reminded us that we had no obligation to engage. The most crucial lesson: trust your gut intuition. If something feels off, there is a reason.

That lesson stuck with me. Did I think I would ever need it? Of course not. I was young and invincible. Little did I know, I would need it much sooner than I ever expected.

A Close Call

In high school, my family traveled to San Diego. My dad had a work convention, and we turned it into a mini vacation. One evening, my parents went out to dinner and left me at the hotel. They were fine with me exploring the property—as long as I didn’t leave.

So, naturally, I went to the hotel’s private beach. I wasn’t there to swim; I just wanted to take in the sunset.

The beach was mostly empty, with only a few scattered people. The public beach next door had a few more visitors but wasn’t crowded either. I started at the far end of the private beach and slowly wandered toward the public side.

As I walked, I observed the people around me—couples enjoying the view, a family playing in the sand, a group of teenagers I wished I was brave enough to approach. Then, off in the distance, I noticed a car pull into the parking lot of the public beach. A man got out. He was alone.

I kept an eye on him as I walked. He cut diagonally across the public beach,  directly toward me at a steady, purposeful pace. He wasn’t meandering. He wasn’t sightseeing. He was coming straight for me.

The closer he got, the stronger my unease grew. I should have turned around and gone back to the hotel—but that little voice in my head kept trying to rationalize it. It’s probably nothing. You’re just being paranoid.

But when he got close enough for me to see his face, I knew. Something was wrong.

He walked right up to me. I glanced around—no one else was nearby. The closest people were on the other side of a rock wavebreaker. I was completely alone.

He extended his hand toward me.

“We’re friends,” he said in a thick accent.

I hesitated. “What?”

“We’re friends,” he repeated, shaking his outstretched hand, urging me to take it.

A siren went off in my head. The from my seventh-grade self-defense class came crashing back.
Don’t engage.
Don’t allow him to distract.
I couldn’t let him touch me.
TRUST YOUR GUT!

I pulled my arms up and back, keeping them out of his reach, then responded, “Okay, we’re friends. I’m not shaking your hand.”

For a moment, he just stood there as if he was trying to decide what to do. Then, just as suddenly as he had approached, he said, “Okay,” turned around, and walked straight back to the parking lot. He got in his car and drove away.

The whole encounter felt like an eternity. In reality, from the moment he pulled up to the moment he left, maybe five minutes had passed. Our “conversation” had lasted less than 30 seconds.

Only when his car disappeared from sight did the adrenaline start to dissipate. I broke down in tears and immediately called my mom. In my panicked, rapid-fire explanation, I don’t think she fully grasped what had just happened. She just told me to get back to the hotel room immediately.

On my way back, I found a hotel employee and told him what happened. He shrugged it off. I don’t think he understood why I was so shaken—after all, I was “safe.”

Looking Back

For years, I wondered if I had overreacted. My parents never made a big deal out of it. My cousin, who had stayed behind in the hotel room, laughed it off and called me dramatic.

But every time I replay that night in my mind, I feel sick.

Why was that man there for such a short time?
Why did he approach me—the only person alone on the beach?
Why was he so fixated on getting me to shake his hand?

My belief is that he had plans to traffic me, but I’ll never know for sure. Either way, I am positive that his intentions were not good.

Had I ignored my instincts, I might not be here today. That safety lesson—taught to a group of 12-year-old girls in a middle school gym—saved me.

My Message to You

The lessons I was taught that day are the same ones I want to pass on to you:

• You don’t have to be polite.
• Don’t let them distract you.
• Don’t let them touch you.
• TRUST YOUR GUT.

If something feels wrong, it is. Listening to that instinct might just save your life.