Page 3 of The Captain
“Back behind the flags, please,” I said, turning the flat into a smile. “He needs calm.”
“Is it a boy?” the youngest asked, squinting as if he could tell.
“Today we’ll call him whatever he needs to get through.” The kid nodded in the serious way children do when they’re taking your words like medicine. He tugged his friends back to the dune line.
The truck appeared at last, grinding to a stop on the firmer sand, hazard lights strobing. Miguel Ruiz jumped down from the passenger side with the sling and a gurney, his forearms already wet. “Morning, Doc.”
“Morning.” I sketched the details in quick strokes—approximate age, respiration rate trend, response to tactile stimulus, the unidentified thrumming from offshore—and Miguel looked toward the horizon like he could squint it into confession.
“Let’s do it,” he said, and we did.
The move was a choreography of inches. The ocean tried to steal our footing, and the sand tried to swallow us, but we kept the dolphin’s blowhole clear and his spinal axis straight.
My body and Miguel’s and Becca’s moved in an accidental intimacy that was all breath and muscle memory. At one point, Miguel’s hip pressed into mine as we shifted the weight and I let it, borrowing his stability, giving him mine. The sling slid beneath slick skin with a sound like a secret whispered against a throat.
“On three,” I said, and we lifted. The dolphin’s body sagged against the canvas, heavy as grief. He thrashed once, a shock of power, and I caught the fluke with a firm, calm hand, absorbing the fight until it shifted back into fear.
“Shh,” I told him. “I know. I know.”
On the gurney at last, we wheeled him across the sand. The crowd gave way, a murmur opening in front of us. People wanted to feel part of something good.
I would take it.
2
JACOB
The Charleston air wrapped me like a wet blanket as I stepped off the plane, heavy with salt and secrets, the kind of humidity that seeps into your bones and stays there.
I wasn’t pleased. Not by a long shot. My MARSOC team had been primed, trained and ready to dive back into the shit—somewhere hot, somewhere real, where the stakes were clear and the enemy didn’t hide behind paperwork or cryptic orders.
Then the call had come, pulling me out like a fish on a line. Dominion Hall. Charleston. No explanation, just a directive, and when I had pushed back, my CO—Lt. Col. Meachum, a man I’d bleed for—told me he’d already tried to fight it.
“Do your job, Dane,” he’d said, voice tight. “Get to Charleston. That’s the order.”
Bullshit, I’d thought. Still did. But Meachum wasn’t one to bend, so here I was, feet on the tarmac, sweat already beading under my collar. I had until 0600 the next day to report to this place—some fortress for men with more money than sense, fromwhat I could gather—but I wasn’t about to show up early like some eager boot. Rules were rules, and I knew how to play them.
First, I’d do what I always did when the world tried to cage me: swim.
The beach at Folly wasn’t much to look at. Gray sand, churned-up surf, a horizon that looked like it was daring me to cross it.
I ditched my boots and shirt in a small duffel, stashed it under a dune where the grass was thick enough to hide it, and stripped down to my black Speedo jammer, goggles, and fins. The ritual was simple: one hour out, straight into the Atlantic, then one hour back. Man versus nature.
It started as a stupid dare back when I’d gone out for MARSOC (Marine Forces Special Operations Command)—some asshole in selection betting I couldn’t make it without drowning. Now, it was something else. A calling. A way to shut out the noise in my head, the weight that never left, the shadow that clung tighter than my own skin.
There was commotion down the beach—a crowd, voices carrying over the wind, maybe a dead shark or some washed-up mess. I didn’t care. The ocean was calling, and so was she. I didn’t let my mind linger on that last part. I clicked the timer on my watch and waded in.
The water was warm, almost too warm, like stepping into a lover’s mouth. It fought me at first, waves slapping my chest, current tugging at my legs like it had a score to settle. My arms sliced through, fins kicking hard, muscles and lungs burning as I powered out. Stroke, kick, breathe. Stroke, kick, breathe. The rhythm came slow, then snapped into place, my body finding its groove, autopilot kicking in. The ocean didn’t care who I was—Marine, captain, broken man—it just demanded I keep up.
My mind wandered, the way it only did out here. The noise of the world faded, the static of the past dulled to a hum. I wasfive again, diving into a Montana river, snowmelt so cold it stole my breath, my brothers shouting from the bank, too chicken to follow. Even then, the water had called me, its pull stronger than fear.
Years later, when I first saw the ocean—Virginia Beach, training for BUD/S before I switched tracks to the Marines—it hit me like a revelation. Endless, untamed, bigger than any mission.
I used to tow a lifeguard rescue tube on these swims, back when I thought I could save something. Someone. Not anymore. Everything had changed.
On I swam, one with the water, my body a machine, my mind quiet for once. I called out—not with words, but with something deeper, a pulse in my chest that echoed into the blue.
Nothing answered.
