In the summer night of 1967, I found myself parked on the hood of my Mustang, sharing a quiet moment with my date in an empty field near the Greenville Country Club, Delaware. The world was hushed, save for the distant glow of city lights beyond encircling trees. Then, cutting through the calm with impossible silence, a disk-shaped craft, emblazoned with a bubble top and three mysterious prongs below, slowly emerged over the treetops.
It moved with deliberate slowness, casting an intense beam of light from beneath that flickered eerily across the ground and treetops. The craft drifted toward the WAMS Radio Tower before vanishing, leaving no sound, no trace—just the dark, still air.
My date, also a tenth grader from a nearby school, witnessed everything alongside me. We were frozen in awe and silent disbelief. Though I had powerful driving lights—small airplane landing lights given by my father—capable of illuminating even the deepest forest shadows, I hesitated, unsure whether revealing the light to the object was wise. Instead, we sat in captivated watchfulness, our minds forever altered by this surreal encounter.
That night, beneath the canopy of stars, an ordinary evening transformed into a lifelong enigma. The memory of that silent, glowing disk hovering gently above Greenville remains vivid, a beacon opening doors to countless possibilities beyond our understanding.