Sweet Caroline(44)

My eye follows the line of her finger. The team gasps collectively as we watch eleven muscle-bound men move in one stride toward us as if in synchronized slow-mo.

The few, the proud . . .

“The Marines?” I whirl around. “Sheree, you have us racing Marines?” She curls away from me. “We drew names from a hat, Caroline.”

“What about the teen girls, the Pirettes? Or the OB-GYN team? I want publicity, not humiliation.”

Sheree cringes. “We drew from a hat.”

I can’t take my eyes off of the “dogs.” “We’re dead.” The plan was to put us back on the Beaufort map, not wipe us out.

Andy drapes his arm around my shoulder. “I think we can take them.”

“Take them?” I say, shaking Pastor Winnie’s shoulder. He’s sleeping standing. “We can’t even stay awake.”

“Have faith, Caroline,” Andy says into my ear.

Faith? There’s not enough in the world. I huddle my team. “All right, so our first race—”

“And last,” Dupree says with confidence.

At that moment, our opponents’ voices boom over us. “Death dogs, booya.”

Yeah, they’re going to cream us.

One by one, the Marines pile into their raft with disciplined order as if executing a military exercise. Their faces are painted with black and green stripes. Not one of them smiles.

Their raft captain—they have a raft captain—commands them in a solid, even voice as they row to the starting line. “Stroke, stroke, stroke.”

Eleven strong backs and shoulders shoot the raft across the water.

“Caroline, my back went out.” Dupree hunches over, pressing his hand to the small of his back.

“You don’t have back problems, Dupe.”

“Just came on me, suddenlike.”

Mitch whispers in passing. “You know they’ve got to be disappointed we’re their first heat.”

“Caroline, let’s go.” Sheree motions for us to get into our raft. Mitch and Andy take the front, while Jack and Donny anchor the back. Waiting their turn, the breakfast-club boys watch their younger military counter-parts with hard glares.

“I looked like that once,” Dupree mutters.

“Sure you did,” Pastor Winnie says. “When your eyes was closed, dreaming.”

Luke guffaws.

“I’ll have you know, I was a champion welterweight boxer.”

Focused on his past physical prowess, Dupree missteps off the dock while getting into the raft and flops into the drink with a big belly splash. Pastor Winnie and Luke double over, slapping their knees. Dupree shoots out of the water, cursing and sputtering.

Andy angles backwards. “Dupe, give me your hand.”

But the old retired Marine refuses. “Coming aboard.” Dupree hooks his arms over the side of the raft and with a strenuous “ugh” tries to hoist himself up. He struggles and kicks, his white, skinny legs flailing in the air.

I’m positive one of the Death Dogs cracks a smile.

Finally, Mitch yanks him aboard by the back of his shorts. He flops inside the raft and picks up his oar.

Pastor Winnie goes next, gracefully landing in the boat. Then Luke.

“All right, Miss Jeanne, you’re up.”

She hops in with a cheery “Weee,” which makes Dupree’s mishap all the more humiliating.

“Dupree, how’re you doing?” I ask.

“Let’s get this race started.” He smacks the water with his oar.

Mercy Bea and Russell go next. And last, me. I assume the role of captain. “All right, stroke, stroke, stroke.” Lowering my voice. “Stroke, stroke, stroke.”

We turn in a circle. Mitch and Andy pull forward to back, Jack and Donny stroke back to front, and I’m not sure what the rest of us are doing.

I cut the air with my paddle. “Stop. Stroke front to back, front to back. Ready? Stroke, stroke, stroke.” A sneak peek over my shoulder. The riverwalk crowd saw the whole thing.

Great publicity, Sheree said. Wait’ll I see her.

We move toward the starting line with some amount of ease and precision. Once we’re in place, I smile over at our competition. “Good luck.”

Their eyes are forward, faces set. Not one response. Not a wave or how-do.

I pump up the team. “Everyone ready? Let’s go. We can do this.”

On the riverwalk, a man holds up an air horn. “Ready?” he calls.

“Oars up,” I call like a good captain.

The Marines are stiff, poised with their oars about a foot above the water.

I refuse to be intimidated.

The air horn blasts. My heart careens into my chest. “Stroke, stroke, stroke.” Adrenaline spikes my voice an octave or two. And I don’t care.

We move forward, wow, with surprising swiftness, gliding over the water.

“Stroke, stroke, stroke,” I repeat.

“My oar! I dropped my oar.” Mercy Bea. Good grief. Behind us, her paddle floats on top of the water. “I can get it.”

“Mercy Bea, no. Leave it.”

Too late. As she stretches back, her hand slips off the side of the raft, and in she goes, head first.

“Start treading, Mercy Bea.” The Jet-Ski guys will rescue her. “Stroke, stroke, stroke.”