the world passes overhead

Every so often at the Al Wooten Center I have a conversation with a kid that reminds how different their young world is from the one I grew up in.

The girls met my sister when she came to visit me a few months ago, and haven't stopped asking about her since: "Where's Bethany," Natalie asks, "is she ever coming back?" "She'd like to," I said, "but she's all the way over in Chicago. And you know what? This summer she's actually going to India!" Natalie's mouth opens and her eyes get big--clearly this bit of information is interesting to her. "You mean she gunna get on a airplane?! Oh my God, I would die!!" and she turns with Elia to join the rest of the girls in their game of wall ball.

I laugh softly to myself--without meaning to be, the kids are often hilarious and completely endearing as they verbalize whatever comes to their mind. I don't think anything more about that short conversation until after most of our kids had trickled out of the center and I was left alone on the playground, shooting three attempts in the pleasantly muggy late afternoon. As I stand there enjoying the relative quiet, I suddenly become aware of another sound, one that's always there and therefore just part of the normal, unnoticed background noise in South Central. Initially it sounds far-off, but then gets closer, until it's right overhead--the vaguely eerie rumble of jet airplanes passing overhead as they fly in and out of nearby LAX.

I look up at the plane, and think of Natalie. I'm suddenly aware for the first time of how the sky is actually crisscrossed with planes. I think of the enormous bustle of people, cargo, and ideas that move in and out of LAX every hour, brought in by those planes from across the United States and the world. If you look hard enough you can almost see the invisible arteries that connect LA to the rest of America and the global economy.

But if you're Natalie what you see is this massive aluminum rocket that you would be terrified to sit in. You see this because for you the act of getting on a plane and going somewhere is likely as foreign as the world beyond South Central, and we humans are naturally hesitant when encountering the unknown.

The big wide world flows like a river in the sky over the heads of the kids. I wonder how many of them will learn to reach up and touch it.

getting after it, day to day

On Thursdays I meet up with a couple Navy recruiters and a group of aspiring enlisted guys looking to join EOD, SWCC, Air Rescue, Dive or SEALS. Before running hill sprints and going for a trail run we gathered up in a large dirt clearing for some 'beat down.' This is a colloquial term they use in the Navy to describe group PT sessions that are typically very intense, with lots of repetitions, little rest, and long static holds in various uncomfortable positions. I don't run into that many other officer candidates in the recruiting pipeline that I'm in, and this group is no exception. Out of eleven or so enlisted candidates I am the only officer candidate, and this means that the recruiters running our training often expect me to step up into a leadership role.

Halfway into the beat down, and shortly after completing 50 pushups and holding the position for two or three minutes a lot of us were starting to fail. I could feel myself losing strength in my core. That's when Petty Officer Quinteros calls me to front of the company, facing the rest of the group: "Alright, Polhamus, mountain climbers. 25. Go." As the leader it's my job to yell out the four-count rhythm, making the exercise doubly-tiring. "1-2-3, ONE! 1-2-3, TWO!".... In the midst of the pain a voice inside asks why I'm here in the dirt suffering like this, but I keep the tempo moving. We finish the mountain climbers, chests burning, but are kept in the pushup position for close to another minute before we are allowed to drop to the dirt.

Five seconds of rest and then: "On your backs! Flutter kicks. 50. Go!" I begin the count again: "1-2-3, ONE! 1-2-3, TWO!".... We're getting pretty damn tired. We finish the count and are told to keep our feet six inches of the ground. The recruiters, along with a retired former SEAL who's joined us, wander through the crowd, loudly castigating anyone who's slacking or falling behind. "Alright, once all those feet are six inches off the ground I'll start the count down!" the SEAL says. Some guys are really hurting. We get from 10 to 6 before one guy drops his feet. Officer Quinteros didn't miss it, though: "Get 'em back up! Start again!" 10... 9... 8... I can hear the labored breathing of a bunch of suffering dudes, and my hip flexors and abs are burning. Then something clicks inside. I realize that we're all at our limit, but that it falls to me as the aspiring officer to set the tone. "KEEP EM UP! COME ON!" I yell at the guys. 7... 6... 5... "COME ON! DON'T DROP!" 4... 3.. 2... 1... and done.

A SEAL I greatly respect recently told me that to lead lions you have to be one. As I aspire to that privilege I find myself becoming a stronger man and hungering for more. That's why I spent the morning in the dirt at Eaton Canyon.

a longer road ahead

It's been since July 2010 that I've been pursuing officer training with Naval Special Warfare in earnest. This road's been fraught with more adversity than I expected--the rigors of physical training, challenges navigating the military bureaucracy, and an unforeseen curve ball regarding my medical eligibility have all tested my resolve. I posted a good physical screening test (PST) score two weeks ago, re-wrote my essays, and submitted my application packet ahead of schedule. After a few months of intense training and fighting illness I looked forward to a couple months of lifting weights and letting my cardio fitness sag.

No such luck, though. For the first time ever in the NSW OCS application process the selection boards are going to be interviewing candidates, and part of this involves taking a PST the day-of. Since I've been on this path I've had the constant experience of the rules of the game changing just as I'm getting to know them. I'd hoped this would be a season to rest my body a bit and focus on building strength and muscle mass that I tend to lose in the pool and on the track. As it is, it's time to put my head down and focus on getting faster, stronger, and tougher than ever before. When I see that board in August, I will destroy my current best posted score. This is an important part of the test. There is no room for self-sympathy here. Mental and physical preparation for combat and to lead men under the harshest of circumstances is an ongoing work. Rest has its place, but the kind of discipline I have to subject myself to now pales in comparison to what will be required of me in BUD/S and the training evolutions to follow should I be successful in reaching my goal.

Upon reflection, what at first had the disheartening impact of a shifting goal post looks like a blessing. I don't have the luxury of complacence--a luxury that so frequently has a toxic affect on our sharpness of the mind, softness of the heart, and strength of spirit.

--

On a completely different note, here are links to two topics that have been getting me thinking recently. The lesson? Whether in economics or physics, always question your paradigm.

http://www.nationaljournal.com/magazine/neo-voodoo-economics-why-can-t-washington-get-its-act-together--20110519

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xqIubmnzckY