At the Naval Academy, the beginning of January through the onset of spring is often referred to as “the dark ages.” It’s generally a depressing time for midshipmen, as the Maryland weather is often cold and icy, with no Navy football games to look forward to on weekends. Like the snow that would sometimes gather on brittle tree limbs, the burden of our rigorous schedules always seemed to feel heaviest during this gloomy period.
The third quarter of my junior year in Annapolis represented my personal dark ages. I was inundated with schoolwork, which was even more difficult due to my poor study habits. Even though I was surrounded by teammates and friends, I felt alone in my struggles, as everyone else seemed to manage the load with relative ease. I also found myself highly frustrated by my lack of improvement in the pool. No matter how much of an extra effort I made, it didn’t seem to be making the slightest bit of difference.
My motivation began to slip once I started being left out of the Navy swim team’s starting lineup. If I wasn’t even swimming in meets, I started to wonder why I was working so hard to maintain mediocrity. With my grades suffering, I thought, maybe I could better utilize the six-plus hours a day I was devoting to training?
I began to succumb to cynicism and doubt. From age eleven until my junior year at Navy, I had rarely, if ever, missed a swimming practice. That included bouts with ear infections, the flu, and even a broken wrist. The only time I could remember missing practice was when my dad punished me for cheating on a Spanish quiz during my freshman year of high school. He said that swimming was a privilege, which I had voided by compromising my integrity. Sitting out of practice that day was horrible, and taught me a valuable lesson.
Despite my previously unwavering work ethic, however, I started hitting the snooze button when the alarm went off for morning practice. I also started skipping classes. The result of my laziness was being summoned to the office of my swimming coach, and before long, to the Commandant of the Naval Academy, who was a much more intimidating equivalent of a university dean.
My punishment was being assigned to “restriction,” which meant I couldn’t leave campus. Due to another aspect of my punishment, “tours,” I was also required to march a square pattern in a courtyard for one hour per day. Both assignments were miserable, and offered plenty of time for serious reflection.
I started to wonder how I had gotten myself into this situation. Even as a junior, I began to question if I was qualified to be a midshipman, let alone lead US Navy sailors during wartime, should I be lucky enough to graduate. Just like the butterflies that often fluttered in my stomach before a big race, skeptical thoughts were now swimming through my head.
MEMORIAL HALL—LOCATED IN THE heart of the Naval Academy’s historic Bancroft Hall—is a museum that honors fallen midshipmen and chronicles the Marine Corps’ and Navy’s rich histories of selfless service. One of the most treasured artifacts inside Memorial Hall is Oliver Hazard Perry’s battle flag from the War of 1812, which famously reads, “don’t give up the ship!” Another highlight features the heroic exploits of John Ripley, the US Marine officer who almost singlehandedly prevented the North Vietnamese army from capturing Saigon in 1972.
Memorial Hall was also where restriction formations were held. I have almost no doubt that this was intentional, and designed to ensure that troublemakers, like the lazy, junior year version of Brad Snyder, would appreciate the extraordinary responsibilities that came with being a midshipman.
In my case, it absolutely worked. I stared at the miniature version of Ripley and pictured myself leading men in combat. The image of Perry’s battle flag, as well as “don’t give up the ship,” was burned into my memory. For the first time, I began to reimagine myself as a future naval leader.
The warmer weather and blooming flowers of another beautiful Maryland spring enhanced my renewed sense of purpose. I also reached a previously unimaginable conclusion: my military career would be better off if I opted against pursuing a roster spot on the swim team for my next, final year at the Naval Academy. By quitting the swim team, I believed, I would have a much better chance of improving my grades and eventually joining a Special Operations unit.
Then, something happened that I never saw coming. My swimming teammates elected me as their captain. I was blown away and also felt undeserving, especially since I had been planning to quit.
After the shocking announcement, I looked around the room at the fine young men I had been swimming alongside for the past three years. They had chosen me as their leader, and I couldn’t let them down. In fact, I never told anyone about my initial decision to quit. Instead, I chose to embrace the honor that my teammates had bestowed on me. As a senior captain, I would set an example and inspire the Naval Academy’s swim team in the same way I hoped to someday lead our country’s bravest men and women into battle.
TWO OF THE PREVIOUS three Naval Academy men’s swim team captains had gone straight into the Navy’s Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL (BUD/S) training upon graduation. The third, my best friend Jake, had just earned a selection into the Explosive Ordnance Disposal community, which was where I hoped to end up. All three were warriors who inspired me deeply, which meant that I had big shoes to fill as the new team captain. But I still didn’t feel worthy to succeed these fine young men, especially after my lousy junior season. On top of it all, I was afraid of public speaking. At the time, I could imagine nothing more terrifying than delivering locker room speeches before each meet.
Then, I thought about how my dad reacted after I lost that big race when I was eleven. It didn’t matter if I had won or lost, but that I had left everything in the pool. I thought about Perry’s “don’t give up the ship” flag and Ripley’s extraordinary valor while staring down the North Vietnamese Army. I decided that I would embrace my new role as captain, and—through my work ethic—inspire my teammates to succeed.
When it came time to deliver my first address as the new team captain, my fidgety hands were both cold and sweaty. That was until my eyes circled the room and showed me the faces of forty young men who believed in me. Most importantly, they believed in our team, as well as themselves. That’s when I realized that it didn’t really matter what I said, as long as I exuded confidence.
As I began to speak, I did so from the heart instead of the prepared remarks I had been practicing in my head. My teammates nodded as I spoke, and I knew that they were ready to follow me into the water. As was our tradition, we strode confidently onto the pool deck, huddled together, and joined the home crowd in a huge pre-race cheer.
I wish I could remember whether we won or lost that meet. But as my father had taught me when I was eleven, it didn’t matter. Through my experiences as the captain of that group of young men, I had learned two of the most valuable leadership lessons of my career.
First, leadership is living a positive example, day in and day out. Second, compassion should be the basis for all leadership. If you can live the positive example, and wholly invest yourself in the people around you while demonstrating true compassion, then you will be able to establish an unfaltering trust. People will then follow you anywhere.
Shortly after our final swim meet during my last year in Annapolis, I sat in the locker room after everyone else had left. I took a few minutes to consider the end of my swimming career, and how in the water I had grown from a small boy into a soon-to-be naval officer. While I was sad to leave the sport, I was simultaneously thrilled to begin a new career in the Navy.
After four years buried in textbooks and spreadsheets, I would also find that the lessons I learned on the pool deck were among the most valuable that I learned at the Naval Academy. Finally, I was ready to lead.