Girls dressed in red and white handed out pennant flags to wave. Like most people, upon discovering it was really a Coca-Cola ad, made to look like a Canadian flag, I held it limply at my side.

Activists at the front of the crowd shouted. I have no idea what they said. Those assembled responded in true Canadian fashion, with head wagging and stern looks.

People made speeches. They spoke of athleticism, nationalism, cooperation, inspiration, humanity, peace, children, dreams, and they said, “Welcome.” They took far too long doing it.

Canada welcomes the world. That was the underlying theme, and one I can get behind. Despite my cynicism, it was a cool thing to watch. I hope the Olympics goes smoothly and everyone has fun, with one exception.

They didn’t even use the right red, it was Coke red. It is my hope that any Coke advertisement made to even faintly resemble the Canadian flag is ripped from its moorings, toppled, wrecked, ruined, destroyed. The Coca-Cola Company can fuck right off, eh.

I was listening to a This American Life episode (Somewhere in the Arabian Sea), based entirely on an air craft carrier in active duty, and it made me think about my own brief foray into military life. I thought it would be fun to tell the story, but it’s sort of a long one, so I am going to try it in chapters.

Of pegs and holes

Soldiering, as it turns out, is not my calling. I don’t want to say, “a square peg in a round hole.” Not just because it’s tired, but also, it’s not quite right. It’s more that, my inclination, when asked to put a peg in a hole, is to say, “Right. Um, and, why are we doing that, exactly?” I did not excel in my military career.

I applied for the military college program on the advise of my high school career counselor, who, like many in her field, was the last person anyone should take advise from, career or otherwise. The military invited me in for testing and an interview, offers me a position at the Royal Military College, and I think, “Why not?”

My plans are vague, at best. When I get out of high school I am either going to do a Fine Arts degree or a Business Admin degree. Clearly my goals are not well defined, so I thought, it doesn’t cost me to be flexible, a stint taking Engineering at military college is as good as anything I’ve come up with, so I signed on the line.

I was not a good soldier. One of the first things I learned was how to march in a formation and I am often out of step. Most of the time I spend in the military will come to feel like that. I am trying to go one way, and it never seems to be where everyone else is headed. I really should have known it was not for me when I shot that guy in the chest, and they made such a big deal about it.

Sentry Duty

To get into military college first I must pass a six week training program. Basically, I play army for the summer, and I am judged on how well I do it. The failure rate is fifty percent, and I ride the edge of that knife the whole time.

The field portion of the program is the army version of a camping trip. I hike a lot, sleep little, endure mosquitoes, and crap in the woods, but it’s not all bad. I like the outdoors, and we get a tube of camouflage paint and instructions on how to use it. We learn how to navigate through the wilderness with a map and compass, build rope bridges over fast moving water, and repel down 200 ft cliffs. It is cooler than anything my friends do that summer.

The first thing you should understand about this story is that my platoon of 36 teenagers is immersed in a make believe military scenario, which acts as the background for all of our activities. There are “enemy forces” in the area, we go on “recon” missions and gather intelligence, we have restrictions on the use of lights, a command structure is in place, and we carry rifles at all times. We are totally committed to playing soldier.

I don’t say that to be facetious. We are high school students who want to become university students. There are a few kids with genuine zeal for becoming finely tuned military machines, but they are the exceptions. What got most of us here is a desire for a good, cheap education.

Our instructors teach us to set up a base camp for our field exercises. Sentries surround the camp twenty four hours a day, and we all take a turn. My first shift is in the middle of the night on the outskirts of our small encampment.

Our instructors are rumored to perform mock attacks, so I find a dry spot behind some bushes and settle in to a vigilant watch of the shadows. It is a creepy, being alone, at night, in the middle of a groaning rain forest. The brush is mottled by moonlight poking through the heavy canopy, a misty rain is dripping intermittently all around me, drumming strange sounds on puddles and logs, and a light breeze is rustling the giant trees. Evil minions are gathering. I feel them moving out there in the darkness, and I can just see them creeping at the edges of my vision. With each passing minute I become more certain we are being attacked.

“Stand To! Stand To!” I yell to wake the sleeping platoon. “Stand To! Stand To!”

I am on my feet, staring out into the dark, ready to… well, I’m not sure. The platoon is rousing themselves, confused faces stare out at me from the flaps of tents and ask what is happening. The cool night air has shaken the cobwebs out of my head, I am alert now.

The only thing to be seen in the forest are the trees, and I am forced to give the only report I can, “Right there, I saw… Well, I thought… the instructors, they were… It might be nothing… Never mind. Go back to sleep.” Sleepy children retreat back into their tents muttering, “Fucking Britton.”

Shadow Ninja Soldiers

You should understand, I am always exhausted in the military. Sure, middle aged career soldiers, sneaking through the dense underbrush, at 3:30 a.m., so they can get the drop on a bunch of doe eyed teenagers, and, I suppose, yell, “Gotcha!” may not make any sense. That’s easy to say now, but when a fucking cadre of shadow ninja soldiers are coming at you in the dark, it’s hard to think straight, and in my defense, I am delirious, and sorely in need of a nap.

My next guard duty is also in the middle of the night, but I have learned my lesson, so I curl up against a tree and immediately fall into a pleasant and dreamless sleep. I figure I’ll deal with the results of that decision after a good night’s rest. Turns out, nothing comes of it. I think perhaps I’ve found my stride in the army.

Pop Quiz

Finally, I get to guard in the day time. I must challenge anyone entering the camp. That’s it. An easy job in the sunshine, until an instructor decides to get creative.

As the sergeant approaches camp, I recite my line, “Stop! Who goes there?” and I lean back on my heals, confident in a job well done. Except, he doesn’t stop, which he feels inclined to emphasize by saying, “I’m not stopping.”

Did we get a new script? Because that’s not what mine says. You are supposed to stop and state your name, and then I permit you to enter. I hate to be a stickler for the rules, but aren’t you the one that demonstrated this little dance?

“I’m not stopping. What are you going to do about it?”

I’ll admit, this never occurred to me. What am I going to do? I’m supposed to pretend I’m guarding the camp from “the enemy”, my options seem limited. He stands four inches taller, and has at least 50 pounds on me, not to mention that he’s my Dad’s age, so a flying tackle is ridiculous. I could pretend I was talking to the guy behind him, but I don’t think I can sell that. My answer is to swing my rifle in his direction, aiming from the hip, I pull the trigger, and with a disappointing little, “pop”, shoot him in the chest. Then I shrug my shoulders, silently asking, “Was that the right answer?” I bet you can guess if it was.

I didn’t really shoot him in the chest, of course, our rifles have blank rounds in them, but I still got myself into a heap of trouble. Blank rounds contain an explosive, but no bullet, nothing to shoot out the barrel. But, if something is stuck in there, like a pebble or a bit of dirt, it can become a projectile. The remedy is a yellow contraption which plugs the end of the barrel, but this creates another problem. If it comes loose, a blank round will propel it forward, just like a bullet. The plug attaches with a janky clip that can come undone, so we back it up by wiring it shut. The likelihood this would fail is extremely small, but it’s clearly not a thing you want to test by shooting at someone five feet from you.

The instructors quickly form an impromptu huddle to discuss the situation, with the pissed off sergeant leading the charge. He points out the potentially deadly consequences of my actions, berates me for my recklessness and casual disregard for safety, notifies me I will likely be tossed out, and asks me if I have anything to say for myself.

“You gave a 17 year old a gun, a simulated battle scenario, and some vague instructions. Then you gave a pop quiz that apparently had no right answer. What the fuck did you think would happen?”

I am, of course, paraphrasing. Whatever I said, worked. They let me stay.

My subsequent fuck-ups do not have the same inherent fireworks. I manage to stay under the radar long enough to pass the course, barely, I made it into military college. I figure the hard part is over.

To Be Continued …

D: I’m sorry.
M: And I’m sorry I snapped at you, because you were a jerk.
D: You suck at apologizing

Michelle says something that makes me laugh hysterically.
M: I’m awesome
D: That’s true.
M: You’re lucky.
D: Sure, but I get most of the credit.
M: Why?
D: I have impeccable taste.

D: You’re hot.
M: Thanks. You’re good-looking too. It makes up for the stupid shit you do.

When I leave, I walk by and ask if she needs help. I had not seen anyone do that, and knowing the challenges my sister faces, I thought maybe the offer might be nice. Truthfully, it is curiosity not gallantry.

The oldest of my sister’s three children, was a typical little boy, but by the time their youngest was born, my sister had confirmed the source of his emerging quirks. She told me about a hat she saw on another boy that she considered getting for her son, which read, “I’m not misbehaving. I have autism.”

My nephew is a sweet little boy, who wants very much for me to play with him, and who smiles a mile wide when I do. He has challenges though, so life can be tough on him. When he cries, it pierces your heart. Sometimes, my sister has difficult days, her son does too, often it’s the same day.

When I reach this woman, she is kneeling on the sidewalk, while the kid catches his breath for another shrieking episode. She looks up to speak to me, and after all of that, in front of a sea of people, she is gracious, and gentle, and completely composed. She is magnificent, and it makes me think of my sister. Everyone’s life is harder than it looks, to handle it with strength, and a bit of grace, is an exquisite feat of character.

Cash loves to run into the ocean to fetch something, but his favorite thing is when I dry him with a towel. I straddle him, so I can squeeze him between my knees, and rub him down vigorously. I have to hold him because he leans so hard into the all over body scratching that he turns in erratic and unmanageable circles. As I grapple with him, in what could accurately be described as, a tight embrace, his eyes get big, and you’d swear they roll back a bit as he writhes around in ecstasy. I think, like I always do, that if he would enjoy it, just a little less, I would feel more comfortable.

We received disappointing news. Our third round of In-Vitro Fertilization failed. The pregnancy test was negative. Fuck. Right? Right.

A positive result would be exciting and fill us with anticipation. It would be awesome. This is the opposite of that. This sucks. Life is often shades of grey; this is not one of those times, that’s my point.

Some take solace in labeling misfortune as fate, or God. Cosmic forces willfully conspiring against us having a child strikes me as the opposite of comforting. I take a simpler view; sometimes you get lucky, and sometimes you don’t. We are involved in an elaborate coin toss, and we are zero for three.

If we ever manage to have a kid I already know a little about what sort of father I will be. The first available opportunity will find me saying, “That’s right, life’s not fair. No point in crying about it. Get up and keep going.”

She is constantly searching her body for clues. She feels tired, her breasts are sensitive, but not as sensitive as yesterday, when she was a little nauseous, but today she has cramps, and a persistent headache. Everything means something, or maybe nothing, but it all ratchets up the anxiety.

“I feel like I should know something by now,” she tells me. The belief in good signs today, translates to worry about bad signs tomorrow. It’s a ride I’d like to get her off, so in as supportive a tone as I can muster I say, “Baby, you don’t know shit.”

The twelve day wait is tougher on her. She assumes responsibility for things out of her control, and if the pregnancy test is negative, she will see it as a personal failure. Nothing I say will change that.

The absolute truth is, we won’t know until the doctor tells us the results, but my Sherlock is still on the case. Hormonally fueled body obsession does have fringe benefits. She sent me a text message consisting of a photo taken with her camera phone, and a question, “Do these look bigger to you?”

Most notably we found a mid week deal for Poet’s Cove, on Pender Island, and stayed for a couple of days. It’s stunning.

Butterfly Gardens in Victoria

Poet's Cove - the view from our balcony

The top of my hike. Mt. Norman, Pender Island, BC.