by Hannah Donigan
My skin was slick with a greasy film like after applying bug spray or sunscreen. Layer upon layer of sweat drying over the course of the day. Desperate for a shower, I sulked in the worn grey seat of the charter bus as I realized I would shower with complete strangers for the next eight weeks.
That hadn’t crossed my mind until now.
I had been too consumed with how much my life would change, how much I would change. There was no turning back now.
I felt trapped, though no one had forced me to enlist. I’d looked at my limited options and chose this one for myself. A completely voluntary decision. My decision. This had been my way out. This was supposed to be my yellow brick road. Yet in that moment I wanted to back out. I wanted to turn back to what was familiar. One thought played on repeat in my mind.
Am I really doing this?
This wasn’t something people expected of me. I didn’t fit the stereotype and my decision had raised some eyebrows. I was the girl who rarely left the house without my hair and makeup done. I wasn’t athletic and was very sensitive and emotional. I realized some of my friends and family members had placed me in a neat little box. Maybe if they had pretended it wasn’t so out of character, I would have believed in myself more.
The bus moved down the pitch-black Garden State Parkway, the headlights illuminating a green sign that read, “Cape May-Coast Guard Training Center Next Exit.”
I straightened as the bus exited the highway. The streets of Cape May were quiet, sleepy, in the dead of winter. Harsh wind smacked against the bus window. Once the bus approached the training center entrance, the driver maneuvered around several security barriers to the main gate. Bodies shifted in their seats.
The heavy old gate inched to the right and the bus proceeded forward to stop at the guard shack. A wave of envy flooded over me when I heard the driver making small talk with the gate sentry.
He had luxuries we were all about to lose. He wouldn’t spend his days getting screamed at by company commanders like I’d seen in videos from when my cousins went through boot camp. He could sit in his seat any way he wanted or touch his face if it itched. Simple freedoms every recruit on this bus was about to lose.
I was laser focused on getting through this experience: the screaming, sleep deprivation, and not having a smartphone for eight weeks, creating the necessity of hand writing letters to loved ones. These things eclipsed all the little comforts I would miss: a hot cup of coffee, slow mornings, home cooked meals, naps, hugs. These would disappear in minutes.
The bus drove through the training center, where concrete three-story buildings surrounded an open quad-like a campus. It looked and felt more like a prison. Headlights revealed brown grass with patches of old, dirty snow that refused to melt. I glanced toward Sexton Hall, the main training building. The back of my neck became hot and my stomach ached. A bead of sweat slid down my cheek from my forehead, just barely missing my eye. I wiped it with the sleeve of my hoodie and focused on my breathing.
We were here. I no longer had a choice, so I suppressed my fear and uncertainty. My window for ruminating had closed and now I just wanted to get it over with.
As the bus approached Sexton Hall, the interior of the building was the only source of light besides the old, black lampposts lining the dead grass. The bus beeped in reverse as the driver backed into a parking space. And then I saw them.
Silhouettes of four company commanders appeared, donned in their infamous smokey the bear campaign covers. They halted in perfect synchronicity and stood at parade rest. It was like spotting a great white while swimming in the ocean.
My heart and mind raced. The driver turned on the interior lights.
Please, don’t turn on the lights!
I started thinking of ways to stay on this bus. I was tempted to duck my petite, five-foot three frame under one of the seats and stay quiet as a mouse. I never wanted to live on a bus more than I did in that moment.
The company commanders were still standing at parade rest watching the bus. I wondered why they stood there for so long. What were they thinking about? It seemed well choreographed, which made it more frightening. Would they be as intense as all the videos I’d seen?
“Alright y’all, we made it,” the soft-spoken bus driver said, invading my thoughts. “I know you’re scared but you’re gonna be fine. Trust me. Just keep thinkin’ of why you’re here, why you’re doin’ this, think of your loved ones back home and you got this. Alright?”
I was barely listening, too preoccupied with studying the company commanders marching toward the bus to devour us. Their campaign covers were tilted down at the signature angle leaving only their chin and mouths visible. The door opened and one company commander leapt onto the bus.
“Welcome to Training Center Cape May,” he screamed. “For the next eight weeks the first and last words to come out of your disgusting civilian mouths will be sir or ma’am. Do you understand?”
Petrified silence.
“Do you understand?” he pressed.
“Sir, yes, sir!” we shouted as loud as we could.
“Louder!”
“Sir, yes, sir!”
“You have just arrived at Sexton Hall. Charles W. Sexton gave his life during a search and rescue mission in 1991, saving the lives of fisherman in distress off the coast of Oregon. His brave commitment to this life saving service is the standard we set. We are about to test you over the next eight weeks, to make sure you are committed to our standard. Now, you have ten seconds to get off the bus and get in formation and you just wasted three!”
The anticipation of that bus ride had nowhere to go but recycle over and over in my mind. I couldn’t shake it off. My anxiety was tangled up with excitement and I kept confusing the two. I’d desperately needed the direction of my life to change. I looked at the person I was and the woman I wanted to become and decided the only way to bridge that gap was to join the military. I craved independence and the autonomy to start my own, brand-new life.
It wasn’t like this for everyone. Most of my peers went off to college and let the natural, linear path of growth and adulthood unveil itself. Yet, I chose to grow up quickly by throwing myself into an extreme environment that would provide two things I wanted more than anything: to leave home and the drama that came with being the only child of divorced parents and to get an education. All I had to do was visualize the life I wanted to build for myself. It would take hard work, but this was the way. This was my yellow brick road and I had always been ready.
“Get off the bus!” The company commander’s voice echoed through the interior. I sprung to my feet with a sense of urgency I’d never felt before, climbed off the bus and fell into formation—and into my new normal for the foreseeable future.
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Hannah Donigan is a veteran of the Coast Guard who earned a Bachelor of Arts degree from Columbia University after her enlistment. Hannah primarily writes personal essays detailing her experiences as a young woman in the military, often exploring themes of identity, gender, freedom, and mental health. Hannah currently lives in New York City with her husband, Riley, and their corgi, Luna.
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