Hemingway - Zoe Dawson Page 0,71

Brown. “C’mon, it’s Thursday. We’re almost there, man. Stay awake.”

“After Friday noon we’re done,” Professor said, meeting Hemingway’s eyes. Their friendship warmed him during the brief and silent communication.

After a wash down at the clinic and a quick hygiene check, the got ready for the final big evolution—Around-the-World Paddle. The trainees went to the water at the Naval Special Warfare Center, then paddled up the strand, around the northern end of Coronado, and back down San Diego Bay to the Amphibious Base. Everyone was bruised and battered, sleep-deprived, cold, wet and miserable. But Hemingway was bolstered by the fact that they were all going through it together.

Hemingway’s boat crew was the only intact one that had lasted, apart from Babcock’s DOR, for the duration of BUD/S. He was sure that had to do with Lane’s leadership.

Without hesitation, the survivors of Hell Week got into the water just after sundown. The six boats clustered together, their exhausted crews doing their best to make steady progress and stay awake.

They took turns with five men paddling and one dozing in the middle of the boat. They glided through the water, the rhythm of their paddles dipping in and out of the dark water, almost soothing. It was infinitely better than running with the boat on his head.

“What the hell,” Professor said softly.

Hemingway looked over at him. He’d stopped paddling and was looking out to sea.

“What’s up?” Hemingway asked.

“Women wearing skimpy bikinis, reclining in gigantic donuts throwing the donut holes back and forth like volley balls,” Professor said, his voice dreamy. Hemingway figured it was partly a hallucination and most likely a fever from the pneumonia.

Easy snickered. “Typical guy. Women and food on his mind.”

“I wish I could see that,” Lane said with a chuckle. “Back to paddling,” he ordered.

They stroked onward to the north. Then there was movement in the water and Hemingway thought he saw a large fin. He almost yelled shark, but instead it was Dodger. He threw watertight bags of bananas and candy into the bottom of the boat.

“You’re almost there.” Then he was gone.

They cleared the north end of Coronado and the air station and were paddling south. By zero four hundred, six tiny boats passed a behemoth as they stroked by the USS John C. Stennis (DVN-74).

They paddled beneath the graceful arc of the Coronado Bay bridge. Lane guided the boat through a bunch of yachts anchored near shore. The boats bobbed softly, and a muted golden light seeped through the round portholes in several cabins.

“Comfortable bastards,” Vincent snarled.

“Yeah and when we’re done with this, we’re going to be protecting their asses too,” Lane said solemnly.

For some reason that struck them funny, and they all chuckled.

They made it in first place to the boat ramp at the Amphibious Base shortly after zero five hundred. But the sky was still pitch black and dawn elusive.

The chow hall was only a few hundred yards from the boat ramp at Turner Field, but it seemed like ten thousand miles.

After chow there was more boat work as the light of dawn filtered across the Silver Strand, and Vile and Kyle took over, but Hemingway noticed that Mad Max stayed.

“Friday,” Hemingway croaked, and everyone smiled.

But there was still more to do—O-course, surf passage, base tour. This brought them to the demo pits and So Sorry Day. It was a crawling journey through a field of barbed wire. The instructors brought out the artillery simulators for this evolution.

Above the sound of the explosions and the smell of sulfur, the MK 43s sounded off, the smoke adding another element to the chaos as Hell Week ended as it begun.

But there was more to get through before it was truly over, including a rope climb over a pit of water and sand, which no one accomplished, but Hemingway and Professor came close, getting to the halfway point. Then it was cold MREs before going back into the water for surf passage. Some of the candidates could barely walk and were helped by classmates here and there.

There was more surf torture after this as the sun hit its zenith, but Hemingway would do two more days if he had to. He wouldn’t give in, even if he was flagging. He performed the flutter kicks, and then went into deeper water to wash the sand free. He noticed Shea talking to Mad Max as they broke away from the other instructors and left. He wondered where she was going in such a hurry.

Back on the beach, Vile said,