I had done my homework, so I had a pretty good idea of what to expect from BUD/S—although experiencing it is certainly different from reading about it or watching movies or videos. I also knew a little bit about the SEAL physical screening test (PST) test that would quickly and mercilessly separate the wannabes from the serious candidates, and I had spent a big chunk of the summer trying to prepare appropriately. In addition to working long hours in construction, I trained relentlessly. I was in great shape by the time I left for basic training and figured I’d have no trouble passing the PST.
There was just one problem: because I was so focused on becoming a SEAL, I hadn’t put a lot of time or effort into examining the day-to-day routine of boot camp, which was not at all what I had anticipated. I figured boot camp would be demanding—hour after hour of marching and training and psychological pressure. If there was one thing I knew, it was this: at the very least, boot camp would allow me to sustain, if not advance, my current level of conditioning, thus ensuring that I’d be fit as hell by the time I entered BUD/S.
I was mistaken.
Here’s what happened in boot camp: I got fat. I was five foot nine, 175 pounds when I showed up (pretty close to the average for a SEAL, as noted); within a few weeks, I was closer to 185. Despite everything I’d heard about the rigors of basic training, navy boot camp turned out to be mostly an exercise in boredom. We spent a lot of time in classrooms or marching to and from classrooms. Slowly … without breaking a sweat. We spent endless hours studying and absorbing navy customs and culture. Important stuff, to be sure, especially for anyone who would be spending the next four years serving in the “regular” navy. But for those of us who aspired to become SEALs, it was almost detrimental. When we weren’t marching or studying, we were eating. Big, starchy, fat-laden meals. It was like breakfast at Cracker Barrel, all day, every day. Within two weeks, I’d gotten soft. By three weeks, I was almost doughy. I started to get anxious.
What if I wasn’t fit enough to pass the PST?
Fortunately, the recruits who had expressed an interest in the SEAL program were allowed two days of physical training per week. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing. And the physical training was directed by a pair of men who represented my introduction to the world of Navy SEALs. One guy was in his early thirties and incredibly fit; the other guy was probably in his fifties and also in great shape. He was a little more old-school, as you might expect, but both of these guys were impressive in both demeanor and physicality. They pushed us hard in training, but they were also supportive; it seemed like they wanted us to believe that we could one day join their ranks.
The SEAL PST is rigorous and includes five exercises—or evolutions, as I would come to know them in BUD/S—each of which must be completed in a certain timeframe. The minimum standard is as follows:
500-yard swim (12 minutes, 30 seconds)
42 push-ups (2 minutes)
50 sit-ups (2 minutes)
8 pull-ups (no time limit)
1.5-mile run (11 minutes)
The five exercises are completed consecutively, so it’s more like a pentathlon than a series of individual tests. Rest time is minimal: ten minutes after the swim, then two minutes after the push-ups and sit-ups, followed by another ten-minute rest before the final event, the 1.5-mile run. It should also be noted that the standards listed above are merely that: minimum qualifying standards. If you hit those numbers, you are allowed to enter BUD/S, where you will almost certainly be among the very first to drop out. BUD/S is challenging enough for the fittest and strongest of candidates. For those who enter the program having met only the minimum standards, it’s basically an exercise in futility, with a failure rate that hovers around 97 percent. To increase the odds of success, the navy recommends training for and achieving “competitive” scores on the PST. For example: 10:30 on the swim, and 10:20 on the run, as well as seventy-nine push-ups and sit-ups, and eleven pull-ups.
These are not subtle variations; they are significant. Most of the candidates who are serious about becoming SEALs shoot for the higher numbers and hit at least a few of them.
I was confident that I would easily meet the minimum standards, and I had been training diligently for months prior to basic training. I wasn’t even worried about the 500-yard swim, which, believe it or not, is a common barrier for many aspiring SEALs. A lot of people come to BUD/S with a strong background in swimming. Some were competitive swimmers in high school or college. Some played water polo. Others had extensive lifeguard training. One guy was even a former college diver. But not everyone fits this profile, and even those who do are often shocked to discover that the “wet” portion of BUD/S is about much more than swimming. When it comes to water, it’s about survival and strength, and overcoming the natural fear of drowning. A great many exceptionally strong and otherwise capable candidates drop out of BUD/S during water training; and some of them are quite adept at swimming.
I loved the water—it was one of the reasons I was drawn to the SEAL program—but I was not a trained or competitive swimmer. My high school did not have a swimming team, and my family wasn’t exactly the country club type, so I didn’t spend a lot of time swimming laps when I was growing up. But I liked water: rivers, lakes, the ocean. Didn’t matter. I was a self-taught swimmer who never had any issues taking care of himself in a water environment. I knew that if I were out on a lake or an ocean bay somewhere, and the boat capsized, I could get to shore. What more did I need to know?
A lot, as it turned out.
For one thing, I was a technically inefficient swimmer, most often utilizing what could best be described as a modified crawl. This was perfectly fine if you were just messing around with your buddies on a summer afternoon but not the most effective strategy for a timed 500-yard 1.5-mile swim. Further complicating matters was a little rule I discovered only after arriving at basic training and beginning preparation for the PST: the swim would be conducted in the safety and calm of a pool, but the distance covered had to be executed using a combination of the breaststroke and sidestroke, neither of which I had ever been taught.
So I learned. Before long, I became reasonably proficient; I wouldn’t have won any medals as a competitive swimmer, but I developed a level of comfort and efficiency that helped me prepare for the PST. The truth is, like everyone else, once I got into the PST, I relied heavily on the sidestroke, since the breaststroke is both technically difficult and exhausting.
In the end, I was one of only a few guys from my boot camp class who qualified for BUD/S. It did, however, take me more than one attempt. This is not unusual. A lot of guys fail to meet the standard on one or more of the events and therefore retake the entire PST. With the help of the SEAL trainers, and a lot of practice time in the pool, I passed on the second try.
I trained mostly with Jacob, an older guy from Arizona. Jacob was in his midthirties, which made him one of the oldest in boot camp. He was an amazing athlete, lean and muscular, with an easy and graceful way of moving. Jacob sailed through boot camp and easily qualified for BUD/S. I found it kind of inspiring to be around a guy like that. Here he was, nearly twice my age, and he could kick my ass in most of the physical events. I’m in my midthirties now, and frankly, I can’t imagine going through BUD/S at this age. So, yeah, Jacob was unique.
Unfortunately, he didn’t last long. Like a lot of guys, Jacob succumbed to the mental strain of BUD/S. He struggled with one of the many water evolutions in which candidates come perilously close to experiencing the feeling of drowning. It’s a horrifying sensation, one that routinely triggers withdrawal from the program for candidates who previously had appeared exceptionally qualified. Certainly, that was the case with Jacob, who, both on paper and in person, looked like an ideal SEAL candidate, age notwithstanding.
You just never know.
I arrived at Naval Base Coronado in March 2003, having completed basic training and A school, and spent some time just waiting for a spot to open up in BUD/S while I was at Great Lakes. A sprawling complex in a resort community on San Diego Bay, Coronado is home to, among other things, the Naval Special Warfare Training Center, where the six-month BUD/S course is held. I actually volunteered to go to Coronado nearly a month early to help out with training exercises for one of the earlier BUD/S classes, which was both exciting and intimidating.
BUD/S typically begins with a five-week conditioning and training program known as Indoctrination. But I got a sneak preview of a later phase of the program when I was sent out to an offshore training facility. Here, the members of SEAL Class 243 were in the final portion of the program, three and a half weeks of intense training handling live explosives and ammunition, along with rigorous physical training. To me, it seemed almost harsh beyond description, but also thrilling. I could only imagine what these guys had endured in the preceding six months. I mean, I had an image in my head of what it must have been like, but to see the survivors here now, roughly fifty badass Special Operations warriors, each of them sunbaked and lean, so close to their goal … well, it was inspiring.
And a little scary.
One day, my job was to stand in the back of a box truck and hand out ammo to the candidates as they went through various evolutions. One of the guys—an older student, probably close to thirty—took a moment to make small talk.
“How old are you?” he asked.
“Eighteen,” I said.
The guy smiled. “You’ll quit,” he said dryly.
I didn’t know what to say, and I figured saying nothing was probably the right response, anyway. So I just looked at him.
“Yeah,” he said, nodding. And then, just in case I hadn’t heard him the first time, he repeated himself. “You’ll quit. But don’t worry about it. You can always try again later.”
He walked away, and I went back to work, trying not to let his assessment, which apparently was based entirely on my age and youthful appearance, get into my head.
There are several BUD/S classes each year, with overlapping schedules. So while BUD/S class 243 was completing Third Phase of training, Classes 244 and 245 were already under way and at various points along the timeline. It is not unusual for a member of one class to end up graduating with a later class due to injury or illness or failure to meet a standard in one of the required exercises. For example, let’s say a candidate fails to complete the ocean swim that is a requirement in Third Phase. Assuming he does not quit—and quitting is relatively rare in Third Phase—the candidate will get another opportunity, although often he will “roll back” to join the next class to complete his training. Similarly, if someone is injured or sick and must take time off from the program but is otherwise progressing well and does not want to quit, he is given the opportunity to roll back and finish with a later class.
I entered SEAL training as part of BUD/S class 246. There were 168 men in our class; of that number, only 22 would reach the finish line. And yet, several others from previous classes would graduate with us as part of Class 246.
In that sense, BUD/S is not entirely unforgiving. In just about every other way, however, it is an utterly merciless, nonstop, six-month beatdown.
Did I say six months? If you include the indoctrination phase, which isn’t nearly as gentle or encouraging as the name might imply, it’s more like seven months and change. BUD/S was simultaneously one of the best and worst experiences of my life—I would guess this is a sentiment shared by every SEAL who successfully completes the program—and I wouldn’t trade it for anything. It was horrible and exhausting; it was, at times, darkly and weirdly funny. The purpose of BUD/S is to determine not just who wants to be a SEAL but who is really equipped for the job. When I arrived in Coronado, I knew I was part of the first camp; I didn’t know yet whether I’d be part of the second.
To its credit, the navy understands that neither boot camp nor A school does much to prepare a recruit for the physical and emotional demands of BUD/S. In my best guess, diving right into First Phase would result in a success rate of somewhere around 0 percent. To level the playing field, students new to BUD/S enter a pre-indoctrination stage known as Physical Training, Rest, and Recuperation (PTRR). Here the emphasis is on preparation and fitness, along with medical screening to ensure that candidates are up to the challenge of BUD/S. Candidates from previous classes who have been rolled back due to illness or injury all end up in PTRR, where they train and recuperate and generally bide their time while awaiting assignment to another class when that class reaches the same point at which the candidate was rolled back. For these students, PTRR can be a long and frustrating experience.
When numbers are sufficient, an entire class moves on to Indoctrination. Although technically BUD/S is a three-stage training program, Indoc is much more than just a warm-up. Ask anyone who has been through it: Indoc is where BUD/S begins in earnest. It’s five weeks of intense physical training and conditioning and mental strain, designed not only to prepare the class for the rigors of BUD/S but to introduce the customs and traditions that are part and parcel of the entire experience. Indoc is a total and instantaneous immersion into the world of BUD/S. For twelve hours a day, you swim, run, climb ropes, traverse obstacle courses, carry inflatable boats, and generally experience exhaustion on a level you couldn’t imagine. You also spend time in classrooms, absorbing lessons on the SEAL ethos, with a heavy emphasis on ethical and honorable behavior.
It is during Indoctrination that a SEAL candidate becomes acquainted with degradation and exhaustion doled out with great passion by instructors whose job is to not merely train but to push students to the breaking point through physical and verbal means. I’d been through boot camp, so I knew what it was like to have a recruit division commander (basically a drill instructor) tell me what a worthless pile of shit I was. But that was amateur hour compared to the abuse meted out by SEAL instructors during BUD/S. These guys were tireless and inventive; they were, quite often, funny. And while they didn’t always scream in your face—they were more likely to just shake their heads and call you a fucking idiot—they did sometimes appear to be truly malevolent bastards who took joy in witnessing the pain and suffering of their recruits.
In truth, BUD/S instructors are performing a vital service. Their job is to train young men for one of the most demanding positions in the military, and they do this, in part, by weeding out everyone who isn’t 100 percent committed to the cause, and both temperamentally and physically up to the challenge. I learned on the first day of Indoc that everyone screws up; that indeed a student is a worthless ball of slime who can do nothing right, and so you might as well just own up to your mistakes and make no excuses. If you were ordered to do ten push-ups, an instructor would stand over you counting; he would give you credit only for the push-ups that were done perfectly. And, of course, there is no such thing as “perfect.”
Every inspection or interrogation resulted in some type of beatdown. Make the slightest mistake and you’d find yourself running to the surf for a quick submersion in sixty-degree water. The water off the coast of Southern California is surprisingly cold, especially when you never get a chance to dry off. The dunking was typically followed by a roll in the sand, until your entire body was covered with sticky, hard granules. This was known as the sugar cookie, and if it sounds relatively harmless, well, let’s just say the result was far less appetizing than the name might indicate. And if you half-assed the sugar cookie by rolling in the sand with a lack of enthusiasm, rest assured—you would be sent right back to the beach to do it all over again. This was the endless, persistent refrain of BUD/S: do it right the first time, or you will do it again.
It’s funny—you go to BUD/S worrying about whether you might drown, or how well you will hold up while running endless miles in the sand while wearing heavy boots—or, in my case, whether your fear of heights will prove to be an impediment as you try to climb a twenty-foot rope wall during the obstacle course. You fear withering in the face of a ceaseless barrage of torment from a seemingly sadistic instructor. In the end, though, it’s the more mundane stuff that drives you crazy: the sleeplessness, the bone-chilling cold that comes with being wet all the time; and the skin rubbed raw by wet clothes and sugar cookies. Everyone at BUD/S suffered from jock itch so horrific that they learned to run bowlegged. We all experienced the sublime pleasure of bleeding nipples.
Indoctrination was a giant mind fuck—a glimpse into the mental and physical challenges that would escalate during First Phase of BUD/S. In a very real sense, the purpose of Indoc was to scare the living crap out of everyone, to chase off the pretenders before the real work began.
If I can’t handle this, how the hell am I going to survive the next six months?
It was a brutal but effective training strategy. The seeds of self-doubt were planted on day one, and by the end of Indoc, a typical class had been substantially pared. We lost roughly thirty guys from Class 246 before First Phase even began. That’s nearly 20 percent who decided that maybe being a SEAL wasn’t such a great thing after all.
And so they rang the bell.
Oh, yeah. The bell. There was no quiet or dignified exit from BUD/S. Although students were actively encouraged to quit, often in a condescending or sarcastic manner, and sometimes in an almost sympathetic manner (“Hey, it’s okay, most people aren’t meant to be SEALs; no shame in dropping out, son”), the act of quitting was, by its very nature, a public admission of failure. You could quit at any time. All you had to do was ring the drop-on-request (DOR) bell that hung prominently near the grinder (the asphalt area where candidates did endless calisthenics: push-ups, sit-ups, pull-ups, etc.). Just walk over to the bell, grab the long, thick braided rope that dangled temptingly from its opening, and give it three quick tugs.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
Relief was instantaneous.
So was shame. And, often, regret.
It shouldn’t be this way. Washing out of BUD/S is hardly embarrassing. Hell, most people don’t want any part of the SEALs, and fewer still ever qualify for BUD/S. And eight out of ten students fail to complete the program. Ringing the bell, therefore, was hardly an unusual act; most people did it. Then they moved on to some other type of job in the navy. What’s the big deal?
In your weaker moments—and there are many of them during BUD/S—this is what you tell yourself. It is the lie that seeps into your sleep-deprived brain and tempts you with the promise of rest and recovery. Then you hear the bell ringing out across the base, and you know what it means: that someone has quit; he has surrendered. You instantly picture that person changing into dry clothes and eating a warm meal and then collapsing into a comfortable bed. And for just a moment, maybe you’re a little bit envious; you want to run to the bell yourself and end the suffering. Some people do just that; I get it. But not me. I heard the bell, and no matter how shitty I felt, no matter how much my knees hurt or how chafed I was from being covered with sand and salt; no matter how badly I wanted to quit … the sound of the bell always signaled to me that I was one step closer to the finish line.
I will not quit. You’ll have to kill me first!
One of the more intimidating and ruthlessly effective evolutions in BUD/S was something called drownproofing. It’s an interesting choice of names, since the test actually makes you feel like you’re drowning, as opposed to making you feel impervious to the possibility. In reality, it is a test designed to teach that candidate that there are ways to prevent drowning under even the most adverse conditions; it’s also a great way to cull the class—to shake out a few more pretenders—before Hell Week even kicks in.
In drownproofing, candidates entered the deep end of a pool with ankles tied together and hands bound behind their backs. It was a simple and, to some, terrifying exercise, designed to test not only a student’s stamina but his ability to remain calm under pressure. If you didn’t panic, drownproofing was a manageable exercise. You took a deep breath and sank to the bottom of the pool; then you kicked off the bottom and surfaced, took another deep breath, and repeated the cycle.
Over and over.
And that was just the beginning.
After repeating the bobbing exercise twenty times, at the end of which exhaustion was guaranteed, we had to float for five minutes, then swim to the shallow end of the pool (using a dolphin kick, since our legs and hands were bound), turn around without touching the bottom, and swim back to the deep end.
And still the test wasn’t over. We were expected to execute a forward and backward somersault underwater, and then dive to the bottom and retrieve a face mask. How did we do this with our hands tied behind our backs? Well, by using our teeth, of course.
Drownproofing could go wrong in so many ways. In the bobbing portion, some guys would stay too long on the bottom or not grab enough air when they broke the surface, which of course put them in oxygen debt and set them up for failure. Pacing was crucial, as was the ability to remain calm. I didn’t have any problem with drownproofing, simply because it was less about being a strong swimmer than remaining focused and relaxed in the water. But some guys panicked and quit or had to repeat the test one or more times. It wasn’t unusual for someone to nearly pass out during drownproofing and have to be pulled quickly from the water.
There have been fatalities in BUD/S, but it is an exceptionally rare occurrence. The young men are strong and athletic and fit, and the navy goes to great lengths to ensure their safety, even as they endure training that is always rigorous and sometimes downright dangerous. Medical personnel constantly monitor candidates for signs of hypothermia or illness or injury. Meals are huge and frequent to ensure that students have the necessary fuel. BUD/S is not inhumane. It is not torture, although it does sometimes feel that way.
My modest swimming skills became something of a factor a few times during BUD/S. Not necessarily during drownproofing, because, name notwithstanding, drownproofing was less about swimming than it was about self-control. But sometimes being a strong and experienced swimmer was an asset during the hundred-meter underwater pool swim or during something known as the water rescue test. If that sounds fairly simple, well, it wasn’t nearly as tame as the kind you might encounter in your basic lifeguard course, where the person being saved basically floats peacefully while being pulled to safety.
In real life, it’s more common for someone who is thrashing about in the water, struggling to stay afloat, to be completely panic-stricken. You try to rescue someone in that state of agitation and you’re liable to be dragged right down beside him. If you don’t know what you’re doing, you’ll both drown. Naturally, BUD/S rescue training presents to the rescuer the most distressing scenario possible: a drowning victim (played by an instructor), with weights in his pockets to pull him under and make the whole package even heavier, who kicks and screams and punches and claws. In short, he makes the job insanely difficult. Some instructors embrace the role more eagerly than others; I happened to get one of those guys, and his enthusiasm, coupled with the fact that I wasn’t the strongest swimmer, really messed me up.
It was a challenging test even under the best of circumstances, and these were not the best. I jumped into the pool wearing full camouflage and boots and immediately felt the weight of my clothing slowing me down. Then I swam to my target—and I swear I could see him smiling—and immediately became entangled in a knot of thrashing arms and legs. The instructor, an expert at this drill, as well as a very good swimmer and a very big guy, put me in a headlock and used his legs to tackle me beneath the water. I quickly became exhausted, prompting the instructor to calmly tap me on the shoulder and proclaim, “You’re done.” Beaten and barely able to breathe, I swam slowly to the side of the pool, leaving my “victim” in the water.
Failure.
Fortunately, on the second try, I caught a break in the form of a victim who was more open to the idea of being rescued. This instructor made me work to save him, but at least he gave me a fair shot. Eventually, I was able to hook my arm under his shoulder and drag him to the side of the pool. I was exhausted, but I had passed.
In a word … BUD/S sucks. From start to finish, it is relentlessly awful. And the awfulness reaches a peak near the end of First Phase, with the appropriately named Hell Week.
It’s weird—I remember BUD/S as a communal experience, like the ultimate team-building exercise. But the truth is that the early stages of BUD/S are about survival and suffering, and much of the pain is experienced on a private and personal level.
“You know, you didn’t talk to me very much before Hell Week,” one of my best friends and classmates said to me after we graduated from BUD/S. “I thought you didn’t like me or something.”
The truth is, I didn’t have an opinion one way or the other. On a subconscious level, I think I tried to avoid getting too close to anyone during Indoc or First Phase. I’d look around and think, Most of these guys are not going to make it. A fun and healthy sense of competition permeated the proceedings; it wasn’t like I rooted for anyone else to fail. Oh, sure, there were a handful of arrogant shitbags whose quick departure was not seen as any great loss, but in general, I liked most of the guys in my BUD/S class, and the training encouraged both competition and a sense of camaraderie. Misery loves company, after all, and we were pretty damn miserable. Still, we all knew the numbers, and with that knowledge came a certain reluctance to forge close relationships.
First Phase was a lot like Indoc, with an emphasis on physical training, only much more intense and demanding. There were endless beatdowns on the grinder, miles of running in heavy sand, hours of frigid surf torture. Some of the worst evolutions involved the rubber rafts commonly used by SEALs during various water operations. Known as an IBS (Inflatable Boat—Small), the rafts appear to be fairly light and flexible. In truth, they weigh approximately 185 pounds and are incredibly unwieldy. The first time I lifted an IBS, I couldn’t believe how heavy it was; with the boat resting awkwardly on my skull, I could feel my head collapsing into my shoulders. Early in First Phase, we would be divided into crews of eight and instructed to hoist the IBS over our heads. Each team would hold the boat with arms extended for fifteen-minute intervals. The first team to collapse would endure a punishment of one type or another.
There were land races with the IBS, known as elephant runs, with the winning team often getting extra time to rest or eat. There were sea exercises, including treacherous and exhaustive landings on the rocky shoreline. The IBS is a fundamental part of SEAL training and invaluable in practical application. But, man, I came to hate it. We all did. Exercises involving the IBS were frequently responsible for guys dropping out. The exhaustion would seep into the deepest part of your body. Additionally, accidents and injuries were common during IBS exercises. Eight exhausted men dragging a nearly two-hundred-pound boat across slippery rocks sometimes lost their footing. Broken bones and wounds were not unusual. I also heard about a couple of guys who suffered neck injuries simply from the repeated strain of hoisting and carrying the IBS.
And then there were the logs. Jesus … the fucking logs. This was old-school physical training, supposedly dating back to British commandos in World War II. Like IBS training, log training is about team building as much as it is about pain and suffering. It sounds like such a simple and innocuous exercise—log PT—when in fact it is often remembered by SEALs as one of the worst evolutions in BUD/S. Picture seven men, already wet and tired, hoisting an eight-foot-long, 250-pound log over their heads. And holding it in place until further instruction.
We did team squats with the log. We did jumping jacks and crunches with the log. We lay on our backs and rolled it up a sand berm with our feet, pushing until our legs burned and we collapsed. We raced across the beach and tossed the log at the finish line. Then rested for a few seconds, picked it up, and ran back the other way. Sometimes a team would screw up and be assigned as punishment a famously large and awful log known as Old Misery.
Let’s just say it was an appropriate nickname.
Log PT tested not just your personal resolve but your commitment to the team, for if one person weakened or quit, the remaining members of the team were, in a word, screwed. Losing a team member did not relieve your team of the burden of log PT; it just meant increased suffering for those left behind. The log felt bigger, heavier, more cumbersome. It was interesting to see the way different teams handled the stress and pain. Some fought and bitched at each other. Others worked together and encouraged each other. Still, it was a war of attrition, and log PT claimed a lot of casualties. We lost another forty guys in the first four weeks of First Phase.
And Hell Week was still to come.