Hemingway - Zoe Dawson Page 0,65

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