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 darkness. 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.