Last week, I told you about several seniors at Darrington High School who were about to set off on the next chapter in their lives.

This week, I’m going to dust off, rework, and polish a 15-year-old column of mine because I have a friend, Rodney Hennigan, who lives in Louisiana. His son, Patrick, has been accepted into the Air Force Academy and will report for induction in about three weeks.

I’ve never met Patrick, but I wanted to spend a few words telling him about the “E-Ticket” ride he’s about to step onto.

I got swept up into the Navy’s version of that ride in June of 1967 and, even though some things have changed, a lot remains the same.

Patrick will be going through Basic Cadet Training which is the Air Force Academy’s version of Plebe Summer. Neither are a lot of fun, but it’s the beginning of an experience that might last him a lifetime.

His days will likely begin at about 5:30 a.m., and end somewhere on the dark side of 10 p.m. Those days, when he looks back on them, will mostly be a blur of running, marching, lectures, learning, memorization, fear, uncertainty, shock, pain, sweat, laughter, mistakes, successes, shouting, and discovery.

Those initial weeks of drudgery are designed to find out if you’re truly committed to being there by presenting you with challenges and demands aimed at getting you to understand that the next four years aren’t going to be a hay ride.

Academics are tough. Regimentation is a constant. Your “down time” will be limited and, if there’s a war going on when you graduate, there’s a good chance that you’ll be taking part in it. These things will be in front of him and his classmates every day while he’s there.

Some will leave the first day. Others will leave for a myriad of other reasons over the next four years. Given the excitement and determination that his father describes, I believe that Patrick will be among those who’ll make it through.

Still, I wish I could be there during those moments when he’s down in the dumps and thinking of packing it in (I wrote my resignation letter four different times). That’s when I’d tell him to just give it another day or, even, another hour. To just get past the moment. That, if he can, the rewards are waiting.

I’d tell him about the pride he’ll feel the first time he lands a plane by himself, takes charge of a group of airmen, or gets to do something that he never once dreamed of doing.

I’d tell him of places he’ll visit around the world and of the unforgettable people in those places.

I’d tell him about meeting members of other services from around the world and discovering just how much like him they all are.

I’d tell him about once getting drunk with a Russian lieutenant in a bar in Copenhagen and both of us ending the evening shouting that politicians everywhere could do something anatomically impossible.

I’d also tell him how he’ll feel when he hears that a friend has just “bought the farm” or “augured in” because it’s then that you realize that driving ships, flying planes, commanding tanks, leading soldiers, or what have you are all inherently dangerous ways to earn a living — whether the bad guys are shooting at you or not.

I retired years ago, but I’d tell him that all of these things and more will be as fresh and as vivid to him late in life as they are when they happen.

Even though I’d like to tell him all of this, I’d probably just bore him to tears. I’d just be another old fart telling stories about the way it was back when, while all he really wants to do is to get at everything that’s in front of him. Everything that’s new and ready to be discovered.

And, you know what? That’s just the way it should be.

Go get ‘em, Patrick. You’re in for one heck of a ride. That much, I promise. I honestly wish that I could be in your shoes.

Lord, I wonder how many of us — no matter the career path we followed — have said that before?

Larry Simoneaux lives in Edmonds. Send comments to: larrysim@ comcast.net