Sleep deprivation had rapidly begun to expose itself as a real hindrance to my state of mental alertness. All the activity along the distant beach appeared as a hasty cluster of sinister images, flickering through the visual processes of my mind like a slideshow narrated by an auctioneer. The waves threw themselves violently into a brutal struggle with the seemingly impenetrable rocks of the shoreline. I glanced quickly at the faces of the men around me; every weather-beaten face appeared older with four days of grimy stubble and bags under beady eyes. We’d been operating on a few hours of blissful slumber for upwards of 40 hours now, mere flashes of complete physiological collapse. Every pupil dilated, we all strained to make out the distant images that were shrouded by darkness. A weary mind inquired inexorably. Where was that next wave going to carry us? Would this dulled plastic helmet protect my skull if I managed to end up between our 500 pound rubber boat and the jagged, unforgiving rocks?
The white caps of the waves exploded like water-born fireworks and rained down over the serrated edge of the ocean, our destination faintly illuminated through the mist and mental haze by a few solitary glow sticks. The ones dangling from our decayed and salt-stained life jackets were insipid, the brilliance dissolved by the duration of their use, but theirs were bright red. Nightmarishly crimson, as if to scream: “Stop, you want to quit!” They appeared as though they were floating as the silhouettes that bore them faded into the night, sporadically visible like objects in a hurricane. Shouts of a megaphone were faint over the thundering collisions and the incoming rolling heartbeat of the sea. Sun-bleached jungle camouflage turned black as it absorbed the moisture of the water, and sweat disappeared as we morphed into peering shadows; sand whisked away, our souls cleansed by the pulsating vastness of the deep.
Undaunted, we moved steadily forward towards the terrifying sounds in the faintly illuminated distance. Timing the waves, we let a multitude of small swells carry us upwards and then rhythmically back down, fighting the exhaustion with every ounce of strength as the ocean attempted to rock us into a harmoniously deep sleep. Finally, an uprising emerged that had some potential; a monster of a wave that would undoubtedly provide us with the momentum we needed to wage our own war against the boulders. Quickly shifting from my stable position, my paddle steadfastly embedded in the water along with my calf and combat boot, I prepared along with the rest of my boat crew to build up as much speed as possible.
Our eyes wide now, a slight surge of adrenaline coursing through our veins, we shouted a cadence that could barely be distinguished from the uproarious shriek of the washing machine in which we battled. I could indistinctly perceive the outline of my hand, held up momentarily inches from my face, and chuckled internally, comparing this to a blind Al Pacino driving a Ferrari in Scent of a Woman. Desperately muscling the oars through the water, and paddling as quickly and rhythmically as possible to keep up, the boat moved ever more swiftly forward.
The astounding collision was startling even as we had caused it and watched it grow near. Tossed blithely into the frigid cold, feet unable to find stability, we had to somehow regain our composure and heave this craft up and over these tremendously intimidating obstacles. Neck-deep in the icy water, I grappled with the vessel that had suddenly become quite the burden, and kicked feverishly in an egg-beater fashion to keep my mouth in a position to inhale anything that tasted more like oxygen than algae. As I scanned the chaos, a menacing grin crept slowly across my sun-burnt and frozen face. We were wide awake now. In the 45 degree water of the Pacific Ocean at 2230, salt-water rushing through my ears and a megaphone in my face as an instructor scanned my eyes with a flashlight to make sure I wasn’t hypothermic, I turned to my buddy who was about to give up. “Bro, we get to watch Family Guy tonight!!” A muffled laugh faintly emerged that trumped his thoughts of ringing the bell. Harsh circumstances beg us to quit, but wait until you’ve thought about it in a warm room with a full stomach, and then decide who you want to be.
The white caps of the waves exploded like water-born fireworks and rained down over the serrated edge of the ocean, our destination faintly illuminated through the mist and mental haze by a few solitary glow sticks. The ones dangling from our decayed and salt-stained life jackets were insipid, the brilliance dissolved by the duration of their use, but theirs were bright red. Nightmarishly crimson, as if to scream: “Stop, you want to quit!” They appeared as though they were floating as the silhouettes that bore them faded into the night, sporadically visible like objects in a hurricane. Shouts of a megaphone were faint over the thundering collisions and the incoming rolling heartbeat of the sea. Sun-bleached jungle camouflage turned black as it absorbed the moisture of the water, and sweat disappeared as we morphed into peering shadows; sand whisked away, our souls cleansed by the pulsating vastness of the deep.
Undaunted, we moved steadily forward towards the terrifying sounds in the faintly illuminated distance. Timing the waves, we let a multitude of small swells carry us upwards and then rhythmically back down, fighting the exhaustion with every ounce of strength as the ocean attempted to rock us into a harmoniously deep sleep. Finally, an uprising emerged that had some potential; a monster of a wave that would undoubtedly provide us with the momentum we needed to wage our own war against the boulders. Quickly shifting from my stable position, my paddle steadfastly embedded in the water along with my calf and combat boot, I prepared along with the rest of my boat crew to build up as much speed as possible.
Our eyes wide now, a slight surge of adrenaline coursing through our veins, we shouted a cadence that could barely be distinguished from the uproarious shriek of the washing machine in which we battled. I could indistinctly perceive the outline of my hand, held up momentarily inches from my face, and chuckled internally, comparing this to a blind Al Pacino driving a Ferrari in Scent of a Woman. Desperately muscling the oars through the water, and paddling as quickly and rhythmically as possible to keep up, the boat moved ever more swiftly forward.
The astounding collision was startling even as we had caused it and watched it grow near. Tossed blithely into the frigid cold, feet unable to find stability, we had to somehow regain our composure and heave this craft up and over these tremendously intimidating obstacles. Neck-deep in the icy water, I grappled with the vessel that had suddenly become quite the burden, and kicked feverishly in an egg-beater fashion to keep my mouth in a position to inhale anything that tasted more like oxygen than algae. As I scanned the chaos, a menacing grin crept slowly across my sun-burnt and frozen face. We were wide awake now. In the 45 degree water of the Pacific Ocean at 2230, salt-water rushing through my ears and a megaphone in my face as an instructor scanned my eyes with a flashlight to make sure I wasn’t hypothermic, I turned to my buddy who was about to give up. “Bro, we get to watch Family Guy tonight!!” A muffled laugh faintly emerged that trumped his thoughts of ringing the bell. Harsh circumstances beg us to quit, but wait until you’ve thought about it in a warm room with a full stomach, and then decide who you want to be.
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