Matt Eidson
Whale Watching with an M16
Three hours. That’s how long Fox Company bounced and sliced through the water off Coronado Island in 20 Combat Rubber Raiding Crafts. “Cricks” in Marine Corps shorthand. We had an objective to simulate a beach raid. Trust me, it sounds cooler than it is. Six semi-seasick Marines crammed into a boat, clutching weapons and gunnels, trying not to piss or vomit with each crash over a swell in the pitch black night. It gets real old, real quick.
And when I say pitch black, I don’t mean “dark but with the moon-and-starlight to guide us.” I mean it’s a cloudy, moonless night, and we’re not allowed to use lights of any kind because it wouldn’t be tactical or whatever. The crick becomes a goddamn deprivation tank. Except the water’s cold as hell and there’s a pod of orca somewhere nearby, which technically means we’re not supposed to be conducting training exercises. But supposedly the pod was last seen moving north a few hours ago, so our command gave us the all clear. But I’m not salty about it. Not at all.
All I’m saying is that after surviving multiple deployments to Iraq and Afghanistan, getting chomped in half by that goofy-ass whale from Free Willy during a fucking training exercise would be an embarrassing way to go.
An hour or so ago, we reached our objective, a patch of ocean a couple hundred yards off the coast of the beachhead we’d be landing on, and dropped the scout swimmers into the water so they could begin their tactical maneuver towards the beach. Which is just a fancy way of saying that the rest of us waited on four or five dudes to swim slow-as-shit to the shoreline and secure the beachhead. In other words, Fox Company was currently in the “wait” portion of the “hurry up and wait” ethos the Marine Corps is so famous for.
I wrap a tarp around me tighter to keep the ocean spray off my back and hug my knees closer to my chest, shoving my body between the forward gunnel tube and the deck of the crick. A crick isn’t nearly as cool as the movies make it out to be. It’s pretty lame in reality. It’s heavy, leaks all the time, and has a nasty habit of deflating at the worst possible time.
My boat’s lashed together with the other cricks, and all I see are lumpy masses of Marines snuggling up to each other for warmth. Screw bravado, desperate times call for desperate measures. And if, as a straight man, you’re compelled to big-spoon a hairy dude who smells like Axe body spray and ball sack, well, that’s about as desperate as it gets.
There’s hushed conversation among the Marines along the line of cricks. Most of us understood what tactical meant, and kept quiet, but Gonzo seemed to have forgotten. Even subdued, his voice is clear as day. It’s true that noise carries easier over water. But even without the water, you’d probably hear him chatting casually over a fucking chainsaw. Nice guy and all, just a total goober with a loud voice and the kind of friendly-but-annoying disposition you find in church on Sundays, or used car lots.
His voice carries easily to my boat, all the way on the other side of the group. And if I can hear it, then sure as hell Lieutenant Scott also hears it.
“Tell Gonzalez to shut the fuck up,” he whispers to the Marine next to him.
“Roger sir,” the nameless, faceless Marine says. He turns to the man next to him and relays the message, who leans over the side of the crick and taps a Marine in the other boat and relays the message to him. The words make it about halfway to their destination before, suddenly, all hell breaks loose.
First, there’s a monstrous splash, like a St. Bernard barreling into a swimming pool. Then we hear something scraping against the rubber gunnel tubes of one of the cricks. Then a kind of exasperated sigh, as if someone just got punched in the gut unexpectedly. Then Gonzo starts shouting.
“Oh dude, what the fuck! Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit!”
As he’s screaming, there’s another loud splash. Pandemonium breaks out.
“Bro what the fuck was that.”
“Something just jumped out of the water!”
“Shut the fuck up, no way!”
“Dude I swear to God!”
“Was that a fucking animal or something?”
“Shut the fuck up, why is everyone freaking out?”
“Gonzo just got attacked by something dude!”
“Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit!”
“Gonzo chill the fuck out bro it’s gone!”
“Twenty bucks Gonzo’s just trying to get a light duty chit.”
“Fuck you, bro! Something just fucking jumped out of the water and hit me!”
“Bullshit.”
“Are the fucking scout swimmers on the beach yet?”
“They’re probably dead because Gonzo just woke up the enemy.”
“Fuck you guys!”
“Keep it down!” Lieutenant Scott shouts. Silence is instant across the water. “What the fuck is going on over there?”
Lieutenant Scott is a nice guy, and generally respected by the enlisted Marines, but he’s still an officer.
“Sir,” an unidentifiable Marine speaks up, softly and respectfully.
“I think a seal just jumped into the crick and hit Corporal Gonzalez.”
“Wait,” Lieutenant Scott says, holding back his laughter. “A seal? A no-shit seal? Is it still there?”
The crack in his bearing reverberates across the cricks and relaxes the Marines, who begin to chuckle quietly and whisper amongst themselves.
“No sir,” the Marine says, laughing. “Gonzo’s bitch-ass screaming scared it off.”
“Fuck you!” Gonzo yells.
Up and down the line of boats, Marines—featureless and freezing in the icy-black night—begin to laugh hysterically. After a few seconds, Lieutenant Scott says a forceful, “at ease,” and the cricks go quiet.
I look to the coast and see red chem lights glowing in the dark. I lean back to Lieutenant Scott. “Sir, signal’s up.”
“Roger,” he says. “Marines, get your shit together and start ‘em up. Let’s go.”
We go silent and stare at the glowing chem lights in the distance as the boats patrol slowly, tactically, toward the shore. It’s been a long night, and we’ve still got a long way to go.
“‘Whale watching with an M16’ is a story inspired by my time as a Marine with the Fox Company Blackhearts, a line company that specializes in small boat operations. With this piece, I wanted to give the reader a better view of the folks that sign up for the military. Because far too often the guys and gals that serve are treated as a monolith. Many of us enlist to protect our country, sure. But many, many more are just looking for some structure, a ticket to college, and a place to belong. ‘Whale watching’ is my attempt to humanize military veterans, who are, at least in my experience, a group of loud-mouthed, funny, and totally awesome people that I miss more and more everyday.” —Matt Eidson
Matt Eidson is an MFA in creative writing candidate at West Virginia University. He’s also a Marine Corps veteran with deployments to Iraq and Afghanistan. When not writing, Matt can be found competing in ultramarathons, watching stand-up comedy specials, or scouring Pittsburgh in search of the best chocolate chip cookies the city has to offer.