Rock Portage

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.

Boundless

Enter the writer. Hair not necessarily shaggy as much as poorly maintained. Wandering the streets in a vintage Vietnam-era jacket that has seen better days, looking like an individual with a less than favorable habit of the substance abuse variety. Sporting an idea and writer’s block . . . is it that though? Might it just be an idea with no direction, a flickering light-bulb possessing only a wistful reminiscence of a complete filament?  . . . and then, a pill.

Ironic, right? The struggling individual who looked like he was using, ultimately appeared more approachable when ingesting questionable stuff.

The world transforms as the synapses in the brain light up, organizing thoughts that had been long forgotten or compressed into incomprehensible theories during the nightly disk defragmentation. To have this ability to remember everything we see and have seen. That information in a readily accessible form so as to be available when the proper moment presents itself. What would we risk for this type of intellectual capacity, foresight, and sensational perception? I’d probably be willing to put myself in harm’s way, more than likely attempt to design a substance with no side-effects, something that didn’t wear me out, that I wasn’t dependent upon. With access to the other 80% of my brain that I apparently did not have the ability to utilize, I would likely be able to formulate such a plan to maintain the effects, enhancing these abilities permanently.

What an interesting social commentary though. I’m a relatively level-headed and realistic guy. (Let the record reflect that I did say “Relatively”) Cynicism and mild depression are indications of a person with the ability to observe the world through a clear window rather than a blanketed or unclean one, or one with whatever type of paint on it that fast food restaurants pay cheap contractors to plaster the glass with before, during, and after Every. Damn. Consumer. Holiday. I know that things are earned through hard work, that if you want to learn something, you benefit both by acquiring information as well as further developing your character by putting in the time and effort. We live in a society and world that expects a quick solution, and why not? Life is short, why should anything take time, why should we need to go through some process to achieve and develop in a healthier and more responsible manner? Who cares about values, principles, being a better human being? You can focus on that shit once you’re in a position that suits you . . . but probably never, and wouldn’t even notice the absence. Let’s face it, if you’re not idealistic and proud of your moral character when you have nothing, material possessions and success will surely not force you to dig deep and find those qualities.   

Alas, I’d still take the pill, and being who I am, I would no doubt devise the aforementioned methodology for its most beneficial and long-term adaptive effects so that I could be the best and brightest until the sand sifted completely out of my, no doubt cracked, hour glass.

This societal interpretation was so gripping, in fact, that I braved the elements to attend the 9:55 showing of “Limitless” starring Bradley Cooper who I’m not ashamed to admit is a dashing young man. I haven’t disclosed the punch-line, so check it out, hell I might even go with you to see if I missed any details the first time, because you know . . . I’m not pharmaceutically enhanced. Too predictable? My least sincere apologies. The deal exists as such: there is something to be said for things that are earned and battles that are fought. Our plights in life tend to result from not being where or who we want to be, but working to get there reveals innate human attributes that remain unearthed under brighter and untroubled circumstances. The question then becomes, why do some of us endure so much “Character building” to get somewhere when the people at the top of the food chain have long forgotten or become embittered by such experiences, or never know to recognize the void?      

Fear

Tarantulas have always been truly frightening to me, and while it isn’t a weight borne by my shoulders for an extensive period of time; an encounter with one of these creatures is petrifying and will make all aspects of life disappear into the “momentarily inconsequential” column.

I don’t know where or when it began, but the immense fear exists and will remain for quite some time. Tarantulas are absolutely the epitome of evil. The name should be capitalized out of respect, because somewhere they are plotting against me if I refuse to exhibit deference. They have eight legs, which just isn’t right under any circumstances. One must take into account the hilarity that must’ve ensued when the first spider adapted to its environment by growing a seventh leg, and then next, an eighth. The other spiders in the family must have been initially disgusted by what would probably appeared to have been a tail, and then immediately entertained by watching this new creature attempt to move quickly with the extra hinges and fir finding themselves a burden as they got tangled. The newly acquired appendages must have been difficult to adjust to, especially as quickly as these demons tend to move. Do they trip, like we do? Do these horrible abominations stumble on rocky terrain or move so quickly that their legs connect in a dysfunctional way and send them hurdling front side first into the ground? “Face” can’t be stated, because what are those things that come out where a mouth should be, and what are those black little bedazzle beads that adorn the area that would normally be above a mouth?

The fear may have started in first grade. Mrs. Pingry was a teacher I remember well because she had an unfamiliar affinity for these things. My desk sat at the wall adjacent to the entrance of the classroom, right next to the chalk board. On the wall behind me hung a six by four foot poster of a halfway dissected version of one of these colorful beasts. The front end was intact, yellow, red, and orange, with those little beady eyes and the tentacle bits falling out of its mouth, while the back end was cut away to reveal its intricate anatomy, complete with the little hook hairs it fires out of its ass at attackers when it’s frightened. This decoration was the bane of my existence, and if I hadn’t been so disturbed by it, I might have gotten close enough to it at some point to remove the multicolored thumbtacks that held it up, or add many more, in an aggressive dartboard pattern throughout. She also kept one as a pet in a terrarium at the entrance of the classroom that jumped at me every day as I came in to school hoping that while I practiced cursive, just one day, that I wouldn’t have to look over my shoulder and assure myself the massive arachnid hadn’t moved. I constantly expected to feel the weight of a large hairy leg on my shoulder one of those days as I practiced my spelling.

My Dad found one on the carport one night as my family returned from dinner at some Mexican restaurant. He was excited. “Look David! It’s a cool little Tarantula, this one is flesh colored, look at its hair, and it’s got its front legs up in the air!!” I heard this as I cowered behind the screen door. You see, it had been the first word out of his mouth that had sent me sprinting, screaming like a little girl. By ten years, I had learned that most things Dad thinks are interesting are usually terrifying. Now, it’s remarkable how many adventures I couldn’t live without that he’d never dream of partaking in. I had barely missed it with my foot placement as I expeditiously exited the car, I never even saw the monster; just ran, as fast as I could. He scooped it up with a shovel and hurled it through the night air into the neighbor’s yard, cackling hysterically as he did it, hoping he would hear a shriek of surprise from an unsuspecting fellow inhabitant as the eight-legged brute soared toward their face as they calmly enjoyed a PBR in a lawn-chair. Sadly, no such luck. I was too frightened to participate, but far away enough to laugh.

When I left SEAL training the first time, they asked me why, and I said verbatim: “Fuck you, I’m not going over there, they got big-ass spiders over there.” I had read up on my dread, those massive and crafty little organisms burrow into the sand and jump out at soldiers in the middle of the night. The majority of the muzzle flashes and the night fire are the result of troops defending themselves from these insects or mammals, whatever the fuck category they fall under. Even the insurgents choose to attack during the day when the beasts slumber. The real reason was far more complicated, but the simple and honest nature of the statement was humorous.
 
Fear takes many forms, simple to the complex, existential and emotional; it is an amazing and dynamic thing. There is a shocking illumination of human nature whenever something as simple as a light phobia presents itself, however, and something mundane and funny out of context becomes absolutely the most gripping and immediate priority. Bullets, bombs, and blood; life-altering decisions, excruciating stress, and insurmountable responsibility; for me an eight legged ugly makes it all inconsequential, how many legs does yours have?

Fired Up, Motivated.

Psychological motivation is what determines whether or not an individual decides to assume any endeavor. Motivation is generally produced by the personal reasons one has for wanting to achieve just about anything. When it comes to a demanding performance-centered environment, that very personal reason or set of reasons is what determines whether or not an individual is successful.

It was 1700 hours when Senior Chief Hitchcock entered the dimly lit classroom. We had been going all day, uniforms soaked, sand in places not to be mentioned, chaffing everywhere, muscles screaming, and eyelids noticeably drooping. My boat crew was up at 0330 reading the lines of surf and chalking charts. My canteen miraculously found itself half-full, and I checked the knife in my sheath to see if the Vaseline I’d coated the blade with had actually prevented rusting and calcification throughout an entire day of salt-water exposure. It hadn’t, and what’s worse, it was stubborn about going back into the casing and I sliced open the webbing of my left hand.

“It’s been three days, no tremendous accomplishment. Look to the man standing to your right, now the guy on your left. Two of you won’t be here by next week. Which leads me into tonight’s presentation. . .” Senior hit a button on a small remote hidden in the palm of his massive hand and the projection screen lit up in bright royal blue. In small yellow writing at the top of the screen read the words “Mental Toughness.” As if on cue, one of the men standing in the back of the room failed to stay awake. His knees locked and his eyes rolled back as he made the six foot descent to the linoleum floor. We tried to catch him, but weren’t quick enough and the crunch of his nose breaking reverberated to the raised platform upon which my First Phase LSCPO (Leading Senior Chief Petty Officer) was beginning his spiel. “Fuck that! Drop!!” The instructors escorted my compatriot to medical as the other 167 of us remained in push-up position for the enduring hour and a half of the lecture.

That was my introduction to any formal education on the inner workings of mental toughness. I don’t remember half of what was said, I was alternating from one arm to the other attempting in vain to shake out the pain, while trying to keep my back straight so as not to insight further physical punishment, but I learned the lesson through what I now understand to be a form of implicit training. I’ve always defined mental toughness as the mindset necessary to accomplish the task at hand despite any and all external distracters. Everyone has their own definition . . .

It’s all a matter of perspective; seeing as every one of us views the world through a different lens, it’s sometimes a challenge to get an entire team on the same page regarding what they expect from one another and from themselves. I don’t remember the man who collapsed on his face in that class, just that a man did. We were discussing a characteristic that the rest of us were able to tap into unknowingly to focus through our condition . . . or perhaps, just maybe, he was that exhausted.

When people inquire as to some of the most trying events in my life I usually get this sadistic grin on my face. The more dangerous or difficult, the more fun; the fewer the number of people who chose to persist in the face of pain, the more pride I take in the task. There was one evening I remember in particular where I came up with a metaphor for BUD/S (Basic underwater Demolitions/SEAL) training better than any explanation I’d tried to date.

I was on shift in the solitary confinement block of the disciplinary camp in the detainment facility at Guantanamo Bay, Cuba. My squad was on night shift at the time so there was very little to do. Having exhausted ourselves doing push-ups in every manner we could think of (feet up on chairs, hands on chairs, chairs on our backs, clap push-ups, etc.) we did a few pull-ups while hanging from the rafters. The best challenge we devised was an excruciating one. There were thirteen metal crossbeams from one end of the tier to the other; the task was to complete four pull-ups per beam in less than ten minutes. It burned quite a bit, but it got done . . . in 7. My friend John looked at me like I was insane as I dismounted from the final thin metal beam. A decently fit fellow himself, he was taken aback by how big my crooked smile was, and how maniacal my laughter had been throughout. It sparked an interesting conversation.

He wanted to know what special warfare training was like, and how I’d managed to laugh constantly in the face of chaos. I didn’t regale him with tales of ocean swims and running with boats, I simply created a circumstance. “Where we’re standing right now” I said, “You can see the other end of the tier, and the exit. If I were to take my left hand and knock you to the ground, using that exit would look like a pretty solid idea, but you’d stand back up. Now say I balled my fist up and went in for another one as soon as you stood up, that door would become very appealing from your spot on the metal floor, and it would grow into an increasingly viable option with every blow. It's like that.” “What do you mean?” he asked. “When you’re down there on the floor, and you see the exit, there will be a split second when you consider whether to get back up or run. During that instant, your mind will search for an answer as to why you should pick yourself up. With every wallop, that answer will become more important, and eventually it will hurt so bad that it better be really good and readily available. You have to know why you’re there, and it becomes yet another hoop to jump through.” I strolled the block in silence for a moment ruminating on what I’d just said. It wasn’t about mental or physical toughness, optimism or positivity, it wasn’t even about ability or support, it was all about how bad we want something.

It would be an interesting undertaking of psychoanalysis to try to figure out why I get a kick out of doing what someone tells me I can’t, or enduring a challenge other people hesitate to. I get a thrill out of pressure, and actually struggle when life slows down and becomes less demanding. There is something very simple and appealing about facing the impossible or fighting for survival, the stressful nature of everyday life and the complications of society and complex interpersonal relationships is much more psychologically taxing. This is why we find ourselves searching for a larger purpose. Brene Brown says that “Connection is why we’re here; it’s what gives purpose and meaning to our lives. This is what it’s all about . . . What we know is that connection, the ability to feel connected,  is neurobiologically that’s how we’re wired, it’s why we’re here.” Is it really though? It might be one of the things we desire from one another, but we’re here because something or many things motivate us to be . . .

Diluted

There’s something overwhelmingly calm and peaceful about a storm if all you’re doing is watching. As I look out my window I attempt to capture some element of what I see on my phone so I can send pictures home to my Mother and to Hawaii to show my sister just how different our worlds truly are. The branches of my tree blow wildly in the wind as the snow comes from every direction, pelting the world with powder. There are even a few hours when the plows stop running, and I gaze upon the swaying limbs in silence as the falling flakes dance under the streetlights.

  

I trudge to the gym, rain, snow, sleet, or hail. I get to my bastion of self-exploration in the heat and humidity of the summer as well, cursing my compression shorts and the fact that society requires me to wear a shirt even if it’s soaked with sweat. I need my sanity, snow or no. In the blizzard, it takes me well over 45 minutes to get there, find out it’s closed, hurl unattended curses at the glass door upon which the abhorrent piece of paper is taped, and come back. Every surface seems to be wrapped up like a present, something pure and kindhearted, frozen water grasping tightly to renew simplicity. It’s deceptive though. I step carefully, attempting to pick my spots for foot placement, occasionally mistaking muck for frozen ice, and the top of the cement for merely the top of three or four layers of snow. Up the stairs to the fourth floor, my Newbalance shoes are now clean to say the least . . . or perhaps just promisingly wet, and my feet and face are now warm and dry, so no harm done. I was hoping the library would be open, because as I hung my head and walked back it occurred to me that writing would serve the same cathartic purpose for me this evening.

The gym is my escape, though I would prefer it empty rather than packed with a vast array of individuals who have no clue what they’re doing but refuse to accept assistance. I go into the weight room with a head full of questions, judgments, social commentary, worldly critiques, and I leave blissfully. I emerge in a state of eustress induced euphoria. Endorphins help for sure, but I think it’s the distraction of a difficult task, an immediate challenge placed before me that makes the other ones momentarily inconsequential. It’s where I find my sense of purpose amidst all of the long-term uncertainty. Writing has the same effect for me . . . though it can also tend to stir up more questions and lead me to pontificate far too deeply on issues that should be easily expounded upon.

Walking though, it breeds the pontification . . . and it seems like I’m always walking. Running through my head is a constant stream of questions and observations, judgments and criticisms fueled by self-doubt and regret. I’m searching for a purpose, straining to discover a reason as to why we’re here, why I’m here. I traipse on through the rainy blizzard, the temperature of the air just a few degrees too high for the snow to stick to the ground, but the flakes themselves seem to easily manage to cling to the outer lining of my jacket. They dance across my face, their frailty soothing, while the bombardment itself remains slightly irritating. Refusing to blink, staring dead ahead like a lion stalking prey on an open plane, I just keep walking. Over the bridge the wind is harsh, the buildings on either end create a vortex of frigid air, and I glance down to watch taillights disappear into the foggy night. The red beams fade and on the other side white ones quickly approach. The exhaust from the car in front eerily illuminated by the headlights of the trailing vehicle, the movement on the highway is captured like a photograph of a jet breaking the sound barrier. The trails of steam tenderly flow over and around the high-paced mechanisms, playing in traffic. It’s always dark during the winter, the clouds gaze ominously down waiting for me to emerge from shelter, to expose myself to the elements they are prepared to unleash.

Spending too much time in one’s own head is a frightening prospect, and also an obscuring habit. While I continue to walk, run, bike, drive, or simply continually move onward through this existence of mine, I take heed of my own warning about becoming overly self-involved. We need to step outside of ourselves in order to address the issues we face as a society and as a species. The majority of the comments and interpretations I have are subjective and uniquely individual opinions based on personal experiences, and I am in good company in that regard. In order to actively generate universal understanding, we all have to remove ourselves and our experiences from the equation because the limited amount of information we possess creates a narrow view that is not applicable to the world at large. This is difficult for the simple reasons I’ve just exhibited, we are acutely aware of the minutia of our own perceptions and sensations.