(from the Latin prae-, “before” and cognitio, “acquiring knowledge”), also called prescience, future vision, future sight is a claimed psychic ability to see events in the future. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Precognition
No one has been able to conduct an experiment with enough ‘controls’ to convince the scientific community that this particular ‘thing’ actually exists.
But I know it does, because I’ve experienced it. Only once, unfortunately, and that was a long time ago.
At first, I reasoned, that having opened this magic box, I could open it again and again. I could make my fortune at the racetrack, pick lottery numbers. I’d never have to work again.
But it didn’t work out that way.
What triggered this event — this window into the future? I don’t quite know. But that window was opened, and it was absolutely amazing.
I’d crossed the Atlantic in a forty-foot sailboat which I’d purchased in the Dominican Republic some three months previous. I had the bill of sale but no actual ownership papers. Anyway, the bill of sale had been fine up to this point.
However, the authorities in Malta — where I’d just arrived from Ibiza — were not happy with the vessel’s paperwork. She was impounded, and I was relieved of my passport.
To mull over the situation, I went to a bar and downed four pints of beer. Then I went back to the boat and had a tot of rum. Then I went to sleep with a troubled mind.
That night I had the most unusual dream I’ve ever experienced. Most dreams go all over the place with maybe a theme, but little logic. This one was a precise narrative.
I was taken a room by a uniformed police officer with a large hooked nose and a bushy black mustache. Once inside, I was ushered to a seat facing a man in civilian clothes who proceeded to ask me questions and record my answers with an old Underwood typewriter.
The typist had dirty, thinning blond hair and a thin mouth, and did not look at me when he asked his questions.
None of this was the slightest bit vague—I could see every detail of that room, including where a piece of plaster, shaped like an inverted triangle, had crumbled away from an upper corner. There were five chairs in the room. All were bentwood—two of the same pattern, with the other three (including the one I sat on and the typist’s) were mis-matched.
The dream puzzled me when I awoke the next morning. My dreams don’t normally come in such detail. And usually, upon awaking, all but the basic details would slip from my mind. But not this one. It was as if I’d actually been in that room during the night.
At around nine-thirty that morning a small tender pulled alongside my boat and I was arrested. By a uniformed police officer who had a large hooked nose and a bushy black mustache. And he took me to that room which I’d visited in my dream. And it was exactly as I’d seen it. Every little detail.
As I mentioned before, despite trying self-hypnosis and other relaxing techniques, I have been unable to repeat this experience. Perhaps it was stress that bought the thing on. Or maybe that final tot of rum.
I spent three days in a cell before the consulate was able to sort the matter out. Everyone was most apologetic, and I went on to spend a wonderful month in Malta before moving on to Greece.