Summer's Last Breath

Part 4

I was molded to the north side of the highest dune, peering through a clump of sea oats. I was in a protected area, one cordoned off by wires and warning signs, but there was nowhere else to hide in the empty stretch of beach. My dad allowed me to watch his team go through their various exercises, so long as I stayed out of sight and did nothing to distract them. The rigors of their training fascinated me. As an athlete myself, to witness the way they pushed their bodies past the limits of the ordinary was nothing short of inspiring.


This was the glamorous side of Special Operations—yes, I found all the grueling physical training extremely glamorous—and the point at which these warriors were created. Though my dad would argue warriors were born not made and it was his job to find them and then mold them until they reached their potential. Until they reached near perfection. 


Jamie was already perfect. He was driven, outpacing the others ten times over like a machine. Not that he wasn't breathing heavily like the others. He just seemed more capable of ignoring the discomfort and pushing through it. If Jamie had a weakness, it was the long-distance runs, but he came back first from their four mile run through the powdery sand. Then they took their training to the water, where Jamie was absolutely mesmerizing. My eyes tracked his movements, the long, languid strokes of his well-muscled arms. He would disappear for long minutes at a time, but I always found him when he resurfaced, my eyes inexplicably drawn to him. 

Once out of the water, they trotted over to a ten-foot log. Ross barked out the order and they all bent down, cleaned the two-hundred-pound log to their shoulders then, extended their arms overhead, holding the log in place. They performed a series of four-count lunges, and I found myself counting along with them. They jogged. Squatted. Dropped to the sand and knocked out what had to be a hundred sit-ups with the log held at chest level. Then they were up again, red-faced and sweaty, and jogged through the sand. 
By this point, their arms were starting to quiver, signaling fatigue. If they dropped the log, they'd have to start all over. Second chances didn't exist. They either performed or they didn't. I sucked in a breath when the log dipped under the buckling of Donovan's elbows. He wasn't only the youngest in the group, but the smallest. The fifty pounds he shouldered wore on him more than the others. His cheeks puffed in and out as his breath hissed between his clenched teeth. Ross barked an order and the others did their best to compensate, but it was obvious Donovan was losing the battle with the log. It was only a matter of a few more seconds.


I mumbled my own words of encouragement as though I actually had a stake in the exercise. I understood the need to succeed. Failure for these guys was not an option. But that's exactly what they were heading for until Jamie scooted in behind Donovan, bolstering more than his share of the weight.


"Native, don't you do it, you SOB," Donovan grunted, his face a scowl of frustration as he struggled to keep his grip on the log, not ready to give up. Not ready to admit defeat. They crossed what passed for the finish line and one by one, each of them dropped out, Donovan first, followed by Lassie, then finally Ross. Jamie kept going another hundred meters, carrying the burden of the two hundred pound log overhead like it weighed twenty. 

Ross glared after him while Donovan cursed a string of expletives at the ground. I was too far away to read the expression on my dad's face, but I imagined he wasn't too pleased with Jamie's showing off, exposing another weakness. These exercises were all about teamwork: being there for the other guy and not showing out or showing off. This whole operation was to see how well Jamie worked with others and them with him. 

Jamie made the turn and jogged the fifty meters back. When Jamie dropped the log, Ross approached him and I strained to hear what he said to him, but the words were lost to the wind. Jamie's chest rose and fell as he fought to catch his breath, his words spoken haltingly. Finally, Ross laughed, and he and Jamie exchanged high-fives. Lassie followed suit, shaking his head. Not in disapproval, I thought, but in a respectful acceptance for what Jamie was and what he could do. They saw him as what my dad intended them to—an asset.