Page 6 of Legacy
Sanders resumes his flutter kicks which is good because we’ve drawn attention and God knows we don’t want any extra. Hoffer looks at me sideways as he leans back and starts kicking again. He doesn’t say anything, but he squeezes my arms a couple times. His way of saying thank you, I suppose. Instructor Hart watched the whole exchange from his chair on the sand off to the side. I realize as I resume the repetitious motion. A lump forms in my throat.
Keep your head down Aara,I think. Fly under the radar.
Tilting my head back, I count the stars. My gaze travels from one to the next and I name them funny things. Fart Nugget is directly north, and Jazzy Juke is east. I can almost forget my core is on fire and my legs are numb when Instructor Hart orders us out of the water and the rest of the SEALs go wild, blowing whistles and shouting.
Hart walks over to where we’re shivering on the shore and says, “Sanders, I think it’s time you DOR. Right now. Drop. You aren’t cut out for this.”
Sanders looks straight ahead, trying not to let the words sink in.Keep them surface level. It’s their job to hustle you.Drop on request is when you quit SEAL training. That’s what most do. Only twenty to thirty percent of SEAL candidates will make it all the way through.
“Ring the brass bell, Sanders, and do everyone around you a goddamned favor,” Instructor Hart yells. Others chime in, screaming in his face, spit flying from the corners of their mouths. Blue veins bulge on their temples, illuminated by the scant light of the moon and flashlights. My heart pumps and my face heats because the yelling is so loud my body thinks the orders are being directed at me. It’s hostile. It’s rough. My stomach flips, and I take a deep, calming breath.Worthless. Useless. You don’t belong. Not strong enough. Not a team player.
A tear rolls down Sanders’ cheek and catches on his upper lip. I look away. The breaking down of a psyche started Sunday and it looks like it’s ending right now.
Hoffer pipes up, “He belongs here. He helped me.” I look over at Hoffer with wide eyes. He glances back at Hart. “So did Dempsey. They’re both team players.”
Approval. The first time it has come from a peer.
Instructor Hart shakes his head, blows the damn whistle and yells, “Around the world evolution is starting. Boat crews assemble.”
My stomach sinks. Hoffer nods at me, Sanders bumps my shoulder on his way by, and I can’t tell if it’s intentional or if he’s just a stumbling mess. There are more strenuous problems to worry about. We’re about to paddle a small, inflatable boat all the way around Coronado, in the black of night. Dad told me about this evolution when I asked him for the Hell Week crash course after reading everything I could on the Internet.
We jog to where several of the instructors are surrounding the boats. Not quite the size of a Zodiac, the stereotypical inflatable boat one thinks of when referencing SEALs, these are smaller. The scent of rubber mixes with gasoline and my stomach turns. Holding a hand on my stomach, we break off into seven-person boat crews while donning bright orange life vests. There is little fuss about who sits where in our boat. There are seven black oars, one for each of us. It only smells like gasoline because the instructors will follow us around in their own boats, propelled by engines instead of oars.
It’s about six miles all the way around Coronado island, but in the dark, we’re talking about a serious gauntlet. Arm strength only. As we set out, following the seven-man crew in front of us, I get a fresh wind. Tomorrow morning this will be over. I think about every person who said I wouldn’t make it through Hell Week. Every sarcastic look, or casual brush off when my goals were spoken aloud. All of them part of my driving force for being in this boat, oar in hand, rowing with my crew on the very last night of Hell Week. There’s still SQT, SEAL Qualification Training to follow, but I know I’ll make it through. I have to.
I’ve never experienced a darkness like this. There are manly grunts of effort, and heavy breathing, and I try to concentrate on my counts as the water pushes against my effort. There’s no way to mark time except by counting strokes, but the fatigue distracts me, my eyelids falling to half-mast, the same time my arms start shaking. Henry Durnin pops up from the black water, hair wet and in his eyes, voice pleading with me to save him.
I scream as I jump away from the edge of the boat, landing on top of Hoffer on the left of me.
“Dempsey, what the fuck.”
I can’t catch my breath. Henry has vanished, only dark water and the shining ripples cast from the moon. “I...I...saw something,” I stammer. “Coming out of the water.”
Hoffer puts one hand on my shoulder. Sanders grunts louder because now he’s pulling my weight as well as his own.
“Unless it’s fucking Jaws, get your oar back in and work,” Sanders barks. The guy behind me laughs. There’s a lump in my throat that refuses to budge.
I’m shaking, my mind trying to conjure Henry again. Sliding unsteadily back to my spot, I pick up the oar and dip it into the water. This time when Henry rises from the water he’s with Aurora Ball, and they’re both sputtering for oxygen, hands reaching for me like water-logged zombies. Hallucinations. Dad told me it’s possible for hallucinations to start at about this time. He recalled seeing a yeti-like creature rowing in the boat in front of him when he was doing this evolution. Henry sinks below the surface, and pops back up right where my oar just was. I close my eyes for a second, but it’s a mistake. The exhaustion makes it hard to open them again.
Hoffer kicks me in the calf from the other side of the boat, and I come to. Was I out for minutes or seconds? The sun is rising in the distance and I pray over and over that I make it to morning. That I don’t drop this oar on Henry’s face and lose everything I’ve ever wanted.
The guy behind me starts humming a familiar song, and I join in to focus on anything except passing out and how dark Aurora’s hair looks when it’s covered in oil black water. Dear God, this is terrifying, my heart rate picks up and my breathing speeds. Which probably will help me not fall asleep. Around the World does finally end, and we make it back to shore as the sun rises, and it’s hard to recall what happens next because somehow, I’m thanking the Henry and Aurora ghosts for keeping me alert. Who says assholes are good for nothing?
There are whistles. Intense shouting. Guns firing blanks. Then a voice cutting through the chaos telling us that Hell Week is over and to head to the grinder for pizza. I’m covered in sand—a sugar cookie. A confection that’s still standing. Raising my fists to the sky, I shiver a bit and let out a scream. Tears come next because I did it. I was the first. I won’t be the last. Instructor Hart is patting backs as he passes the line of the men who beat us for five days.
“Good job, Dempsey,” Maverick says, a little twinkle in his eye. “You did us all proud. Keep it up.” I hear my dad’s words inside his and know this was a message from the man I love immensely.
I choke up, because I was already emotional, but I manage to thank him and grab an entire pizza box off a table and find a quiet corner to eat before I pass out. It’s crowded on the grinder. All the SEALs are here to gawk at us, and probably to reminisce about when they went through Hell Week.
Hoffer slumps down next to me, but not too close. He stacks four pieces of pizza on top of one another, rolls them up and shoves it into his mouth like a large burrito. I continue plowing through the cheese pizza, cross-legged on the ground. I won’t take modern comforts for granted again. Never. Beds. Chairs. Underwear that aren’t wet. A stomach that doesn’t growl. The ability to lift my arm without my muscles screaming in protest. Warmth. My, God, above it all, warmth.
“Hey Dempsey,” Luke Hart calls out, standing wide legged, in clean, dry BDUs. I saw him hanging around when I walked up, and did my best to avoid thinking about the interaction from yesterday.
With my mouth still too full, I eye him up and down and hate that he noticed. I tilt my chin up to acknowledge him, but keep eating.
He doesn’t say a word, just throws me the bull horns again and walks away, a dimpled smile on his full lips. His back is wide and he swaggers when he walks—a limitless confidence. I’m going to have to fake some of that, or try to pull some real confidence to the surface. No one else sees when Maverick Hart ruffles his son’s hair, but I do. It makes me smile…and yearn to celebrate with my own dad.
