Inside SEAL Team Six

by Don Mann

  He read me the requirements. The candidate:

  Has to be an active-duty member of the U.S. Navy

  Has to be a man twenty-eight years or younger with good vision

  Has to be a U.S. citizen

  Has to pass the Armed Services Vocational Aptitude Battery

  Check, check, check, check.

  “Is that all?” I asked.

  “You also have to pass a stringent physical screening test.”

  “I’m ready, sir.”

  A couple days later, I swam five hundred yards in fewer than 12.5 minutes; completed forty-two push-ups in under two minutes and fifty sit-ups in under two minutes; and did six pulls-ups. Then I had to run one and a half miles in boots and long pants. (Of course, these were Navy standards, and the SEALs wanted a lot more than that. Also, the standards in the 1970s were a bit different than they are today.)

  Piece of cake. Now I had the score qualifying me for BUD/S noted in my new service record. Boy, was I proud!

  I said, “All right, sir, I’m ready to join.”

  “Not so fast, recruit.”

  “Why not, sir?”

  He said, “You think the SEALs want brand-new recruits with only eight weeks of training? You’ve got to go to corpsman school first.”

  The Navy recruiter in New Haven—a real charming character who called himself Diamond Jim Brady—had told me that my aptitude test showed that I had the ability to be a corpsman.

  “What’s a corpsman?” I had asked.

  “It’s basically the Navy’s version of a medic. You’ll get to work with some pretty nurses, and you’ll get a chance to take care of people.”

  So after basic training, I went to corpsman school, where I learned how to run sick call, stop bleeding, administer CPR, and give medications.

  After completing two months of hospital corpsman training, I asked about joining the SEALs again. This time I was told that I needed at least a year of experience on a ship or at command or clinic first.

  The Navy assigned me to the Naval Regional Medical Center in Newport, Rhode Island. It was an old brick hospital built at the turn of the century; seeing it today, you’d think it was the setting for the movie Shutter Island. And it reeked of mildew and disinfectant.

  But Newport was gorgeous, had great places to run, and was near where my parents lived. So, all in all, it wasn’t a bad assignment.

  I did rotations in the ER and OR—where I administered to all the young Marines who got into fights and accidents on the weekends—and in the ARS (alcohol rehab service), where I developed a friendship with a young drug addict named Ron. When Ron was told he was being released, he protested loudly, because he didn’t think he was ready.

  I tried to calm him down by telling him that he’d be okay, he’d make new friends, and I’d come visit him. When that didn’t work, I went to the counselors to see if I could get them to change their minds.

  But when I went back to look for Ron, I couldn’t find him. I searched his room, the rec rooms, the cafeteria, the halls.

  Then I noticed that a door to a room that was normally left open had been closed. I turned the knob, but it was locked. After I knocked and got no answer, I kicked the door in, only to discover that the bathroom door was locked too.

  “Hey, Ron, you in there? It’s me, Don.”

  No answer. Just a faint gurgling sound.

  I kicked that door in too and found Ron slumped on the floor in a pool of blood. He’d cut his inner forearms lengthwise from his elbows to his wrists—the serious way. Blood oozed out of his mouth.

  Where was it coming from?

  I’d learned the ABCs of emergency medicine during corpsman training. Airway, breathing, circulation: clear the airway so the patient can breathe, establish a pulse, stop the leaks.

  I used my smock to wrap one arm, pulled off my T-shirt and used it to wrap the other. As I reached into his mouth to sweep his airway, something cut my finger.

  I carefully extracted what turned out to be a razor blade. Ron had apparently tried to swallow it.

  I shouted to my fellow corpsman, “Dennis! Dennis, I need some help here! Bring a stretcher!”

  We lifted Ron onto the stretcher, then quickly ran him over to the ER, where the surgeons sewed him up. Ron survived.

  Most of my shifts weren’t as eventful. They usually ran from 9:00 p.m. to 7:00 a.m. As soon as all the patients were in bed and I’d helped out wherever I could, I’d go to a little room downstairs that contained a couple of old Lifecycles and start pedaling. Most nights, I’d keep going past the time the TV stations went off the air, finish at 6:00 a.m., do my chores around the ward, then go home.

  The hospital staff considered me something of a wild man but enjoyed that my name was being mentioned in the local newspapers and even on the evening news. That’s because I was competing in and winning races throughout New England—bike races, 10 Ks, marathons.

  Then a friend named Wally who worked in the ICU told me about a new race that involved swimming, biking, and running in succession, something called a triathlon.

  I thought, That’s wild. A new challenge that combines three events. Bring it on! At that point I wasn’t much of a swimmer, so Wally helped me learn the crawl stroke at the base pool.

  At the Sri Chinmoy triathlon six weeks later, competitors swam one and a half kilometers, biked forty kilometers, then ran ten kilometers. I finished in the top ten.

  My parents had come to cheer me on, and they were standing near the finish line after the race when my dad heard a few of the top competitors talking about something called an Ironman.

  “What’s an Ironman?” he asked.

  Someone told him that there was an article about it in the May 1979 Sports Illustrated. I rode my bike to the library the next morning to look it up.

  It turned out that a Navy commander named John Collins had organized the first Ironman competition in Hawaii in 1978 by combining three local events—a 2.4-mile swim, a 112-mile bike race, and a 26.2-mile run.

  “Whoever finishes first,” Collins declared, “we’ll call him the iron man.”

  The first race held had attracted eighteen people; fifteen of them started, and twelve finished. The winner was a twenty-seven-year-old Honolulu taxi driver and former military pentathlete named Gordon Haller.

  I cut out his picture and pasted it on my wall for inspiration, then trained like a maniac. Several months later, in early February of 1980, I took a military plane from snowy, icy Rhode Island to sunny Hawaii.

  I felt like a stranger in paradise as I lugged my $109 Motobecane bike through the terminal in a cardboard box, my Navy seabag slung over my back. Through the windows I saw palm trees, tropical foliage in bold colors, and tanned girls in sarongs.

  I was winter white and marathon thin. The race owner—a woman named Valerie Silk Grundman—felt sorry for me and let me sleep on her sofa.

  One hundred and eight people raced, and I finished in fifty-​seventh place. But my result didn’t matter to me that first time out; now I had a better idea of how to train for and compete in an ultradistance race.

  Having completed my first Ironman, I couldn’t wait to get to BUD/S, the initial phase of SEAL training. But when I returned to Rhode Island, I was told that a new Navy policy had been handed down: all recently trained Navy corpsmen had to choose between the Marines or ships. I didn’t want either.

  I said, “I’ve passed the test to qualify for BUD/S twice. Now I want to go to SEALs.”

  “Regardless, you have to pick Marines or ships.”

  I picked Marines and was ordered to report to the Marine Corps training school in Camp Pendleton, California. I thought, That’s perfect, because it’s not too far from Naval Amphibious Base Coronado. That was the home of BUD/S and SEAL Team One, the West Coast SEAL team (SEAL Team Two was East Coast).

  The Navy allowed me ten days to travel there. That night, as I was sitting in my room listening to the Doors on my stereo, I looked at my trusted Motobecane and wondered if I�
��d get the opportunity to ride it when I was stationed with the Marines.

  That’s when an arguably insane idea hit me: I’ll ride it across the country!

  I figured three hundred miles a day for ten days wasn’t out of the question.

  The next day I pedaled over to a local bicycle store, Ten Speed Spokes, and asked Ted, the owner, if he wanted to sponsor me. It helped that I was still getting publicity for being the first New Englander to complete the Ironman, and he said, “Absolutely.”

  Ted contacted Guinness World Records in London. They told him that I could set a record by completing a transcontinental bike ride in ten days. They also pointed out that it would be easier if I rode west to east, since the other way was against the trade winds.

  But I had only one destination—BUD/S.

  Guinness had a few additional requirements. First, I needed to find a car to follow me the whole time. Second, I had to start at a town hall or other official place and finish at an official end point with someone there to time me. Finally, volunteers had to be recruited so that every twenty miles or so along the route there was someone there to record my progress.

  My mother offered to loan her station wagon to serve as my support vehicle, and my girlfriend, Kim, and my sister Wendy agreed to drive it.

  When I spoke on a local radio station to publicize my upcoming cross-country attempt, I received a call from a University of Rhode Island football player named Jay who said that he wanted to ride with me.

  I told him we had to share expenses and ride at least eighteen to twenty-two hours a day.

  He said, “No problem.”

  Jay and I started training together and planning our route—from New York City to the Mississippi, across the Rocky Mountains to Los Angeles. A week or so later, when my military orders allowed me to travel, the four of us—Kim, Wendy, Jay, and I—arrived in New York City in the middle of a major transit strike.

  We drove to City Hall and asked if there was someone who would officially start our race across the country.

  The person I spoke to told us to get lost.

  I explained our situation and said, “All you have to do is sign my official Guinness logbook.”

  “No dice.”

  So I called Ted back in Rhode Island, who telephoned Guinness World Records in London. They suggested that we start in Florida and end in San Diego because it was a shorter route.

  Ted located a small coastal town in Florida that was willing to officially start the race and provide a police escort and even offered to film it.

  Excited to finally get under way, we drove down there immediately.

  Jay and I climbed on our bikes on a sunny Saturday morning as a crowd of well-wishers cheered us on. I was optimistic and filled with energy.

  But it became apparent right away that Jay was struggling. The first night, after we’d clocked about 260 miles, Jay turned to me and said, “Hey, Don. I’m completely gassed. Let’s stop for the night and rest.”

  “Jay, that means we’re going to have to do three hundred and forty miles tomorrow.”

  “Fine. But I’m done for tonight.”

  The next day he wanted to stop after 240 miles. Two days into our trek, and we were already falling behind. I was upset.

  In the middle of Texas, Jay said, “I only want to do a hundred miles a day.”

  “A hundred miles a day means it will take us eighteen more days! We’ll never set a record. And I only have ten days to get to Camp Pendleton.”

  “Then I’m quitting.”

  “Come on, Jay, we can do this. I know we can.” My mind-set was so strong that I knew I could make it despite the bleeding hemorrhoids that stuck to my shorts.

  But Jay was mentally fatigued and sore and had lost his enthusiasm.

  So we packed our bikes in the station wagon and drove the rest of the way.

  As disappointed as I was about the bike ride (and it’s a failure that still haunts me), I was still psyched about arriving at BUD/S.

  I understood the new procedures and my Marine orders, but had other ideas. Soon after we arrived at Camp Pendleton, I drove south to Coronado and walked into the Quarter Deck of SEAL Team One, where I was directed to the command master chief’s office.

  I said, “Master Chief, I’m the Navy corpsman who called earlier and set up an appointment. I’ve passed the screening test twice and I request orders to go to BUD/S. I don’t want to go to Marine Corps training. I’m ready to go to BUD/S.”

  He looked me over and said, “We really need corpsmen, and it’s hard to find corpsmen who are in shape.”

  “I’m here and I’m ready, Master Chief.”

  “Great. Wait outside.”

  After he made some calls, he called me back in his office and said, “Looks like you’re going to have to complete your five-week course with the Marines first.”

  “Then I can come back and start BUD/S?”

  “Yes. Don’t give up hope.”

  I returned to Camp Pendleton and completed the five-week Field Medical Service School with flying colors. In fact, I scored the highest of all the students and was named the top graduate.

  But when I went to the Navy admin officer and requested orders to go to BUD/S, he told me, “Not after we’ve just invested all this time and training in you. You’ve got to complete an assignment with the Marines first.”

  The Navy sent me to Okinawa, Japan, where I treated Marines who were hurt in training, and had a blast. The Marines actually flew me all over Asia to compete in races—including the Western Pacific Cross Country Championship and the Marine Corps marathon in DC—all on their dime. I was running marathon after marathon now, averaging close to one a month and using each one as training for the next.

  Among the races I competed in was the third Hawaiian Ironman in February of 1981. I arrived in Oahu from Okinawa carrying my $109 Motobecane in a box.

  Around the baggage-claim area stood these incredibly fit and muscular athletes. One cut and tanned guy with blond hair spotted me carrying my bike and looked at me as though he were thinking, Who the hell are you, and what are you doing here?

  Even though I was a veteran Ironman, I felt intimidated and out of place.

  The next morning, I and the other 537 athletes who had entered in the race lined up to be inspected and weighed. Race officials were worried about people getting too dehydrated, so they told us that we would be weighed twice during the race, and anyone who lost more than 10 percent of his body weight would not be allowed to continue.

  I was more concerned about the waves I saw crashing over the seawall and washing across the street. I started to feel small and wanted to return home.

  Then the cocky blond guy I’d seen at the airport came over and stood in front of me with a beautiful lime-green five-thousand-dollar Bianchi bike by his side.

  He asked loudly, “Are you in this race?”

  “Yup.”

  He pointed at my bike. “What’s that?”

  “It’s a Motobecane.”

  “A Motobecane. No shit. What do you have on it?” he asked with a big smirk on his face.

  “It is what you see. I’ve got nothing special on it.”

  He said, “My pedals are worth more than your bike. They’re made of titanium.”

  “Whatever.”

  “So that’s a Motobecane, huh?”

  When the starter gun sounded, we all ran into the water. I watched the blond guy swim past me.

  But no way I was giving up.

  I fought through the waves, swallowed water a couple of times, but completed the swimming section without too much difficulty. Then I climbed on my bike. As soon as I started pedaling, something lit up inside me.

  Feeling a burst of energy and confidence, I started passing people and quickly moved from 175th place to 150th.

  I said to myself, I’ve done a great deal of training and have run thirty marathons in thirty-six months. There’s no reason in the world I can’t place near the front. I passed more riders—149
th, 148th, 147th, 146th—then spotted the ripped blond guy on the green Bianchi ahead. I picked up speed and blew past him, then looked back and said, “So that’s a Bianchi, huh?”

  I knew that Gordon Haller, the winner of the first Ironman, had completed the course in eleven hours and forty-four minutes. It was my goal to break his record.

  I was in 110th place and I was thinking, Only a hundred and nine more to go.

  About twenty miles away from the end of the biking section, I saw this helicopter hovering ahead. Crowds of people were cheering. News cameras were filming one of the riders.

  When he came into view, I read the name on the back of his shorts.

  “Gordon Haller. Holy shit!”

  I passed him, thinking, This is amazing! I’m about to pass the champ!

  I finished the bike portion, pulled off my bike shoes, laced up my running shoes, and took off like I was on fire. A couple of guys I passed running up the first hill, shouted at me, “Hey, dude, you’d better slow down. You’ve got a whole marathon ahead of you.”

  They had no idea what was burning inside me.

  Hours later, now in thirty-seventh place and nearing the finish line, I noticed the helicopter approaching me from behind. Someone in the crowd shouted, “Watch out, man, the champ’s after you and he’s a runner!”

  I turned and saw Gordon Haller behind me on my right.

  He was starting to pass me, but I picked up speed. Then he picked up speed.

  We made a right-hand turn together and I saw the finish line ahead. Now we were both running as fast as we could, completing the last two miles doing better than six and a half minutes per mile.

  The crowd grew louder and louder.

  We both broke through the finish line and ran chest-deep into the ocean. When we emerged, Gordon Haller took my hand. He said, “Great race. And thanks so much for pushing me.”

  I said, “It’s an honor for me just to be talking to you. Thank you. You’re my idol.”

  We lay on mats on the ground. Hawaiian girls came over to put leis around our necks and rub our shoulders. I’d just finished thirty-eighth out of 538 of the world’s top athletes. I had achieved something that had seemed almost unimaginable months earlier.