by Zoe Dawson
It didn’t take long for his arms to feel the strain, but the simple exercise kept his mind off the cold misery.
A Navy physician made the rounds and checked eyes and asked simple questions. When he paused, in front of a blue-lipped trainee, that blue-lipped guy was dragged to the ambulance. Some were taken away and did not return.
Hypothermia. Even with the tables and the caution, some unlucky guy’s core temperature dropped too low. Hemingway was just thankful it wasn’t him.
“Back into the surf, snowflakes! Find a good seat for the show!”
Once again, Hemingway found himself staring into the blackness, holding his breath as waves rushed overhead. Surprisingly, the water was preferable to that unbearable soft ocean breeze.
They were ordered back to shore, and the drill was repeated. The doctor made his rounds again, removing three more students. Two returned and the other did not.
“About-face!” Cheezer yelled.
Five walked away, shoulders slumping up to the big blue truck.
“About-face!”
The class turned back from the surf. Another mind trick? Were they really done?
“About-face!”
Another man broke from the line. It was Manning, one of Wilson’s close inner group. Wilson lunged for him, but the guy fought until Wilson let him go.
Hemingway noticed Wilson’s group was losing trainees rapidly.
He looked toward Shea, who had been watching everything since the chaos of Hell Week’s Breakout. When she met his gaze, her silent confirmation that she’d seen what was happening with Wilson traveled between them. Then she shot him a you can do this look that bolstered him. No sympathetic, poor baby looks from his kickass woman.
“Don’t fight it,” Lane said, his words quiet.
Suddenly someone started singing. It was the guy next to him. Professor’s singing voice was all hoarse, harsh rock and roll, tight jeans, and black leather jacket. His whole cerebral persona went out the window when he exercised those pipes. He started with the beginning strains of “Holding Out For A Hero.” Even more impressive because it was acapella. Despite the cold, despite the pain, Hemingway started grinning and singing along at the top of his lungs, his spirits lifting with each word and the determined voices of the trainees.
The guys who had been to that Karaoke night joined in and their cold voices powered from the surf with the oohs and ahs of the song’s opening.
At first the instructors were dumbfounded, and as they really got into the words, Cheezer looked over to Walker and Max and the others, shaking his head and grinning.
If they could make Cheezer laugh, then they might have a chance to get through this alive. They got pulled out of the surf and allowed to dress. Then it was back at it.
“No rest for the smartasses,” Professor said.
“Move your butts to the boats, double time it or it’s back into the drink for you!”
Grabbing their boat, outfitted with four green glow sticks so the instructors could keep tabs on them in the dark, along with seven Pro-Tec helmets and life jackets assembled in the center of the vessel, Lane reached in and removed one set of gear. Babcock was long gone.
“Rock portage,” Ben Vincent said ominously. He was a quiet recruit but participated fiercely in everything they did without complaining. “At night,” he added. “Fuck!”
Night rock portage was the most dangerous evolution they would complete during Hell Week with the jagged rocks and the unpredictable pounding sea. It was also early in the rotation because it required quick, clear thinking and fast reflexes. Sleep deprivation would make a later portage suicidal.
Some of the trainees would say it was suicidal right now.
Hemingway trusted in his boat crew. They had been more successful than not. This time would be the same. He had to think that or give into the panic running through Vincent’s voice.
He clapped him on the shoulder. “Lane’s got us,” Hemingway said, and Vincent turned around and nodded.
“Listen up, slipknots,” Cheezer said. “We’re not sadistic bastards…much.” Several of the instructors laughed. “We’re not asking you to do something we haven’t done. We just need four solid landings and then you’re secure. Remember everything we told you.” He put his hand to his ear and waited.
In unison everyone shouted, “Don’t get between the boat and the rocks!”
“Chow time when we’re finished. Now get into the surf and give us those landings like Navy SEALS!”
“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. That was a Cheezer pep talk! He’ll be here all week.” Professor said.
“All fucking week,” Hitchcock added.
They set the boat into the water, got in and started paddling. They were to assemble into a boat pool facing the rocks. They were down to forty-seven candidates. There were five boats with seven crew and two with six, Hemingway’s one of them.
Hemingway was still cold as hell, but the heat generated from paddling was keeping him stable. Finally, they got to the other seven boats bobbing on the waves.
Without Babcock, the boat crew would have to reshuffle responsibilities, but Lane’s quiet, calm leadership made them believe they could tackle anything.
Big Blue’s headlights were shining straight out to sea, and the crimson roof of the Hotel del Coronado shadowed the white sand beach. Hemingway could barely make out half a dozen figures standing on a huge pile of rocks at the water’s edge. Suddenly the lights from four sets of batons pierced the darkness. Four of the instructors held the glowing rods above their heads.
The batons sliced down and four of the boats headed toward the jagged rocks. Hemingway watched them paddle, fixed on their progress until he felt a series of swells rock the boat. “Fuck!” he said as monster waves headed toward shore and the four crews. Hemingway held his breath as all of them disappeared behind the rump of a large wave, then as the set ended, four empty boats wobbled against the rocks.
Everyone in their boat was quiet. “We all know this isn’t going to be easy,” Lane said, “but chicks dig scars and glory is forever. We kick ass, and we get this done. Hoo-yah!”
“Hoo-yah!” they all screamed.
“The only easy day was yesterday,” Hitchcock said softly. “Well, I’m easy, and I’m going to do this shit. All of us are.”
“Damn straight. Easy,” Professor said. “We’ve got this.”
Their turn was churning toward them as the batons dropped.
“Paddle!” Lane ordered. The bottom of the raft rippled when a large swell moved beneath them.
“Incoming,” Lane yelled. “Paddle through it!”
They strained against the sea as their boat raced up the back of the wave. The crest started to curl over, but they rode it as it crashed. The collective force of the crew’s frantic paddling drove them through the turbulent water.
Lane’s excellent steering of the boat kept them straight and on course. They made three good landings, mostly due to his leadership. They were working as a team, even down one man.
As they powered out to the boat pool for the fourth and final attempt, Hemingway noticed something in the water. It was a man, and he was pushing a waterproof bag in front of him and made a concerted effort to move very quietly.
“It’s one of the brown shirts.” A tradition of BUD/S, the previous class would sneak into the water and help out the current trainees. They also buried candy bars in the sand and did their best to help students when they could.
A neoprene head bobbed near the boat, and Hemingway chuckled, trying not to look at him and give away his position. “Dodger! What the fuck!” Hemingway said as Oliver “Artful Dodger” Graham grabbed onto the boat’s safety line.
“Ahoy, mates. Special delivery from the team.” He dumped Snickers and power bars into the bottom of the boat.
“Brilliant landings,” he said, and mock saluted them. “Gotta go, but I’ll be back. Good luck, gents.” Dodger slipped his mask over his eyes before disappearing into the darknes
s. He moved so gracefully that he hardly left a ripple in the surface of the ocean.
“Who the hell was that? Certainly not a brown shirt.”
“He’s a Navy SEAL, part of the team that got me ready for BUD/S. I owe them a lot. They helped me when I needed it the most. I can’t go into details.”
Hitchcock’s mouth dropped open. Vincent just stared at him as if he’d turned to gold, and even though Lane’s respect was a given, his nod bolstered Hemingway. Professor was the only one who knew the whole story.
“You know an honest-to-God Navy SEAL?” Vincent asked, his words hushed.
“Yes. I know Mad Max, too. He’s part of Dodger’s team. Those guys are kickass.”
“You are full of surprises, man,” Hitchcock said, bumping knuckles. “That’s sick, brother.”
“We’re up again,” Lane said. “Last attempt, and chow can’t be far behind. Keep it tight and move when I say to move.”
The mention of food made Hemingway’s stomach growl. He grabbed one of the candy bars and a power bar and wolfed them down while the guys did the same.
Poised and ready for battle, his ears pricked for Lane’s command, he kept his eyes glued to the batons. As soon as they dropped, Lane ordered, “Paddle!”
Hemingway was in the starboard bow since he needed to be out of the boat first to anchor it with Professor across from him to port. Brown, the paddle man, was directly behind Hemingway so he could scramble out with the paddles as soon as Hemingway anchored the boat. Vincent was behind Professor and Hitchcock, a strong SOB who was very good at flipping the boat over, and Lane were in the stern.
The dark impeded their visibility and made it difficult to see waves until they were almost on top of them. A three-footer passed over them harmlessly. They surged down the face while Lane kept the bow pointed straight ahead. The rocks approached quickly, and Lane yelled for Hemingway to ready the bow-line.
“Bow-line man out!” The boat slammed into a jagged boulder, throwing everyone forward. Clenching the bow-line in his right hand, Hemingway jumped from the boat and scampered up onto the boulders. Just as he wedged himself into a secure position with the bow-line around his waist, his hand securing it in a tight grip, an enormous wall of water picked up the boat and hurled it toward him. At the last minute he lunged out of the way.
Another wave built and it slammed into the small boat and its crew. Hemingway was almost wrenched free, but he held onto the line with both hands wedging harder into the rocks. He looked up, water sluicing off him in sheets as Vincent was thrown from the boat and slammed into the rocks. The sound of his helmet cracked like a gunshot.
Hemingway was powerless to do anything as the ebb of the wave pulled the boat backward. He couldn’t move from his position as Vincent feebly tried to save himself.
“Forward paddle,” Lane screamed, his voice strident above the pounding surf.
The remaining crew members dug their paddles in, and the boat pushed up against the rocks again as Vincent rolled in the wash of the waves like a ragdoll.
“Paddles forward!” Lane yelled.
Brown gathered the slippery paddles, climbed onto the rocks and made his way to safety. There was nothing they could do for Vincent until the ocean gave them an opening.
“All out port!”
Professor, Hitchcock, and Lane scrambled out into waist deep water. Another wave hit as all three of them braced for the impact.
Vincent’s limp body surged toward him. Hemingway reached out and caught him with one arm, holding him fiercely against his chest while the white water boiled around him.
His three crewmembers and the boat surged forward, crashing into the rocks, and then back again, pulling away from shore. The bow-line went taut as Hemingway strained against the pull of the ocean and holding onto Vincent, groaning with the duel effort.
“Dump boat,” Lane yelled, anticipating a lull in the surf. “Now! Dump now!”
The three of them strained against the weight of the water in the boat, shaking with effort as they slowly overturned the raft. A torrent of salt water spilled from the boat, reducing its weight tenfold. They immediately turned the raft on its side and lifted it onto the rocks, Hitchcock’s effort contorting his face and straining his biceps into hard round balls. He was like an ox, and Hemingway had never seen such resolve and determination. There was no way he would let Lane down. None of them wanted to let down their leader.
“Ready! Up, heave!” Lane ordered as they inched the raft forward. The rocks were slick, and footing was precarious. One wrong step could mean a twisted ankle, or worse, a broken leg.
His three teammates hauled the boat up the rocks inch by inch as another wave washed over them, swamping Hemingway. He took a deep breath, grimacing as he hefted Vincent’s dead weight over his shoulder, his body protesting. But he refused to let go. Ignoring the agony, he painstakingly moved forward, following the crew. As soon as he was within distance of the instructors, two of them grabbed for Vincent and hauled him off Hemingway, running to the ambulance and the doctor.
Hemingway, still holding the bow-line, clawed his way up, immediately helping to get the boat to the beach.
He collapsed to his knees as the pain moved through him and the worst of it subsided.
“Atty,” Professor said. “Are you all right?”
Hemingway met each of his crew’s eyes and all of the looks were the same—respect, a bond formed by shared experience and hardship. They were gelling into a small, tight force, friendships that would last a lifetime on and off the teams.
He was slipping into that fraternity, understanding that having your buddy’s back was the most important lesson that was being learned here.
Gasping, saltwater sluicing off him in sheets, Hemingway nodded. Tears slipped out and mingled with the water. He wasn’t crying, they were just stress tears. His head came up, and he met Shea’s eyes. They were tormented, filled with compassion, appreciation, and a subsiding fear that sucked him in like smoke. For the space of a breath, the beach disappeared, his boat crew, the instructors, the candidates, the people watching, the shouting and the sound of the ambulance moving away. All he could focus on was her face, like a lifeline for him to balance himself. The sweet angles and curves, the sheer wild beauty of golden skin with the wind blowing her dark hair across it like a veil.
His heart contracted and right there kneeling in the sand, freezing, battered, soaked, exhausted, tested, he knew he loved her. That this feeling, this fullness in his heart was love. It was as overwhelming as nighttime rock portage, as beautiful as a sunrise over the Silver Strand, elating as testing himself and knowing he’d passed his own personal standards, and utterly heartbreaking.
“Boat two,” Cheezer said quietly in his gravelly voice when he came back to the beach. “Drop down and give me twenty for scaring the shit out of us and impressing the hell out of us. After that, you’re secure. Crawl under your boat and recover.”
12
They were told that Vincent didn’t have a concussion, just scrapes and abrasions, and he would be returning to the festivities once he had received x-rays and an MRI.
There was no rest for the weary, and Cheezer sent them back into the surf, then they were lined up on the beach according to height to reform into boat crews. Lane was given his pick, and he choose the four of them, Cheezer indicating he should leave a spot open for Vincent.
“Form up in numbered order facing south! Move it or I’ll take your lunch money and eat your lunch!” During Hell Week, the class never went anywhere without their boats.
Hemingway’s boat crew was second in the lineup of what was called “elephant runs.” If a crew’s boat lost contract with the stern of the boat in front of them enough times, they would receive a beat down. They had to either sprint or slow to a jog to maintain contact.
“Let’s go!” Cheezer said as they broke into a steady run, the boat immediately bouncing on their heads. Hitchcock and Professor were positioned in the middle of the boat, taking the
brunt of the punishment. Hemingway was aware of how much it must hurt, but neither of them made a sound.
His head burned, and the sheer weight of the craft forced him into the BUD/S shuffle, sliding his feet forward instead of lifting them.
They drilled back and forth until Hemingway’s head was on fire, his body trembling from being in a soaked uniform. His stomach rumbled, and he felt like he was hollow inside.
“Any boat crew that falls back gets boat squats all morning!” Cheezer yelled as he jogged, his compact body fit and moving with ease.
When they reached their usual turnaround point, Cheezer kept them moving forward. They ran farther down the beach, then turned and passed through the gate, crossing onto the base. When they reached Silver Strand Boulevard, Big Blue flipped on its sirens and blocked the intersection as the elephant train bumped and stumbled across the street. This was a matter of pride for the instructors with people milling around and cars passing. Intensity contorted their faces as the instructors rained more verbal abuse down on them to keep up and keep contact.
“Get up there! Bow to stern! The whole class hits the surf if you can’t keep up!”
Hemingway suppressed a groan of anguish as the boat continued to slam against his skull. He refused to give into his body’s demand for rest, for relief. This was unreal, unbearable-the strongest form of pain he had ever willingly suffered. Sensing they were reaching their limit, Cheezer steered them behind the chow hall.
“Down boat,” he yelled.
“You all have an extra five minutes for chow thanks to the quitters.”
Inside, no one dallied, and Hemingway ate ravenously, barely pausing for conversation. Vincent rejoined them and everyone welcomed him back.
“Thanks, guys,” he said. “Cracked a rib, but I’m good to go.” He looked at Hemingway. “They told me what you did. Thank you. I would be in worse shape, maybe broken bones, even DOR’d with a medical if it weren’t for you.”
