PARRIS ISLAND, S.C. – We lined up in front of the bus at 0600, not one of us late for fear of incurring the wrath of the Sgt. Major. No one was willing to bring down that hammer upon their head (well, most of us anyway; there were a few brave souls who frequently tempted fate). Standing at attention or in some cases swaying at attention, we eagerly awaited the command to mount our assault on the bus’ padded seats.
Shortly thereafter, the sun crested on the shivering educators, huddled against the cold of the early morning as they watched the recruits preforming their early morning routine. Clad in muted green sweatsuits with reflector bands strapped horizontally around their midriffs, the recruits ran in units following in the wake of a flag bearer, a coveted position Maj. Miller assured me. The recruits wake up every morning at 0400, well before the sun begins its trek across the sky, and by the time we had arrived shortly after 0600, their morning physical fitness was well underway.
The green sweatshirts of the recruits were interspersed with the bright red shirts of the shouting drill instructors. I noticed one of the recruits, who upon completing a lap around the field began dry heaving in front of the AB station.
“No one cares!” screamed the drill instructor. “Get down there!”
And the recruit did, preforming the calisthenics, albeit struggling to do so, but doing so nonetheless.
We spent much of the day touring Parris Island's facilities, spending time in the recruits' bunks, visiting the island's museum, and enjoying an educational chow at the Sodexo-operated mess hall with enlisted Marines who had long since graduated from boot camp.
In the afternoon, we traveled to Page Field, a defunct air field, closed in the 1950s and converted into a training facility for the recruits. Page Field also houses the infamous Crucible, were recruits undergo their final test and overcome their last obstacle in becoming United States Marines. Once at Page Field, we were taken to a wooden and metal tower with a hexagon base, standing 50 feet high. The exposed skeleton of intertwining metal beams contained a metal staircase climbing up the interior and depositing at the top. Two of the tower's six sides featured wooden slates running up its side to the top. Before us stood the Parris Island Rappel Tower and we were going to go down it.
I should mention that I am deathly afraid of heights, one of the few reoccurring nightmares I have is falling to my death. Looking around at the educators lined up with me, I saw my fear mirrored in many of their eyes. However, I was surprised when almost every single educator declared, with almost no hesitation, their willingness to perform a “controlled” fall off of the tower which loomed over us ominously. We spent a good 15 minutes strapping into our harnesses, which to the horror of one of the educators next to me meant a rope, tied and looped uncomfortably around our groins and waists.
Despite my, at times, crippling and depilating fear of heights, I felt oddly confident about the whole thing and my hands weren't shaking at all as I diligently followed the instructions to interweave and pull tight the spindly black cord which I was completely confident could hold my weight.
The Marines did their best to reassure us, not that they needed to.
“We haven't had any recruits get hurt … this week ...”
The climb up the interior staircase, exposed on two sides to the elements, was long and nerve-racking. Busted about by a cold breeze, those of us at the end of the line listened to the screams of our compatriots as they hurtled down the face of the tower. Positioned on the other side of the wooden slates, I caught glimpses of feet pounding against the wood through the gaps in the slates. For one of the educators, this proved too much and detaching herself from the line, she made her way down the staircase in the opposite direction the falling educators. I steeled my nerves in a effort not to follow suit. A few short minutes later, she was back with a drill instructor pushing her to the front of the line. It would appear we were not to be afforded the option of changing our mind.
When it was finally my turn, my hands were indeed shaking and the most I could accomplish when the Marine asked me if I was ready was a barely audible croak of confirmation.
“Just lean over the edge and keep your legs straight,” he instructed.
I looked at him wide-eyed as he slowly loosened his grip on the rope while I leaned backwards over the edge of the 50-foot high tower. I looked over my shoulder at the ground swaying bellow me … did I mention my fear of heights? I paused for a moment at the top of the tower, standing horizontally with my feet pressed against the structure, the only thing holding me in place the cord wrapped around my waist. And then I was off, slowly rappelling my way down the tower, while the Marine belaying me shouted at me to go faster. Then it was over and I was walking away from the tower, mildly shocked to still be alive.