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“You know, you’re a really good paddleboarding teacher,” she tells me.
“You think?”
“Yeah. I tried to do this about two years ago and gave up. But with you, I might actually want to try it again.”
I smile, enjoying her compliment. “I like to teach. I actually taught surfing as a volunteer for a nonprofit a few years back.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. It was a summer like this one—when I knew we wouldn’t be deploying. So I had some weekends I could spare.”
“Did you ever think about doing it again?”
“Love to. But the group that I volunteered for closed.”
“That’s too bad.”
“Yeah, it is. Sports like surfing or paddleboarding, or just access to the ocean—a lot of kids don’t get to enjoy any of that. I mean, how’s a kid in Savannah supposed to get to the ocean when his parents are working three different jobs just to pay the rent? Kind of pisses me off actually.”
“I never thought about that.”
“Yeah. The ocean—no one owns it. So it seems like all kids should be able to have access to it.” Irritated at the thought, I feel myself bristle a little. During that summer when I volunteered, I spent a lot of time thinking about how it would have changed my life, experiencing the ocean as a kid. Having someone take the time to teach me how to ride a wave, how to balance on a paddleboard or feel the power of maneuvering a kayak, slicing through the waves.
“Have you ever thought about starting a nonprofit yourself?” she asks. “You know, after you’re out of the military.”
I chuckle. “I’m a Ranger. Not a Stanford MBA like you.”
“Yeah, but filing the paperwork is easy. I mean, there’s a little more to it than that, but nothing you can’t handle.”
I’m silent for a few moments, chewing on the idea. I’ve always pictured myself sliding into a predictable Department of Defense job after I retire from the military at twenty years, since the pension I’ll be getting then isn’t enough to support a family easily.
My future wife—if I’m lucky enough to find one—and the kids I hope to have will deserve some stability then, after dealing with military life for a while.
I give my head a slight shake. “Sounds a little risky. A little like buying a diner,” I can’t help adding with a wry grin.
“Hey…” She laughs, her voice trailing for a moment. “But your mission is great—I think you could easily get some grants.”
“Mymission?” I’ve never thought about having a mission of my own. Usually my mission is handed to me by the Army.
“Yeah. Your mission statement. It’s an easy sell. What you said about how the ocean isn’t privately owned. It isn’t a country club. It belongs to all of us.” She paraphrases what I just told her. “So why shouldn’t all kids—regardless of their families’ income level—be able to have the same opportunities to enjoy it?”
“I like that,” I ponder. “Not a country club.”
But even more than I like her idea, I love the way she looks at me as something more than a Soldier. Sometimes I forget there’s anything more to me. For most my life, I was a textbook example of a child of addicts—with all the fears and insecurities that come with it. Becoming the best Soldier I could be, focusing in laser-sharp on my commitment to protecting my country, it gave me the strength to break free from their hold on me.
My career has often felt like a way for me to pay back my country for pulling me out of a dead-end life with my parents. But I like the idea that there might be something more—something different—for me out there.
As we row together now along the shoreline, I listen to her talk more about the nonprofit she pictures me running and all that I would need to do to get it up and running. And I soak up every word, filing it away for the future as the evening sun sinks past the line of trees in the distance.
