thirty-kilometre day hike during their weekend. Not because they have to—just to stay fit.”
“Cool,” Jeff grins. “Sounds like it’s more than a job—it’s a calling.” Long fascinated by the samurai class of warriors, Jeff wonders if the Canadian military’s Special Operations Forces could inspire a similar kind of dedication and self-discipline.
He tells his father that he’s been thinking about joining the military reserve as a part-time job while finishing up his Ph.D. “I’m really sick of not having any money,” he says. “And I’d like to buy a car.”
“That’s a great idea,” Russ says, smiling. “The pay is good. Once you’re trained, you can work in the summer with the regular forces and earn almost the same salary. And the armoury is just across the Commons from Williams Street.”
“I need a break from all the head work,” Jeff says. “Maybe it would help me feel more motivated about the endless reading and writing. And make me more disciplined about it,” he sighs. “I’m having a hard time staying focused.”
He has brought along his books, so he can continue reading for his comprehensive exams while his dad works. At Virginia Beach, their second-floor hotel-apartment, elevated on stilts, overlooks the blue expanse of Chesapeake Bay. Every morning, he loads his books, some snacks and a water bottle into his backpack and heads down to the ocean. In the mellow October sun, he walks for miles along the wide beach. Then, stretched out on the sand, he reads—not Foucault and the other theorists he should be studying—but a novel his dad has passed on to him: Andy McNab’s
Bravo Two Zero
, a true story of a British SAS patrol that McNab commanded during the 1991 Gulf War. He can’t put it down. While the Atlantic roars in the background and the surf pounds on the shore, Jeff is behind enemy lines in Iraq, seeking and destroying Scud launchers, facing bitter cold, attacks, captures and torture.
The first weekend, they travel to the world’s largest naval station in Norfolk, Delaware. They meet up with Jeff’s second cousin, Matthew Francis, a sailor on one of the Canadian ships in the amphibious exercise. Matt takes them on a tour of aircraft and missile carriers, submarines and frigates. The base is in a flurry of preparations for a repatriation ceremony and the arrival of President Bill Clinton. Two days ago an American ship, refuelling in the Yemeni port of Aden, was rammed by a boat loaded with explosives. The suicide attack—courtesy of Osama bin Laden’s terrorist group, Al-Qaeda—blew up the ship’s galley and killed seventeen American sailors.
The following weekend, they visit historic Yorktown,Virginia, where the Americans routed the British in the decisive battle of the War of Independence. Jeff thinks about the American soldiers who fought to the death on this ground two centuries ago
—they changed the course of world history
. On a brochure for the Virginia Civil War Trails Historic Sites, he jots down addresses and telephone numbers of recruiting stations for the US Army, Marine Corps, and Navy—unbeknownst to his father. Just in case. In a few weeks, he will be thirty years old. Would the Canadian military deem him, too, past his prime?
When they return in early November, Jeff withdraws into the cave of his basement study. Every day he sits in his grandmother’s gold tweed La-Z-Boy rocker, cocooned in the multi-coloured woollen afghan she knit for him. A black-and-white-tuxedo kitten he’s named Ammie, his Granny Alma’s nickname, purrs on his lap. He strokes her silky fur, and thinks about Mica, continents and oceans away, teaching in South Korea. He glances over at his desk, at the teetering tower of books that he’s ignored for weeks now; an envelope with Joselyn’s handwriting nags at him. He received her letter weeks ago, describing her faltering progress with “that damned paper” and inquiring about his research and life in Halifax. But he
“Cool,” Jeff grins. “Sounds like it’s more than a job—it’s a calling.” Long fascinated by the samurai class of warriors, Jeff wonders if the Canadian military’s Special Operations Forces could inspire a similar kind of dedication and self-discipline.
He tells his father that he’s been thinking about joining the military reserve as a part-time job while finishing up his Ph.D. “I’m really sick of not having any money,” he says. “And I’d like to buy a car.”
“That’s a great idea,” Russ says, smiling. “The pay is good. Once you’re trained, you can work in the summer with the regular forces and earn almost the same salary. And the armoury is just across the Commons from Williams Street.”
“I need a break from all the head work,” Jeff says. “Maybe it would help me feel more motivated about the endless reading and writing. And make me more disciplined about it,” he sighs. “I’m having a hard time staying focused.”
He has brought along his books, so he can continue reading for his comprehensive exams while his dad works. At Virginia Beach, their second-floor hotel-apartment, elevated on stilts, overlooks the blue expanse of Chesapeake Bay. Every morning, he loads his books, some snacks and a water bottle into his backpack and heads down to the ocean. In the mellow October sun, he walks for miles along the wide beach. Then, stretched out on the sand, he reads—not Foucault and the other theorists he should be studying—but a novel his dad has passed on to him: Andy McNab’s
Bravo Two Zero
, a true story of a British SAS patrol that McNab commanded during the 1991 Gulf War. He can’t put it down. While the Atlantic roars in the background and the surf pounds on the shore, Jeff is behind enemy lines in Iraq, seeking and destroying Scud launchers, facing bitter cold, attacks, captures and torture.
The first weekend, they travel to the world’s largest naval station in Norfolk, Delaware. They meet up with Jeff’s second cousin, Matthew Francis, a sailor on one of the Canadian ships in the amphibious exercise. Matt takes them on a tour of aircraft and missile carriers, submarines and frigates. The base is in a flurry of preparations for a repatriation ceremony and the arrival of President Bill Clinton. Two days ago an American ship, refuelling in the Yemeni port of Aden, was rammed by a boat loaded with explosives. The suicide attack—courtesy of Osama bin Laden’s terrorist group, Al-Qaeda—blew up the ship’s galley and killed seventeen American sailors.
The following weekend, they visit historic Yorktown,Virginia, where the Americans routed the British in the decisive battle of the War of Independence. Jeff thinks about the American soldiers who fought to the death on this ground two centuries ago
—they changed the course of world history
. On a brochure for the Virginia Civil War Trails Historic Sites, he jots down addresses and telephone numbers of recruiting stations for the US Army, Marine Corps, and Navy—unbeknownst to his father. Just in case. In a few weeks, he will be thirty years old. Would the Canadian military deem him, too, past his prime?
When they return in early November, Jeff withdraws into the cave of his basement study. Every day he sits in his grandmother’s gold tweed La-Z-Boy rocker, cocooned in the multi-coloured woollen afghan she knit for him. A black-and-white-tuxedo kitten he’s named Ammie, his Granny Alma’s nickname, purrs on his lap. He strokes her silky fur, and thinks about Mica, continents and oceans away, teaching in South Korea. He glances over at his desk, at the teetering tower of books that he’s ignored for weeks now; an envelope with Joselyn’s handwriting nags at him. He received her letter weeks ago, describing her faltering progress with “that damned paper” and inquiring about his research and life in Halifax. But he
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