Sea Stories

by William H. Mcraven

  My boat crew, comprised of the “big men,” those trainees over six feet tall, had already found three of the six clues. We were paddling our way across San Diego Bay in our IBS searching for the next clue when one of the men on the bow called out.

  “Mr. Mac, look out for that fence. About one o’clock.”

  We were in the middle of San Diego Bay, I thought. There was no fence. Then another trainee called out. “It’s about a hundred yards out.”

  Steering the boat, I squinted into the darkness and peered outward at the one o’clock direction. We were in the middle of San Diego Bay—there was no fence.

  A third man in my boat crew then said softly, “Come left about ten degrees.”

  I looked again. We were in the middle of San Diego Bay. There was no fence. As we paddled onward, I continued to get updates on the fence from every member of my crew, except the guy sitting right in front of me who was watching a Padres game in his mind. They had gone into extra innings.

  It had been five days since I last closed my eyes, but I felt my wits were still strong—but I just couldn’t see the damn fence.

  “Fifty yards ahead, sir.”

  “Come a little more to the left.”

  What the hell, I thought. I shifted my paddle and steered the IBS to the left. Moments later, in complete unison, the entire crew looked to the starboard side of the IBS and watched as we passed the “fence.” We were in the middle of San Diego Bay. There was no fence!

  Thirty minutes later we reached the rocky shoreline of the Naval Amphibious Base. We found the next clue, which led us back to the BUD/S compound. With the rubber boat on our heads, we jogged the two miles back to BUD/S, where we picked up the last and final clue. The men could barely walk and our objective was two miles away, up the beach to the North Island Naval Air Station fence. We had been dry for the past several hours and nothing felt better than being dry, but carrying the IBS to the fence two miles away seemed a daunting task.

  “We paddle down to the fence,” I said.

  The boat crew let out a collective groan. “Sir, we can’t get back in the water. What if we dump? We’ll be wet the rest of the night.”

  “Do you guys really think you can walk the two miles to the fence and then two miles back?” I asked.

  “It’s better than being wet. Yeah,” came the refrain.

  “Let’s go, guys,” I said without further discussion. “To the beach.”

  It was 2300 and the tide was out and the surf low. It was a good decision, I thought. We entered the water and everyone immediately jumped into the IBS, not wanting to get any wetter than they had to.

  We negotiated the first wave without a problem. Only two more waves to go and we would be out in calm water. After that we could take our time paddling down to the North Island fence. The second wave seemed a little bigger, but only the bow men got splashed and we paddled onward, confident in our seamanship.

  As I saw the third wave building, the poem “Casey at the Bat” flashed through my head: “There was no joy in Mudville—mighty Casey has struck out.”

  “Waaater!” came the familiar yell.

  “Stroke! Stroke!” I screamed.

  It was too late. Tossing the tiny IBS in the air, the wave sent us hurtling into the surf, paddles and men flying everywhere, fully clothed, deeply fatigued, swollen and raw from chafing. The hundred-yard swim back into the beach felt like an English Channel crossing. Crawling out of the water, I looked around and saw the men starting to emerge from the surf.

  Body language is an interesting study. Even at midnight, soaked from head to toe, covered in sand with their utility uniforms sagging around their ankles, I could see the frustration in each man’s posture. They were cold and wet… again—and it was my fault. On top of the sand berm, which separated the BUD/S compound from the beach, I could hear the booming voice of Doc Jenkins broadcasting over the bullhorn.

  “What the fuck were you thinking, Mr. Mac?” He laughed maniacally just for theatrical emphasis. “Now you’re all wet again. It would have been a lot easier to walk—and much, much dryer. I bet your boat crew loves you for that decision.” He laughed again.

  It was certainly not the first mistake I had made in BUD/S, but somehow it seemed to be the most egregious because it affected other guys—and we were cold and wet. We hated being cold and wet.

  Within a minute all the men were on the beach with their paddles and mustered beside our IBS. I expected a small mutiny on my hands, or at least a full ration of shit. But with Doc Jenkins’ laughter echoing off the compound walls, my boat crew—my fellow trainees, my teammates—grabbed the rubber straps and with an act of defiance picked up the IBS and charged back into the surf. It was all I could do to keep up. Each man leaped into the boat exactly on time and began stroking hard with a determination we didn’t have during the first attempt.

  “You’ll never make it, Mr. Mac!” Jenkins yelled from the berm.

  But we did.

  Within a minute we had cleared the set of three waves without incident and found ourselves paddling easily toward the North Island fence. Whether from exhaustion or out of spite, we began laughing as loud as we could. Loud enough for Doc Jenkins to hear that we had not been beaten. Forty-five minutes later we crossed back through the surf and arrived dry and spirited at the fence. There, waiting for us, were Jenkins and Senior Chief Grenier. They had driven to the fence.

  We placed the IBS with the bow facing outward, came to attention at our spots, yelled a hearty “Hooyah,” and stood by for instructions.

  “Don’t be so fucking cocky,” Jenkins said. “The night is young and you still have another day of Hell Week. In fact, we may just extend it an extra day.”

  There were always rumors that the instructors had the authority to make Hell Week seven days long. Start on Sunday, finish on Sunday. No one could ever remember a time when that happened, but the threat scared all of us and we quickly quieted down.

  Grenier came around to the bow of the boat and faced my crew and me. “Mr. Mac, the Treasure Hunt is over. Proceed back to the compound, and you had better hurry. The other crews are already moving in that direction and the last boat crew to arrive will regret their tardiness. Move it!”

  This time we decided to walk back to the compound carrying the IBS on our head. While defiance was all well and good, none of us wanted to be wet again.

  On the way back, I could see one of the other boat crews several hundred yards ahead of us. Just off to the left of the beach was the famous Hotel del Coronado. This grand old Victorian landmark had been around for almost a hundred years and guests had included presidents, kings, movie stars, and sports figures. Jutting off from the beach was a concrete pathway that took visitors right up to the entrance of the hotel. As my boat crew plodded painfully back to the BUD/S compound, I looked up and noticed that the boat in front of me was gone. Shifting my head, I tried to look through the glaring lights of the hotel and the Coronado Shores condominiums, which lay just beyond the Del. Where had that boat gone? Was there a shortcut I didn’t know about? At this point, even a few hundred yards made a huge difference.

  We continued on down the beach until we came abreast of the hotel. It was a little after midnight on a Friday and there were still a lot of tourists milling about. I heard the commotion before I could see anything. There in the glare of the Hotel del Coronado lights, the missing boat was being escorted out. In a state of complete oblivion, the boat crew had walked up the concrete path into the hotel lobby, coming to rest in the middle of a large crowd of partiers. The Del’s manager, who was a Coronado resident and well acquainted with Hell Week, very gently eased the men back onto the path and down to the beach, much to the amusement of the hotel guests.

  By 0100 all the boat crews were back at the compound. It was Saturday morning and, barring any extension of Hell Week, we had just one day to go.

  By Saturday, your feet were so swollen you couldn’t get your boots off without cutting them clear. Your hands were so e
nlarged that you couldn’t close them to grasp things. Your thighs were chafed raw from the constant exposure to sand and water. But, interestingly enough, most of us had caught our second wind—no sleep for five days, constantly cold and wet, nonstop harassment, physically exhausted. Still, we were young and incredibly motivated, and at this point the only thing that would stop us was death—and the instructors wouldn’t allow that.

  “Muster on the grinder in five minutes,” Steward yelled, his voice hoarse from a week of giving orders.

  With IBSs firmly planted on our heads, we jogged to chow, ate, and then spent the rest of the morning doing relay races at the base athletic field. By noon, most boat crews were unable to walk at all. While no one was going to quit, we also couldn’t complete the events. Finally, out of anger because of our apparent “lack of effort,” Instructor Faketty marched us from the athletic field to the bay and ordered everyone into the water. One by one the boat crews set down their IBSs and waded into the harbor.

  We were just about at our breaking point and the instructors knew it. We were bone tired: the kind of fatigue where every breath takes effort. We had no energy reserves left. The cold water sapped every last ounce of strength. Huddled together in the bay, the remaining men were just barely holding on.

  “You guys are pathetic,” Jenkins yelled. “I can’t bear to look at you. Everyone turn around so I don’t have to look at your face.”

  As directed, we slowly turned from the beach and faced outward, treading water and looking toward the south end of San Diego Bay.

  “We still don’t have our quota of quitters yet,” Jenkins announced. “So the class will stay in the water until five more men quit.”

  The threat of quitting brought us closer in the water, like a herd protecting itself from an outside threat. “Don’t quit. Everyone stay together.” Whispers of encouragement spread across the class.

  “I figure in thirty minutes at least five of you will quit. Let’s start the clock now.”

  Thirty minutes. We couldn’t make thirty minutes and we all knew it. Maybe now was the time we died. Would they let us die? Because no one was going to quit. Not now, not this class. Not after six days of hell.

  “What are you whispering about?” Faketty shouted. “Stop the fucking whispering and give me five quitters.”

  We got closer.

  “Turn around, you maggots!”

  Slowly the class did a pivot in the water, and there, standing beside Instructor Faketty, dressed in starched green utilities and standing at parade rest, were all the instructors who had put us through Hell Week.

  Faketty smiled. “Congratulations, Class 95. Hell Week is over.”

  None of us moved, none of us cheered. The past six days had been one test after another. Was this another test? To lift us up and then break us down again?

  “Mr. Steward. Get the class out of the water. Hell Week is secure. Well done.”

  It was over. As a class we had survived. As men we had pushed ourselves to our limits and found the inner strength to carry on. The remaining men could barely exit the water. Tired well beyond exhaustion, we helped each other to the beach and once again lifted our IBSs atop our heads and made our way back to the barracks.

  For the next thirty-seven years I would compare every tough situation I was in to the rigors of Hell Week. Throughout the rest of my career I was never as cold, or wet, or exhausted as I was in Hell Week, and therefore I knew whatever life threw at me, I could make it.

  But BUD/S was far from over. In the next five months the class would lose another fifteen good men. Phase Two, the diving portion of training, weeded out most of them. Those who hadn’t been raised around the water struggled with the long nighttime dives and the claustrophobia that came with diving under ships in the harbor.

  The land warfare phase took out the final few, men who had trouble maintaining their situational awareness in the middle of live fire exercises. By the end of February 1978 we were down to thirty-three men and only two days from graduation. There was one final training evolution—helicopter cast and recovery.

  The evolution was simple. Two squads of eight men each would load a twin-bladed CH-46 helicopter and fly from the athletic field to a position over the bay. Once in position, the helo would lower its ramp, and one by one the men in the first squad would leap from the helo into the water. This would be followed by the second squad. Soon thereafter, the helo would come around, dangle a rope ladder from a hole in the center of the aircraft, and the swimmers would climb up the ladder back into the helicopter. Simple.

  In fact it was so simple and fun to watch that the families of the graduating frogmen were invited to view the event from the beach.

  “Bill, your squad ready?” Steward asked.

  “Good to go, sir!”

  The haze gray Navy helicopter set down on the football field and lowered its ramp. Steward and his squad loaded up first and I motioned to my squad to follow. The roar of the engines made communication difficult, but the crew chief standing on the edge of the ramp directed us to our places on the nylon bench.

  The helo held about sixteen troops, eight on each side. We sat on nylon benches that folded up when not in use. As with most Navy helos, the overhead piping dripped hydraulic fluid, and a thin film of slick brown liquid covered the metal floorboard, making walking tricky.

  The Navy cast master, the enlisted man in charge of the evolution, gave us the buckle-up sign, and soon after we lifted off. Looking out the small porthole, I could see the families sitting on bleachers anxiously awaiting the first cast of swimmers.

  It was a beautiful San Diego day, clear blue skies. The winds were softly blowing out of the south. The bay was flat and the water no longer seemed like our enemy. Our spirits were sky high, knowing that we were only forty-eight hours from becoming full-fledged Navy frogmen.

  The helo banked to the north and the cast master gave us the two-minute warning. Steward’s squad unbuckled, stood up, and began to move toward the ramp. Dressed in swim trunks, a wet suit top, a mask and fins hooked on their web belts, they looked like real frogmen. The helo dropped down to about six feet off the water and slowed to ten knots. Hooked into a gunner’s belt securing him to the helo, the cast master leaned over the edge of the ramp and waited for the aircraft to slow. Raising his hand, the cast master looked toward Steward and yelled, “Go, go, go!”

  Leaping from the ramp, Steward held a tight body position and entered the water smoothly. The rest of his squad followed, splashing into the bay and then swimming apart to ensure they were properly separated for the helo pickup. Minutes later, my squad received the order to unbuckle and stand up.

  I moved to the edge of the ramp and the cast master gently put his hand on my chest, stopping me from going any farther. I looked out the back end and could see the spray kicking up as the helo dropped to several feet off the water. My heart was pounding, not from any fear of jumping out the back, but from the excitement of knowing that I was really going to be a frogman.

  This was the last event. No more harassment. No more forced entry into the cold water. More important, I felt like I had earned the respect of the Vietnam-era SEAL and UDT instructors. I was about to become part of the Teams. Just this one final event.

  “Stand by!” came the order from the cast master.

  He looked down, checked the height of the helo, and then turned to me, gave a clear, definitive hand signal, and yelled, “Go, go, go!”

  Tucking my head into my chest, crossing my arms and gripping my thighs tightly, I leapt from the ramp and plunged about ten feet into the water. A second later I popped to the surface and saw the helo moving away, still dropping the rest of my squad.

  I got a quick head count and a thumbs-up from each swimmer to make sure everyone was okay. We were straight and lined up evenly behind Steward’s squad.

  The helo had already swung around and the cast master had lowered the rope ladder out the “hell hole.”

  As the slow-moving helo approac
hed each man, they grabbed the ladder and muscled their way up the rungs back into the helicopter. Within minutes all of Steward’s men had been collected. I was the first swimmer in the second squad, and as the helo approached I could see the helmeted faces of the pilots flying the aircraft.

  The ladder was down, but the twin blades of the helo blasted the water with such force that it shrouded the aircraft in a cloak of spray and mist. Pulling my mask over my face, I braced for the blast as the helo approached. The ladder was well over ten feet long and dragged over the top of me. Reaching for one of the wooden rungs, I pulled myself up the short distance and into the helo. Scrambling through the hell hole, I made my way into my assigned seat on the bench.

  Something was wrong! Water was lapping at my feet. Suddenly, a wave of water rushed down the aisle and now we were waist deep and the helo was sinking. Looking toward the cockpit, I could see the crew furiously trying to get control of the aircraft. Power in the number one engine was lost and the helo had settled into the bay and was going down fast. As trainees, we were briefed that if the helicopter went in the water to sit tight and wait for the blades to stop moving. Then we could exit the side door in an orderly fashion. Right…

  Out the side door I could see the blades just several feet off the water, spinning at full speed. It looked like a blender, and any attempt to exit out the side could get us all cut to pieces. We waited for a signal from the cast master. The ramp and the tail section were underwater and there was no way out the back. Struggling to keep the helo afloat, the pilots were trying to nudge it toward land and beach it to save the aircraft—but there was too much weight in the tail end. Either we got out or all of us would perish.

  Eyes wide and looking for options, the cast master knew there was only one choice. Pointing to the side door, he screamed, “Out, out, out!” I looked at the men surrounding me and nodded. We had to go! It was either out or down.