The Crucible

“From the halls of Montezuma to the shores of Tripoli, we fight our country’s battles in the air, on land, and sea.”

Well into the first phase of BUD/S Navy SEAL orientation physical conditioning, if Rhett had ever wondered why soldiers sang while they ran, by now he understood. It was an effective distraction from pain. Made you forget the weariness in your muscles and reminded you who were, which was, first and foremost - a soldier whose job it was to consider the platoon above himself. “First to fight for right and freedom and to keep our honor clean, we are proud to claim the title of United States Marine,” the group trudged on in the dust. Locked in step with a group eight recruits deep, Rhett scanned the horizon. There were individual runners scattered ahead and behind but otherwise, just a long, open landscape in view. This was the crucible event he’d been warned about.

The single event with a tendency to cull the largest number of recruits each year, (or so the legend went) and to be honest, it wouldn’t have been his guess. The sole requirement was to run. Left only with themselves and the sand on a quiet island in Georgia, they were already on their fifth lap. The trick was, there was no end goal. Typically, recruits were given a defined task, such as running 10 miles in the hills with a 40-lb pack after 4 hours of sleep. He watched his feet in front of him. Left, right, left. The song was winding down... He needed another distraction.

As if on cue, images of Sam danced into his mind. The way she ribbed him in class, always one-upping him with that competitive flash in her eye. Her little games when they’d meet up at the track on Saturday mornings. “Catch me if you can!” Then she’d speed off, completely cutting across the green when he got close. He protested at the obvious cheating the first time she’d done it, but after that it became almost an inside joke. Last time he beat her at her own game, darting across himself when she bolted away, heading straight for the gate and yelling “Gotcha!” She squealed after him, finally knocking into him in a fit of giggles. When she came up for air, a few wisps of hair had escaped her ponytail and the sun glinted across her face in such a way that made him realize he’d never really noticed how pretty she was. He thought of kissing her, but then she slugged his shoulder and started running back to the parking lot. “Last one to the car buys breakfast!”

There was no point in thinking about Sam. She was moving back home after college. He’d probably be halfway across the world, assuming he made it through. Don’t think about how thirsty you are. Only three recruits now running side by side, most of the group had split off. A bell rang out up ahead on the beach. As Rhett craned his neck to see who was tapping out, he lost focus and tripped on a branch. From his new position in the dust, he watched as a towering body lumbered off the beach away from the bell. No. No, that can’t be. But the blue paisley sweat rag hanging from his back pocket left no doubt. Suddenly breathless, Rhett clambered up to continue jogging just as he felt sucker-punched by an invisible mocking actor. Robert Anthony Williams III was no quitter. He was a soldier, a former Marine, the son of a SEAL, and grandson of a three-star General. So far in nearly every challenge he’d been at the top of the class.

Rhett’s mind was swirling. Okay, okay. So you came here to see what you were made of. Look, if he’s not cut out for this, you’ll never make it. Go home, man. Rhett scarcely felt noticeable in any way throughout his life so far. He was an average student, a nice guy, the guy next door. He’d been told he had “a familiar face,” which he took to mean he could easily lose himself in a crowd. He’d grown up without a father. Didn’t even know where he came from. He was just some anonymous kid from Michigan. Only his mom knew he was going through BUD/S, and she didn’t even write. What point are you trying to prove? Everybody else already knows you don’t belong here.

Somehow his body was still moving despite his mind, but he was hurting. With every step he felt stabbing pains in his side, and his lungs were on fire. His pace slowed. Chest heaving, gasping for air, he was struggling to regain control. He looked out at the horizon, instinctively seeking escape. Is that... ? Not much more than a faint dot on the landscape, he thought he saw a lighthouse.

Instantly a long-forgotten memory from junior high replayed itself in his head... “Rhett, do you have a few minutes?” It was his 8th grade history teacher Mrs. Miller, who’d found him in the hallway just as the final afternoon bell rang. “Uh, yeah, I don’t want to be late for football practice but I’m sure I can take a few minutes.” “Of course,” she smiled, and indicated for him to follow her back into the classroom. Sitting down at her desk, she pulled out a drawer and withdrew something that looked like a notecard. “I have something for you.” She handed it to him, and he saw it was a greeting card rather than a notecard. He looked at her questioningly, unsure of what he was supposed to do. She nodded. “Open it!” She encouraged.

On the front was a vintage-looking, pencil sketch of a lighthouse but nothing else. Upon opening it, he saw a dried yellow-orange flower and a single sentence written in a spidery old cursive. “Your courage has altered... The course... of our lives... ’13?” He looked up in confusion. Mrs. Miller’s brown eyes were sparkling. “Your family grew up on the shores of Lake Huron, right?” “Yeah...” “In November of 1913, two storm fronts converged on the Great Lakes, culminating in the worst regional natural disaster on record. Waves on Lake Huron rose over 35 feet. Can you picture that?” She looked around. “Floor-to-ceiling height in this room is about 12 feet. So, 35 feet would basically be three of our classrooms stacked on top of each other.” “Wow... I don’t think I’d want to be on that ship.” “No one would. 19 ships sank on Lake Huron in that storm, and another 19 were stranded. Winds were over 90 mph. That’s hurricane-level speed, enough to tear apart a mobile home.” His eyes flared. “Wow, but...”

Anticipating the question, Mrs. Miller cut in. She pointed to the dried flower inside the card. “Do you know what this flower is?” Rhett shook his head. “It’s too dark to be a dandelion...” She laughed. “It’s a marigold. Did you know that starting in 1910, the lighthouses on the Great Lakes were brought fuel, mail, and supplies by an arm of the Coast Guard called the U.S. Lighthouse Service?” Again, he shook his head. “On November 10th, 1913, during a snowsquall that claimed 19 ships, another ship was dispatched to Port Huron to transport the lighthouse keeper’s wife, who was in labor, to a hospital. The name of this ship was USLHT Marigold... The same name as the dried flower in this card. The captain of the Marigold set out on his mission facing 35-foot waves and 90-mph winds. Because of him, the woman and child survived. A member of the lighthouse keeper’s family sent this card to the captain as a thank you.”

He frowned. “That’s quite a story, but why are you telling me all this?” Mrs. Miller sat beaming in her chair. “The name of the captain of USLHT Marigold... His last name. I found it in some old library archives.” Her smile softened. “It’s the same as your last name. Bixby.” His face closed down, shoulders angling away from Mrs. Miller’s desk. “No, I don’t... I don’t know who my father was.” Her tone was soft. “I know. The captain would have been at least a generation behind your father anyway. It’s not a common name, you know, Rhett. The captain might have been in your family. But regardless.” She carried on, voice brightening, “This card belongs to you now.”

He shrugged. “Are you sure?” “Well, I bought it at an auction... So, it was mine... And now I’m giving it to you.” He hesitated. She pressed it into his hands. “You know what I’ve noticed about history. It chooses men to be great. I’m just a junior high teacher, I know, but something tells me it might choose you. One day, you might find yourself in need of courage. Maybe you will be in a position to alter the course of someone else’s life for the good. Remember the story of the Marigold.” In that moment with his teacher, he’d found it difficult to know what to say. Again she stepped into the silence, patting his arm. “Now off to practice!”

A strong gust rippled through his hair and he caught a whiff of sea air, bringing him back to the present. Well, it’s no 90-mph wind. No need to skate down waves three classrooms tall. Come on, Bixby, all you’ve got to do is run. You can do it. Just. Keep. Going. His mind bit out the instructions as he ran past the bell on the beach again. Don’t look at how many helmets are down there. Don’t look around to see who’s left and who’s not. Look at the tide. Look at your fists pumping. You’re still here. You can do it.

He lost track of how long he repeated that mantra to himself. It felt like they started running lifetimes ago. When the whistle finally blew, he collapsed on the sand. Lived to fight another day, Bixby. Got some fight in you after all. He never told anyone, but the hair on the back of his neck stood up when he found out how many SEAL recruits had rung out that day.

There were nineteen.

He’d probably never know who his father was. He was an average kid from Michigan. Roughly 89% of every SEAL training class wouldn’t make the cut. There were many weeks of tests ahead and he couldn’t know the final outcome yet, but that was the day he started to believe... Maybe, just maybe, he’d been chosen to become great. Maybe, whether blood or stranger, there was somebody looking out for him... Somebody sharing their courage. He wasn’t against that.