Vira

It was cold. The sky was gray and the wind whipped in and out of the earthen berms that surrounded the young trainee. The 15 foot artificial hills surrounded him and his 22 classmates on the firing line. Behind them stood at least a dozen stern faced instructors wearing red. Their red rubber pistols had been replaced with brand new HK P2000's straight from the factory. The 6 magazines mounted at various points on their oversized "River" belts were fully loaded with live rounds for the first time.

The young men had been introduced to their issued weapons two days before. Their meeting was tense and formal, and had the air of reluctance common to junior-high school dances and blind dates. The trainees had been instructed for several hours on the various quirks of these new weapons. Some elements of the weapons function were common and familiar to Agent Trainee Young and some were new and exotic. The weapon was removed at one point and altered to better fit his larger than average grip, and he found that he liked the change after handling it further. The instruction came to a close and the trainees reluctantly relinquished their new-found companions.

The two intervening days had passed painfully, but they found themselves finally on the line, waiting a few more excruciating seconds before the order would come to "prep for duty carry" and holster a loaded weapon for the first time.

But then...Anxiety. It had been more than six weeks since the young trainee had fired any weapon. He had been foolish enough to raise his hand when asked if he had prior small arms experience. The stone-faced instructors were watching him; particularly eager to humble him by pointing out the smallest of faults.

The order came, "Prep for duty carry!!"

His hands moved separately but in perfect concert, his left reaching down and across his waist to the waiting magazine in top pouch number one, and his right disengaging the retention strap on his holster and bringing the weapon to bear, outboarded and ready to receive it's first live load. The factory edges on the beveled mag-well accepted the charged magazine without incident. It slid home and clicked firmly into place. A quick tug confirmed that it wasn't going anywhere and the weapon was quickly inboarded to present the slide for a racking motion. With the confidence of an action that one has performed thousands of times, Agent Trainee Young sling-shotted the slide, chambering the first round and immediately presented to weapon down-range before slowly lowering it to the holster. It had to be done by feel. Not only because he would likely be blustered at interminably for having to look as he holstered, but because in the field he would always need to be focused on potential threats and not eye-balling his gear because he was unsure of himself. He removed, topped off, and replaced the magazine, thereby 'prepping' his weapon for duty carry.

The silence that followed the loading procedure was broken sharply by the report of a score of weapons on the other side of the left-most berm. Another, more advanced class had beaten them to the trigger that morning. The surprise at the sudden sound was quickly replaced by nostalgic calm as the smell of burnt powder reached his nostrils. This would be a good morning.

Adam didn't know his newfound friends name yet but she had her first round chambered and she was eager to please her new master. Finally the command came and the young trainee wrapped his freezing fingers around the machined polymer grip. His draw was flawless as he presented to the target; a man-shaped silhouette with concentric squares indicating center mass and the most potentially lethal shot area. He depressed the odd-feeling double-action trigger nearly to its break-point as he found his perfect sigh picture and focused as instructed on the front sight. Slowly he applied more pressure while holding the sights motionless on the center of the target.....Half pound by half pound...

Crack!!!!

It had surprised him, as it was supposed to. He did not want to jerk the weapon downward in anticipation of the recoil, and he had not. The recoil was manageable and he soon found his sights again. Beyond the sights he saw the object of this exercise... A .40 caliber hole dead in the center of the five point ring. As we all know, "the way to a man's heart...Is between the forth and fifth ribs." His bullet had found it's way to the target's heart, as the small polymer pistol had found it's way to his. They would get along just fine. The second round followed the first to within an inch. She would not embarrass him. He would have to return the favor.

One hundred and sixteen rounds later he knew all her quirks and sticking points. More importantly, he knew her name. She was his very favorite gun, and he would call her Vira. He barely heard the range-master's scanty praise of his impressive four inch group of one hundred and eighteen rounds all within the five point ring. The only thing occupying his mind was that they would soon be separated once again after such a wonderful first outing. He no longer felt the cold and would certainly catch himself daydreaming in class all day as the familiar smell of the GSR(gunshot residue) all over his hands wafted up to his nose as he sat at his desk.

They would be together again on Monday. He could wait that long, and so could she, to once again take up their deadly dance of cardboard destruction. "Until then, my Vira," he whispered in his mind, and he quickly stalked to the bus that would take him from the range.

Crackle

It was inevitable.

There was no avoiding the welcome battle. The two young warriors were ready. They waited anxiously as the instructor toyed with them, withholding his permission to strike until he detected some hint that one of the combatants' attention was wandering. That moment did not come. They knew better.

Their garb was identical in cut and color, an effect of the strictly enforced identicality policy common to all martial training organizations in the world. The students' poise and equipment mirrored each other's precisely, but for one thing. One of the young men was armed and the other was not. Held firmly in the meaty grip of the more experienced fighter was a long straight knife, the color of blood. The young unarmed opponent eyed the weapon with taught anxiety clearly written across his face. They waited.

"STRIKE!!" Cried the instructor.

As if two titanic bodies, inexorably drawn together by their own gravitational masses, had been suddenly and totally released, by some even more incredible force that barely restrained them, they hurled themselves at one another. The younger and less experienced fighter desperately aimed a surprise knee strike to the inner thigh to his ape-like opponent, but he failed miserably. The ape anticipated this strike and turned his knee outward, simultaneously lessening the impact of the strike and throwing his fearful opponent off balance.

The thwarted young man did not even have time to wonder where the strike would come from. He did not even see the knife as it moved intently to his upper abdomen. The pain was incredible. It shot outward from the wicked weapon's point of contact and the young man doubled over in agony, no longer able to hold himself upright. He received no help from his training partner, who followed him to the ground driving the weapon ever deeper into his victims flesh. The wounded trainee hit the ground clutching his stomach and the arm of his attacker. Oddly, even louder than the young man's sudden expulsion of breath and subsequent collision with the ground, was the incessant malevolent crackle of electricity caused by the wicked implement with which he had been "stabbed."

"Recover, and reverse rolls!!!!" cried the instructor trying to hold back the tears of mirth that the twitching trainees had caused.

The merciless attacker disengaged the fire button on the training “Taser knife” and helped his partner to his feet. The panting and sore young man took the offered knife with resolve to repay his friend for his "instruction" in kind. They took their positions and waited. The recently armed trainee's look of anxiety had been replaced with a scowl that clearly spoke of the sweet revenge he would shortly claim...


STRIKE!!!!

I can!!!

These are two wonderful words when used this way. As you know I am in the artesia FLETC facility training to be a Border Patrol Agent. It is a different way of life. Every minute of everyday is geared towards determining your ability. We study a lot, we work out a lot, we hydrate a lot, and we test A LOT! In every case the goal is to be able to stand up to the day's challenge and say I can.

The PT instructors spend their time pushing us to the point were we can no longer utter these words truthfully. This is discouraging for those of little faith and determination. People like me. My difficulty with physical training has always been that in order to progress, one must work until one fails...Constantly. Your workout does not cause significant progress unless you reach failure. I have always hated working out for this reason.

I believe this to be my greatest character flaw. I am a sore loser...At everything! I have gone out of my way to avoid losing at all costs for my whole life. While a strong and brave person would likely accomplish this by training harder and becoming more able, I frequently chose to avoid the contest in the first place. This is the way of a weak, stagnant and atrophying individual.

In PT I lose every day. We have lost 11 people of our original class of 50 to the med shed. While some of these had legitimate medical conditions, I believe most of them went to the med-shed or hospital to avoid that dreaded feeling of losing, the moment when they can't say, "I can!" Our class is officially notorious for our unusually high drop out rate and we have not even begun to lose people to grades in Spanish, law, firearms or driving yet.

I am helping a small group of trainees who are struggling with Spanish a lot. We meet on the weekends and we review the Spanish material that has been covered and I drill them on their weak points. I find where they can't say "I can" and I push them till they can. I can see the progress and it is very uplifting to me.

I reflect on Lehi's words to his son in 2 Nephi chapter 2. The whole purpose of this life is to perform work with opposition. Without this opposition, or when we avoid challenges, we remain weak, untested, undeveloped and vulnerable pawns for those who would manipulate us. We become those who are "acted upon."

I have 4 weeks down in a 20 week program. It's hard. I still have a lot of "I can't," but everyday there is a lot more "I can." I sure look forward to week 20. I will be able to leave this state of training and "probation." But I will not leave early, thinking to avoid all the "I can't" between now and then. Because all that "I can't" will add up to a lot more "I can" in the end. The analogy to life is obvious. We are here because we can't. If we work hard and meet our challenges head on, whenever we get out there won't be any challenge or problem we can't stare in the eye and state truthfully...

I can!!!!

Crossing Guards

Here is an interesting memory that I do not recall remembering before.

When I was a young boy my older sisters or at least one of them, by virtue of higher grades, whiter teeth or least smelly pre-pubescent armpits was honored with the status of Midnapore Elementary School crossing guard. As I remember it this status accorded them a reflective vest or sash or something. I am unsure if I ever voiced my opinion of this honor to them or not. I do remember eye-rolls and snorts of derision being a part of my response when I learned of these extra-curricular activities. This reaction was certainly a result of jealousy on my part. Not until this week did I realize just how jealous I had been.

I was in my favorite part of PT on Thursday...That's right, the part near the end. We had finished the awful mat-room portion. We had run around three miles of our run. Never in my life would I have guessed that I would enjoy that portion of the workout. But I married a wonderful woman.

I struggle with PT a lot. I don't like getting yelled at. It hurts me...Right in the feelings. The feelings hurt worse than the arms, legs, groin, feet, hands, neck, head, ear-lobes, teeth and hair follicles. However, the instructors are the worst to those who fall behind on the run.
It is these times when I find myself up in the front of the formation along side the standard bearers and section leaders that I love my better third more than ever before. She reaches across hundreds of miles and shields me from the instructors' sharp feeling-rending insults and curses. How does she do this? She taught me to run. I credit her entirely for this (dare-I-say) blissful half hour of PT when I am working hard and hurting, but my feelings are just fine.

But what does this have to do with crossing guards? Friday, in PT the instructor stepped it up a bit towards the middle and again in the last third. My stalwart companions began to fall out and I worked my way to the third place in the formation. There were only about 5 or 6 of us in what could still be called a formation. We slowed and circled to allow the rest of the class to catch up, however briefly, and we continued on. When marching in formation the section leader or instructor will call for "road guards" to run forward and block the traffic. (Men marching or running in formation always have the right of way on base) Usually this job is done by the last rank, but when the formation is running the second rank takes this responsibility(cuz the back of the column is a half a mile behind). Friday because I was right up front, that was me. I sprinted forward with pride and stalwartly assumed the proper position. This means spreading my bulging(and slightly trembling) legs in a firm and ready stance, stretching one hand straight out in front of me, as if to hold back the inbound tons of steel and rubber by main force alone, and as a show of my invincibility, I fold my off hand calmly in the small of my back. I only need one hand to stop you puny mortal contraptions.

After the entire class, including those riding the med-shed gator, had passed I got to sprint again to regain my place at the front. I then realized...I like being a crossing guard. I was reeeaally really jealous of my sisters and their prestige. I coveted their position so much that I subconsciously chose a profession that is essentially just that of a glorified international crossing guard. Granted, there are some subtle differences. My stop sign says stop on both sides. I get to search passing students for drugs and weapons. My sisters got sweet sashes and vests. I get a camel back, a badge, a wonderful assortment of weapons, and this...Lisa prefers the pose with the smile. My instructors seem partial to the other one. Either way, It will look a lot more impressive with the real pistol instead of the red rubber training pistol you see there, and lets not forget the shiny gold badge that Lisa will pin on me in less than 4 months when I graduate.

Hullo Mudda. Hullo Fadda...

Sorry for the slack posting everybody. But its not gonna get any better. I will never be able to access the internet during the week and whether or not I can do so on the weekend will depend on how much catch-up I have to do.

The Border Patrol Academy is reputed to be the toughest (intellectually and physically) law enforcement training academy in the nation. I have not been to any other training academy so I feel unqualified to categorically confirm that assertion. I will say that this is the hardest thing that I have ever done, and it doesn’t show signs of getting any easier any time soon.

Training is tough. I have two weeks down. 18 to go. That’s one tenth completed. I have survived “hell week.” This is not to be equated to the “hell week” that most military branches supply for their enlisted men. The major difference being that after we are dismissed for the day, Our time is our own and we need not worry about being awakened by Lee Ermy in the wee hours of the night, for random PT punishments.

PT is really hard. I prepared myself in some ways and in some ways I am way behind the curve. I have a wonderful wife who taught me to run and to not let up when It hurts. I manage to stay up on the runs with the group that is in formation with the instructor. There are about 10 of us out of 25 who do so. This makes me feel good at the end of PT.

I felt very confident going into the academy that I would not have a lot of trouble with the pushups and other mat-room exercises. My pushups are up to 35 when done along with basics sit-ups. I gravely underestimated the mat room. Our first days of PT have instructed me that my failure to more aggressively work my abs was a grave oversight. After breaking down my abs to the failure point and beyond, we did our first push-ups. I found myself looking down at the pool of my sweat beneath me in disbelief as I croaked the word “nine.” This was soon accompanied by uncontrollable shaking and the sickening wet slap of my knees involuntarily crashing to the wet mat.

Shameful…Truly shameful. At least that is what the PT instructor who took up semi-permanent residence in my inner ear for the next 5 minutes informed me. He did however use a greater preponderance of “colorful metaphors” in his critique of my performance.

Of our class of 50, 2 of our classmates could not handle so much color in their metaphors, and have resigned. The first day Group A(my group) lost another trainee to kidney failure and loss of consciousness on the run. Group B lost 4 to the “Med Shed” on day one, in addition to the one who quit. On day two of PT they lost a total of 8 to the “Med Shed,” and the hospital. So we are currently 47 of 50 and may be down to 41 this week if the hospital keeps it’s current hostages.

The last class graduated only 26 of it’s original 50. We hope to not lose any more, but we have not even begun to lose them to academics yet. Spanish will not be difficult for me, but we will lose some to it I am sure. Law will take some getting used to, but I am confident I will do well.

I love all you who read this. Have a good week folks. I will try to touch cyber-base again next week.