Sea Stories

by William H. Mcraven

  Run hard, Bill. Just run hard. I know you can do it!

  One of my favorite movies of all time is Frank Capra’s Christmas classic, It’s a Wonderful Life, starring screen legends Jimmy Stewart and Donna Reed. The movie is set in the mythical town of Bedford Falls in the 1930s and ’40s. Stewart plays George Bailey, a young man who has taken over his deceased father’s Savings and Loan. Reed plays his wife, Mary. Other characters in the movie are George’s younger brother, Harry, whom George saved from drowning when Harry was just nine, and George’s forgetful Uncle Billy. The villain in the film is the mean old Mr. Potter, a soulless banker who only lives for the money he can make off people.

  George longs for the day when he can leave the small town of Bedford Falls and see the world. He wants to do big things with his life, really big things. But as the movie progresses, George never makes it out of Bedford Falls. Instead he stays in the town, going about his daily life and trying to keep the old Savings and Loan from being taken over by Mr. Potter. But eventually, bad luck befalls George Bailey and he decides that it is better to end his life and leave the insurance money to his family.

  George goes to a nearby bridge, ready to jump off, when God sends an angel to help. The angel is an awkward fellow named Clarence. He tries to convince George not to end his life. George won’t listen and tells Clarence that his life has been worthless and it would have been better had he never been born.

  Clarence the angel decides to show George what life would have been like—had George never been born. They head back into town, and, much to George’s surprise, the town is no longer the quaint Bedford Falls but a run-down, seedy place called Pottersville. Mary, his wife, never married and is an old maid librarian. Other things in the town have changed, and not for the better. As the scene continues to unfold, Clarence takes George to the town cemetery. There, barely visible through the overgrown grass, is the tombstone of his younger brother Harry. The tombstone shows that Harry died when he was nine.

  George, not understanding what Clarence has done, screams that this isn’t right. He yells, “That’s a lie! Harry Bailey went to war. He got the Congressional Medal of Honor!” He stopped a kamikaze from sinking a ship. “He saved the lives of every man on that transport.”

  Then comes the seminal moment in the movie. Clarence says, “But George, you don’t understand. Because you were never born, Harry died that day on the ice. Harry wasn’t there to save all those men, because you weren’t there to save Harry.”

  And that’s when it hits you. The actions of one man, George Bailey, changed the lives not just of those he touched, but also of so many others. All the men on that ship, and their children and their children’s children, were alive because of George Bailey. The town of Bedford Falls had thrived because of the kindness of George Bailey, and the people he befriended lived full and happy lives—because of George Bailey.

  One hundred yards. Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven. Six.

  “Push it! Push it!” I screamed out loud.

  Everything I had, I gave.

  The crowd was on its feet—the yelling inaudible but loud, driving me harder.

  I leaned forward, pumping my arms and willing my legs to move faster and faster and faster.

  Five. Four. Three.

  Fifty yards. Just a few seconds. I had to hold on. Just a few more seconds.

  Two. Two. Two.

  Stumbling, reaching, sprawling, I fell across the finish line and tumbled onto the hard cinder track, rolling onto the infield to avoid being trampled. I couldn’t breathe. The sound of my heart pounding in my ears blocked out all noise. Mike Morris was standing in front of me. I couldn’t make out what he was saying, but I could see the look on his face. He handed me the stopwatch.

  4:31.40.

  A new school record.

  Later that evening my mother would hug me. My father would tell me how proud he was, and the following week I would get a few congratulations. The record was shattered the next year by a better runner. But it didn’t matter. That race would forever change my life. Knowing I could set a goal, work hard, suffer through pain and adversity, and achieve something worthwhile made me realize that I could accomplish anything I put my mind to. It made me realize that I could be a Navy SEAL. Over forty years later, I know that my life and the lives of the thousands of men and women I commanded were changed by a phone call. One act of kindness.

  If we are lucky, somewhere in our lives there is a George Bailey—a person who helped us along the way. A man or woman, who, probably without even knowing it, changed everything about our own future, and in doing so, changed the lives of so many others.

  Jerry Turnbow was my George Bailey, and I will be forever grateful that he took the time to call.

  Thanks, Coach!

  CHAPTER FOUR

  THE ONLY EASY DAY WAS YESTERDAY

  CORONADO, CALIFORNIA

  1977

  Waaater!”

  “Dig! Dig harder!”

  The twelve-foot wall of water was beginning to crest, and all seven men in the Inflatable Boat Small (IBS) knew they had to paddle for their lives or the wave would crush the tiny boat and send us all crashing back onto the shore. As the coxswain, my job was to hold the IBS into the oncoming wave and hope we could keep the bow centered. If the rubber boat turned sideways, we would surely dump and the few moments of dryness we had experienced over the past hour would vanish and once again we would be soaked to the bones from the cold Pacific Ocean.

  The wave was upon us and my fellow SEAL trainees from Class 95 were paddling as hard as they could as I yelled the stroke cadence.

  “We’re losing it!” shouted one of the men.

  I could feel the strain on my paddle as the wave bore down upon the tiny raft. The only thing keeping us from capsizing was my oar, which was planted firmly in the water, steadying the IBS.

  We were just about over the crest of the wave. We were going to make it, I thought. Over the wave and into calm water. We just had to hold on for one more second.

  Craaack! The sound was unmistakable. Wood splintering in two, like a slugger’s bat snapping as a hundred-mile-an-hour fastball caught the middle of the pine.

  Suddenly the rudderless boat spun sideways. Men and oars tumbled out of the IBS, caught in a vortex of water and foam, plunging beneath the wave and rolling violently on the sandy bottom off Coronado, California.

  One by one the trainees popped to the surface and struggled to make their way to the beach. Each man had a chemlite taped to his life jacket, and I took a quick head count to make sure all my men were present and accounted for.

  Dejected and wet, we gathered together in the surf zone and retrieved the bobbing IBS, which had been pushed down the beach and was floating aimlessly toward Tijuana, Mexico.

  “All right. You guys know the drill,” I said. They all nodded.

  Grabbing the IBS, we mustered back on the beach in front of the SEAL training instructors. In true military fashion, we aligned the IBS with the bow facing the ocean and all seven men stood at rigid attention next to their spot on the boat. Every man had recovered his paddle… but me. I was at the stern, my green fatigues sagging from the weight of the water, my jungle boots oozing sand from the tiny eyelets, and my orange kapok life preserver pushing my head backward at an awkward angle.

  Looming over me was Senior Chief Dick Ray, a highly decorated SEAL from Vietnam. Tall, with broad shoulders, jet black hair, and a pencil-thin mustache, Ray was the epitome of a Navy SEAL. Everyone respected him and everyone feared him.

  “Ensign McRaven. How would you evaluate your performance?” Ray said without a hint of anger.

  Before I could answer, Doc Jenkins, a large, heavyset African American corpsman, jumped in. “Pathetic. That’s what it was. Just fucking pathetic!” Jenkins screamed, closing to within inches of my face. “I can’t believe your boat crew couldn’t get past that tiny little wave.” He grabbed the man next to me by his kapok life jacket and shook him hard. “You guys are weak and none of yo
u belong in the Teams. You make me sick to look at you.”

  “Mr. Mac,” Ray asked calmly. “Do you have all your men and equipment?”

  “No, Senior Chief,” I responded.

  “No! No!” Jenkins yelled. “Not only can’t you get past a pissant wave, you can’t even keep track of your men and equipment.” He stomped around waving his hands fanatically. “Has someone drowned, Mr. Mac? Are you missing one of your crew?”

  “No, Instructor Jenkins.”

  “Then what the fuck are you missing?”

  “My oar, Instructor Jenkins.”

  “Your oar! Your oar!” he yelled in my ear. “You can’t paddle a fucking IBS without an oar!” Shaking his head, Jenkins looked at Ray and asked, “Well, Senior Chief, I don’t know what we should do about this.”

  Somehow I knew where this discussion was going. Senior Chief Ray walked over to me and in a whisper asked, “What do you think we should do, Mr. Mac? I can’t go back to Commander Couteur and tell him we lost government property. We have to be good stewards of the taxpayers’ dollars. Don’t you think, Mr. Mac? Don’t you think we need to be good stewards of the taxpayers’ dollars?”

  “Yes, Senior Chief.”

  I could see Jenkins out of the corner of my eye. He was trying not to laugh. He and Ray were the perfect good cop, bad cop.

  “I tell you what we need to do, Mr. Mac. We need to find that paddle. Don’t you think?”

  “Yes, Senior Chief.”

  “Good, good. So, you and your boat crew get back in the IBS, get back in the water, and see if you can find that missing paddle.”

  Jenkins turned around and yelled at the top of his voice, “Hit it!”

  Without hesitation, we grabbed the hand straps on the IBS and charged back into the surf zone, knowing that we would never find the broken paddle, but in an hour or so the instructors would get tired of our efforts and return us to the barracks. It was 2100 hours. The end of another long day of runs, swims, obstacle course, more runs, more swims, and constant harassment. Tomorrow would bring more of the same, and though only three weeks into SEAL training, I had learned already that “the only easy day was yesterday.”

  After graduating from the University of Texas I spent two months in Austin on recruiting duty before the Navy transferred me to Coronado to begin SEAL training. Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL (BUD/S) Training was reportedly the toughest physical training in the entire military, but in August 1977, it was difficult to find out anything about SEALs or SEAL training. Even the military orders I received were cryptic—a school course number with no title. At the time, BUD/S training was just another class at the Naval Amphibious School in Coronado. While the legacy of Navy frogmen extended back to World War II, the evolution from the frogmen to the Vietnam-era SEALs was not well known to the public.

  I was assigned to Class 95. The class started with 155 trainees: 146 enlisted men and 9 officers. By the end of the second week of training we were down to 100 enlisted men and 4 officers. The officers in the class included Lieutenant (Junior Grade) Dan’l Steward, who was the senior officer and therefore the class leader. There were also two other ensigns besides myself, Marc Thomas and Fred Artho. Dan’l was a Naval Academy graduate, Marc from VMI, and Fred from the University of Utah. Dan’l was a superb officer with tremendous leadership skills and physically very strong. Marc and I would end up as “swim buddies” and spend most of BUD/S lashed together during our dives and long swims. Marc was one hell of a runner, but swimming wasn’t his strong suit. Together we were a great match.

  Fred Artho was indestructible. With an incredible tolerance for pain, he was far and away the best runner. Together the four of us bonded quickly.

  After nine weeks of training, the class was down to fifty-five total “tadpoles” and the infamous Hell Week had yet to begin. Six days of no sleep and constant physical and mental harassment, it was the second-to-last week of “First Phase.” During the Second Phase of training the students learned to dive with various scuba rigs, and Third Phase was all about land warfare. Most trainees thought that if you could make it through Hell Week you were almost certain to finish BUD/S, but statistically that wasn’t true. A lot of men failed the tough academics of dive phase or were uncomfortable at night underwater. Still others lacked the leadership and quick decision making necessary for the immediate action drills so prevalent in land warfare. Statistically, only 25 percent of the enlisted men made it through training and in 1977 less than 50 percent of the officers. In all, BUD/S training lasted six months, after which time you were assigned to a SEAL or Underwater Demolition Team (UDT). Then you had another six months of advanced training before you received the coveted SEAL Trident.

  It was the Friday before the start of Hell Week when Dan’l Steward called us all together in the large BUD/S classroom. A Naval Academy gymnast and rower, Steward was five foot nine, with classic washboard abs, a thin waist, powerful legs, and broad shoulders. He was also a “rollback” from Class 94. The Wednesday before Class 94’s Hell Week, his bicep was ripped from his arm when the rubber sling used to recover swimmers aboard a fast-moving boat caught him too high and pulled the muscle clear of the bone. After a few months of recovery, he was placed in Class 95.

  Standing on the small stage, Steward came to parade rest. After four years at the Academy, it was a natural stance for him.

  “Gentlemen, on Sunday night we will begin Hell Week. It is the most challenging, grueling, gut-wrenching test that most of you will ever encounter in your lives.”

  You could feel the anticipation in the room.

  “If you finish it, you will likely go on to be Navy SEALs, the most elite warriors in modern time. You will be part of a brotherhood of men like no other the world has ever known.”

  He stepped down from the stage and walked into the huddled group of men. “But—the only way you can complete Hell Week is if we stay together as a team.” He scanned the crowd to make sure everyone was listening. “At some point during the week all of us will falter. At some point, each of us will think about quitting. We will be enticed by the instructors to leave the ice-cold water and go someplace warm and cozy where we can relax and forgo the pain of Hell Week. They will tell you that all you have to do to get a good meal and warm bed is to ring the bell. Ring the bell three times and you’re out. You won’t even have to face your fellow tadpoles again.”

  Looking around the room, I could already see fear in the eyes of some of the men. Not fear of pain or exhaustion or even death. They feared failure.

  “We must stick together!” Steward shouted. “Don’t think about quitting. Don’t think about how hard it’s going to be in an hour or a day or a week.” He paused and entered the center of the huddle. Calmly, with a look of complete confidence, he said, “Just take it one evolution at a time.”

  One evolution at a time. One evolution at a time. These words would stick with me for the rest of my career. They summed up a philosophy for dealing with difficult times. Most BUD/S trainees dropped out because their event horizon was too far in the distance. They struggled not with the problem of the moment, but with what they perceived would be an endless series of problems, which they believed they couldn’t overcome. When you tackled just one problem, one event, or, in the vernacular of BUD/S training, one evolution at a time, then the difficult became manageable. Like many things in life, success in BUD/S didn’t always go to the strongest, the fastest, or the smartest. It went to the man who faltered, who failed, who stumbled, but who persevered, who got up and kept moving. Always moving forward, one evolution at a time.

  “Never quit. Never quit. Never quit!” The class picked up the refrain and came together in the center of the room. Steward yelled out, “Class 95!” Fifty-five men answered in unison, “Hooyah Class 95!”

  But in one week many of those men would no longer be in Class 95.

  Machine-gun fire erupted outside the small barracks room in which Steward, Thomas, Artho, and I were berthed. It was Sunday evening—th
e start of Hell Week.

  “Muster on the grinder!” came the commanding voice of Senior Chief Ray.

  As we darted out of our room, an instructor poised at the end of the hallway tossed a grenade simulator in our direction. It exploded with the force of a hundred large firecrackers, rattling the windows and almost knocking me off my feet. Standing by the stairway, another instructor tossed a smoke grenade, while a third instructor moved through the hall firing the M-60 machine gun into each room, blank brass casings falling everywhere. It was chaos. Exactly how it was intended to be.

  Running behind Steward, I dashed down the two flights of stairs and into the chilly night air. Anticipating the start of Hell Week, all the men had slept in their green utility uniforms. Steward began to muster the men in five lines of ten to twelve trainees each, but the instructors would have none of it. The concrete area upon which we did daily physical training was named the grinder, and it had a reputation for grinding men down to their breaking point. The grinder was filled with BUD/S instructors, some with automatic weapons, others tossing grenade simulators, still others with hoses to soak the trainees.

  “Drop down, Ensign McRaven!” yelled a familiar voice behind me.

  It was Senior Chief “Bum” Grenier—a tobacco-chewing, hard-ass southern boy who said “fuck” every other word. More than any other instructor, Grenier loved to screw with the trainees. He was constantly dropping us for push-ups, spitting tobacco in our hats, and asking the trainees questions, the answers to which would get us in more trouble.

  Questions like, “Mr. Mac, do you think my girlfriend is pretty?”

  “Yes, Senior Chief.”

  “Well, then you’re a liar. She is the ugliest-looking woman in California. Hit the surf!”

  Of course, if you countered with, “No, Senior Chief, I think she’s ugly,” then you hit the surf anyway for questioning the senior chief’s choice of women.