Into the Rising Storm: Me & the Marching Bands Book 1

Chapter 1

[ Late Summer, 1991 ]

We crossed the state line into Virginia around lunchtime. There was a big sign that read:

Welcome to Virginia – Virginia is for Lovers.

What is that even supposed to mean?

Was it inviting me into some romantic opportunity and mocking my teen singleness all at the same time? I was fourteen and heading into my freshman year of high school. Real romance hadn’t really made its way into my life yet, but I couldn’t help but think about all the good friends this 600-mile move made me leave behind.

Dad had landed some fancy new job at a defense contracting firm that worked with the Navy. He explained it as something about systems engineering and project management, which sounded like adult-speak for endless meetings and bossing people around. The company flew him out twice before he accepted the offer, and suddenly we were packing boxes and trading Central Georgia for a town called Eastferry, Virginia.

Mom called it “a blessing in disguise,” mostly because the benefits were great and the school was supposed to be one of the best in Coastal Virginia.

More like the end of the world for me.

I didn’t totally hate the idea of change. I just wasn’t sure how to start over from scratch. A small part of me was excited about the newness of it all, like maybe this could actually be an adventure. But mostly, I was just kind of shocked into a quick grief over leaving the life I knew behind.

We drove for a few more hours taking a scenic route into the Virginia Peninsula area. Lots of trees and fields. It reminded me of some of the areas back home in Georgia.

Well, I guess it’s not home any more.

The dark blue Ford Taurus wasn’t anything special. It had AC, and all the windows and seats were electric, which was pretty cool. It got us where we needed to go. It had a cassette player and a CD player, pretty high-tech, honestly. Dad listened to a lot of music, mostly on cassette. We didn’t have many CDs yet, but the news kept saying they were the future. Pretty soon, cars might not even come with tape decks anymore.

One day this fine piece of automotive machinery is going to be all mine.

“Look at that,” Dad said, pointing at the wide blue brown body of water to our left. “That’s the York River. Beautiful, huh?”

I nodded from the back seat as I looked out my window. The river was peaceful, wide and shimmering like someone had poured glitter across the surface. A billion tiny stars had spilled out of the sky and decided to float there instead of sink. Boats dotted the water, some anchored, some gliding along slowly, leaving soft ripples behind them.

I rolled the window down and let the breeze hit my face. It felt cooler than I expected for a summer day. We were getting closer to the coast.

The air smelled salty, mixed with just a hint of gas from the boat motors and maybe even a whiff of sunscreen if you imagined hard enough.

Smells like summer.

Somewhere out there was the Atlantic. That blew my mind a little. Back home in Georgia, we were hours from any real beach. Here, you could probably get there before your cassette flipped sides.

We’d be living near where the York River met the ocean, not on the beach, but close enough.

“We should take a day trip to Yorktown,” Mom interrupted my thoughts. “It’s not far, and it’d be a great way to learn about the area. Sound fun to you, Wes?”

Wesley. I wish they would call me Wesley.

My parents called me Wes. My grandparents called me Wes. My friends called me Wes. But the older I’d gotten, I wanted to be taken more seriously and called Wesley.

Wesley Wade. Trumpet player. Songwriter. Freshman.

This whirlwind move was making me feel like my whole life got thrown into a blender.

What could be better? My life is great! On my first day of band camp at a brand new high school I will have zero friends! Yeah, it’s the best.

What I really wanted to say to her was that I’d rather drive 600 miles back to Georgia, and spend the last few days of summer hanging out with my best friend Trey. We’d survived beginning band together in fifth grade, back when I still thought the trumpet had buttons instead of valves, and we’d sat next to each other in middle school band ever since. We were always goofing off and cracking each other up. One time he made me laugh so hard I peed my pants a little. He didn’t judge me. My goal for the next two years was to make him laugh that hard. Never got him back, though.

Trey never made fun of me for being into music as much as I was. He actually thought it was cool that I wrote my own songs at home. We were inseparable, band geeks, video game nerds, snack hoarders, and occasional prank artists. And now? He was probably parked in front of the TV playing Punch-Out!! without me and burning the roof of his mouth on a Hot Pocket he absolutely did not let cool first.

Who am I supposed to geek out with now?

“This place has potential,” Dad said, steering one-handed as he checked street signs.

“For now,” Mom added, softer.

We pulled into Baywood Oaks, an older but nice apartment complex. Our place was on the second floor of the two-story unit. There was a pool and some cracked basketball courts out back. I could already picture myself shooting some hoops after dinner, trying to clear my head.

“Wes,” Mom said as we carried the last boxes inside. “Why don’t you go explore while we unpack?”

I gave her a thumbs-up and took off, headphones in place and my Walkman spinning a mixtape I’d made for the car ride. I wandered around the complex, scoped out the laundry room and the clubhouse, then checked out the pool. For a second, I felt like maybe this place wouldn’t be so bad.

But it still isn’t home.

Back at the apartment, all the boxes and gear from my old room were stacked neatly in the corner of my new room. All my music gear had survived the trip. My beat-up acoustic guitar, my tape decks, and my pride and joy: Dad’s Roland W-30 digital workstation. That thing could sample, sequence, and record multi-track songs like a beast. It used these 3.5-inch floppies to record and store sixteen tracks.

I opened a box labeled “Wesley’s Room” and smiled. All my notebooks and tapes were there. I would have to carve out some songwriting time after I got settled in.

I started flipping through one of the old spiral notebooks. Most of it was just half-finished lyrics, poetry ideas, and mindless doodles. But on one page, scribbled in blue ink between messy arrows and squiggly lines, a short line sat by itself in the middle.

Into the rising storm

I didn’t remember writing it. But for some reason, it made my chest feel tight for a second. Like it knew something I didn’t yet.

I flipped open another one of the notebooks. A few pages in, Trey had scribbled fake setlists for our imaginary synth duo: Static Rewind.

He played zero instruments except for trumpet, but swore he was the “creative director.” His job, according to him, was naming songs and pretending to fire me when I got too picky about chord voicings.

One of the setlists read:

1. Electric Tornado

2. Neon Tears (acoustic)

3. Do Not Play This One

I smiled. I hadn’t looked at this notebook in weeks.

Don’t stop writing, he’d told me when I moved. Bands break up. Static Rewind is forever.

Dad always said I had an extra musical bone in me, that I could hear and write things most people didn’t even know existed.

I don’t know about that, but I really do love music.

I’ve been writing music for several years. I have notebooks filled with ideas and unfinished songs. Oh, I’ve got a few finished ones, too. I track them out and then sing along with the tracks I made, recording them with a nice two-deck cassette player. I’ve never really shared them with many people, though.

Unpacking didn’t take long. I set everything up and played keys for a few minutes, but didn’t really feel like it much longer. I laid on the bed looking at the ceiling and listening to an old hip hop mixtape I made before we moved.

Later that evening, we ate fast food burgers off paper plates in front of the TV. Mom talked about getting a library card and finding the nearest grocery store. I just nodded and stared out the sliding glass door.

Three more days until band camp. Three more days until I have to show up somewhere I’ve never been with people I’ve never met and act like I belong.

Up to now, band had been my safe zone. It was where I met my people, where no one cared if you were shy or awkward. We all got to be part of something bigger than ourselves.

That was middle school band. But this was different.

High school. Freshman year. I don’t know what to expect or how I’m going to meet new friends.

Jameson High School was huge, one of the biggest in the state. Their band, “The Sentinel Sound,” was basically legendary in this area. I’d seen the video tape Dad brought home, a glossy highlight reel of perfect marching, clean runs, and totally synchronized movements across the field. Dad read that families moved into the Jameson County area just to have their kids in the band program.

And now I had to step into that?

I wasn’t the worst trumpet player out there, but I wasn’t the best either. I could play, sure. I had a nice tone and a decent range and could read music like a champ. But these guys? They probably drank valve oil and sight-read in their sleep.

I laid in bed that night staring at the ceiling “air-valving” my scales, my right fingers twitching up and down like they were playing invisible trumpet valves.

Dear Lord, please don’t let me mess this up.

Chapter 2

[ 2 Days Until Band Camp ]

The next morning, Mom and Dad said a drive around Eastferry might help us feel more at home. As we drove around town, I noticed how old and new buildings stood side by side. There were a lot of tall red brick buildings lining the streets.

“Some of these date back to Colonial times,” Mom said as we passed a beautiful old two-story brick house that sat on a perfectly landscaped lawn.

We passed a shipyard, and Dad mentioned it had been around since the Civil War. That was hard to imagine. We also saw a naval museum and an old restaurant called the Sentinel Diner. It looked like it hadn’t changed since 1957, with its shiny chrome and big neon sign.

As we continued our drive, we entered the Jameson Town Center. The streets were lined with shops and cafes, each with colorful signs and window displays.

We passed the Main Street Arcade, which had a bright sign that read “Pizza, Arcade Games, & Fun.” I could see the glow of game machines through the windows and hear faint bleeps and bloops of arcade games. I made a mental note to come back and check it out soon.

“Oh, look at that, Wes,” Dad pointed. “A record store. Probably all kinds of old vinyls and tapes in there.”

The sign out front said “Eastferry Record Store.” It was housed in an old brick building with large windows showcasing vinyl records and posters. It looked like a neat place to find some cool old music treasures.

We drove past a massive stone building with tall columns. The words “Jameson County Courthouse” were engraved above the entrance. I didn’t know the history of that building itself, but I knew it had been there a long time.

We turned onto a cobblestone street that led us to Eastferry Square. It was a nice, big green space in the middle of town. Dad parked the car and we got out to explore. The air was thick with the scent of freshly cut grass and the sound of chirping birds and cars driving slowly around the outside of the square.

The middle of the square was shaded by a huge, gnarly old live oak tree, its branches forming a natural canopy overhead.

“That tree has been a sentinel watching over this town for hundreds of years,” Mom said.

A bronze plaque at the base of the tree read:

“In memory of the brave souls who fought at the Skirmish of Eastferry Green, 1781.”

I bent closer to touch the plaque, tracing the engraved letters of words honoring soldiers long gone. It was humbling to stand where history had unfolded, to feel connected to a past that still echoed in the present.

“This place has seen a lot,” Dad said, joining me. “Battles, celebrations, everyday life. It’s the heart of Eastferry.”

I nodded, imagining the square filled with soldiers preparing for battle, townspeople gathering for news, and now, newcomers like us seeking a sense of belonging. The square stood as a testament to resilience.

If only. I wish I had some of their bravery and courage. I didn’t ask for this new journey, but here I am, willing to make the best of it.

There was something about all the old buildings that gave Eastferry a timeless feel. Even the air here felt like it carried a legacy. The shops and parks felt like they were upholding an unspoken tradition of excellence.

We drove out of the Town Center and passed through older residential areas. Flower beds and manicured yards were the standard here. Every house in this area could win “Yard of the Month.”

We came to a light, turned the corner, and like a big brick fortress, there it was.

Whoa. Jameson High School.

It rose up like a castle of concrete and glass, with tall red-brick walls. It had massive windows trimmed in white. A huge banner above the towering columned entrance read “Home of the Sentinels.” It loomed there in front of me like a hulking fortress of heavy expectations. It was nothing like my middle school.

Nothing like it.

“That’s your new school,” Dad said as he slowed the car down. “It’s big, huh?”

Big was an understatement. It looked like a giant historical museum or administrative building on a college campus. I pressed against the window trying to take it all in.

This is it. No turning back now.

Band camp would begin in a mere two days. The summer had flown by, and this last minute move to Eastferry turned everything upside down.

Two days, people!! Two days!

I tried to picture myself walking those school halls, searching for the band room. I imagined myself marching around with a bunch of other kids in the blazing sun for two weeks. I wondered what the trumpet section would be like. Would they accept me? Ignore me? Mock me?

Please let there be at least one normal kid that I can talk to.

As we drove back to the apartment, I slumped in my seat. I was honestly scared. I didn’t know what to expect, and the thought of starting at a huge new high school without any friends made my stomach twist.

Back in Georgia, I had a big friend group. I had a best friend Trey. We even had a little music group of our own. It wasn’t great or anything. We’d pretend we were famous, trade lyrics, and hum tunes to songs that never got finished. It was something I was a part of.

Now I have none of that.

I turned to look back at the massive building one more time, hoping to see something that would make me feel better, something warm and welcoming.

I was hoping to connect to some big sense of adventure, maybe like the way I feel when reading Lord of the Rings or watching The Empire Strikes Back.

But all I saw was the large silver and blue sign: “Home of the Sentinels.” That building had probably seen thousands of nervous freshmen walk through its doors over the years.

I guess now it’s my turn.

Chapter 3

[ Band Camp Day 1 ]

Apparently “Arrive early” wasn’t just a suggestion. A line of cars and minivans rolled up to Jameson High like a slow parade, dropping off teenagers wearing shorts and tank tops, and juggling instrument cases and water bottles. I had one too. A big one. There should be no way in the world I’d go thirsty. Mom made sure of that.

“You nervous?” Dad said as he stopped the car. “It’s a big day.”

I shrugged.

I’m about to walk into a lion’s den with a trumpet and a strawberry Pop-Tart. I’m terrified.

“A little.” I wanted to share how I felt with him but didn’t really know how.

“Stick with it, Wes,” he said, giving my shoulder a quick squeeze. “You’re a Wade. And Wades don’t quit.”

Right. Except for brussel sprouts. And broccoli. And jogging. And that one week I thought I was a skater and saw a guy break his wrist right in front of me and I decided to immediately quit right then and there. But sure, we Wades don’t quit.

I nodded anyway, grabbed my trumpet case and oversized water jug, and scrambled out of the car.
“Have a great first day of band camp!” His voice trailed off as he pulled away.

Jameson High sat at the edge of a wooded patch on the west side of Eastferry. The huge stadium was a block over, but we were told to report to the practice field that first morning of band camp. The field was not a field at all. It was actually a huge asphalt parking lot that was lined like a football field.

Great. Nothing like baking to death in the sun.

The practice lot, as it would come to be known, was fenced in. It felt kinda like a prison yard. At least the ones I’ve seen in movies and TV shows. It was a big space, and it was used for parking during the school year. A huge tower seemed to touch the sky on the far end. I was sure that’s where the band directors and staff would stare down at us band kids with eagle eyes while we scurried around the lot like rats.

On the outside of the fence, there was a big paper sign that said:

WELCOME TO BAND CAMP

Below that someone had taken it upon themselves to add:

EARLY IS ON TIME, ON TIME IS LATE,

LATE IS DEATH

Awesome. Can’t wait to see what kind of strict cyborg factory I just signed up for.

I followed the band kids streaming through the gate like a herd of cattle being led to market. Everyone seemed to know exactly where we were going. I definitely didn’t.

Inside the fence, it looked like the military had temporarily moved in. Cones. Tents. Painted dots and lines on the asphalt. On the sidelines, there were yard line markers every 10 yards. There were already large clusters of people standing around. Nobody had their instruments out, so I assumed that everyone was waiting for instructions.

“Trumpets over here!” someone barked from the back. “All trumpets to the back corner!”

I turned and spotted a tall girl with a ponytail and aviator sunglasses. She had a clipboard in her hands and carried herself like someone who could make a soldier cry.

“Let’s go, people!”

And there it is. A Skynet Cyborg T-800 is my section leader.

I hurried over to the trumpet group, where about twenty kids were stretching or just chatting. A few already looked like they knew what they were doing. One guy was doing high knees like he was warming up for the Olympics. Another girl was practicing her horn snaps with just her hands.

Band kids tend to practice the motions of playing and marching with air instruments. It helps.

She’s good.

A few others were just talking about their summers or how early they had to get up that morning. I kind of stood there awkwardly looking around feeling out of place.

“Hey?” The voice came from behind me. “You new?”

I turned.

“I’m Marcus.” A tall, thin guy with a high top fade and a baggy Air Jordan tee smiled. “Sophomore. You?”

“Wes,” I said. “Wesley Wade. I’m a freshman.”

“You from around here?”

“Not really,” I said. “Just moved in.”

“From where?” Marcus asked.

“Central Georgia before this,” I said. “My dad just got a job here.”

“Cool.” He nodded as if that explained everything. “Well, welcome to the third-largest band in Virginia. Or so say the rumors.”

“Third largest?” I raised an eyebrow. “Is that actually true?”

“No clue,” he laughed. “But all the upperclassmen said it enough last year, so I figure it’s either true or really good propaganda.”

A sharp whistle pierced the air before I could ask more. I can’t explain it, but something swept through the lot like an invisible wind gust. I mean, there wasn’t any wind, but everyone felt something. Everyone sensed it and turned.

At the far end of the lot stood a man in a navy blue polo and a wide-brimmed hat, arms crossed like a statue. Behind him, a handful of young adults, lean, no-nonsense types, stood with clipboards and mirrored sunglasses. They all wore matching navy blue polos.

Band staff.

They all looked like Navy Seal instructors or something. Each one of them was responsible for an individual section or combined sections of the band. Trumpets. Low Brass. Saxes. High Winds. Percussion. Color Guard.

The man didn’t say a word. He just raised his hand to touch the tip of his hat. He held his other hand out and the closest staff instructor handed him a megaphone. He raised it slowly to his face and every band kid on the lot held their breath in anticipation, even the ones who didn’t know any better.

“Welcome to band camp 1991,” the man said.

“That…” Marcus whispered, “…is Mr. Halbrook.”

The man didn’t move or wave his arms around much. He wasn’t overly excited or loud. But something about him made my legs feel like spaghetti.

“We’re supposed to call him Halbrook,” Marcus leaned in. “He likes it that way.”

The way he said Halbrook made it sound like it meant something. I’d find out later that it kinda did. Halbrook had been head director for five years, but people talked about him like he’d been born in that tower and never left. Some even said he helped build the band into what it was, like, from the ground up. Not that I could confirm any of that… the man was a walking legend and a total mystery all at once.

No Mister? Just Halbrook. Like he’s a myth or something.

Halbrook slowly walked to the center of the field and pointed two fingers toward the percussion section. He twirled them once in the air.

The lead snare tapped off, tap-tap-tap-tap, steady, crisp quarter notes.

Halbrook turned to face us as the snares tapped quietly in unison.

“Rookies,” his voice even but firm, “this is not middle school band. You are stepping into something bigger than yourselves. Welcome to The Sentinel Sound.”

He paused for effect.

“We march.”

“WE MARCH!” The veterans shouted, echoing Halbrook.

“We play.”

“WE PLAY!” The new folks joined in, the cry getting louder!

”We win.”

“WE WIN!!” The phrase reverberated off the big brick buildings of Jameson High and hung in the air.

No one dared to cheer. Or move. Or breathe it seemed.

“Sentinels—” the simple, yet clear call to be ready for the next command prompted anticipation throughout the lot. “—Ten-HUT!”

The command pierced the air.

“SENT–I–NEL PRIDE!!” The deep, guttural response came from the veterans who had been through this before.

Every kid snapped to attention. The veterans moved immediately and sharply. I followed suit as quickly as I could, looking out of the corners of my eyes to make sure I was locked into the proper attention posture.

Heels together? Check. Toes pointing slightly out? Check. Legs straight? Check.

“Don’t lock your knees, rookie,” Marcus whispered a helpful bit of advice through his teeth.

Head up, eyes forward, shoulders back? Check. Check. Check. Air trumpet! Air trumpet!

I lifted my hands as if I were holding an invisible trumpet parallel to my chest.

“Where you are now standing is hallowed ground.” Halbrook said. “Decade after decade, this practice lot has carried the weight of champions. The Sentinel Sound doesn’t just perform, we endure. We build. Every step, every note, every sweat-soaked hour stacks on the legacy you inherit today. That’s not a gift. It’s a privilege. Do you understand?

“YES, SIR!” the veterans barked in response.

Halbrook paced slowly, eyes scanning the rookies’ nervous faces and the veterans’ steady ones.

“Music speaks to us soul to soul. It binds us, freshmen to seniors, percussion to winds. It forges character. It demands you show up, every day, for yourself and the person marching beside you. We rise together from the ground up, one note at a time.”

No pressure or anything.

“My staff, your section leaders, they’ll guide you. Trust them. Prove you belong. Because when we march, we speak. When we play, we soar. And when we commit…” he paused, letting the words settle, “…we leave no doubt who we are.”

He nodded once, sharp.

“Let’s get to work.”

I was inspired and terrified at the same time. This wasn’t play time. This was serious marching band. But deep inside I knew I was where I should be.

Yes. I am Wesley Wade. Trumpet player. Musician. Songwriter. And I belong here.