and got punished for something none of us seemed to be aware of. The order was given to bear crawl down to the obstacle course and stand by in the push-up position.
On any given day the obstacle course is hard to pass, even harder if you are wet and sandy and already tired. The course was about three quarters of a mile through the sand from where we started crawling toward the starting line. Along the way one person just stood up and walked over to the bell and rang it three times. The rest of us pushed on. By the time we all arrived at the starting line, it was an hour later.
I could not even stay in the push-up position without my arms collapsing. I knew the obstacle course was all upper body strength. For the first time in my life, I was facing something I knew I couldn’t do. It was daunting.
The first five students were on the course, and my name was called. Upon standing, I felt exhausted. The first obstacle was like trying to pick up an elephant with noodles. Once over the low wall, I heard the siren go off, signifying an injury. With that I stopped and took a knee as the class leader took a headcount and the instructors dealt with the injured student. The brief rest was needed. Then the reality of the injury took shape. A student had fallen off the “Slide for Life” and broken his back upon hitting the ground. Mahrer was right.
Mahrer was walking around the students and saw me and walked straight over to where I was kneeling. “If you don’t do things in life correctly the first time, it always takes twice as long and is twice as hard to do it right the second time.” With that, he walked away.
No truer words have ever been said regarding life’s big challenges. Now I was faced with a course that already had an 8 percent attrition rate when you try the first time. I wondered what the attrition rate was the second time as the instructors yelled to start again.
The rest of the class 196 first phase leading up to Hell Week was just like this every day: twice as hard, mentally brutal, physically overwhelming. Hell Week started with a blur, but the weather was warm and so was the water. On Tuesday we were back at the obstacle course to attempt to take the entire boat and crew up and over each obstacle. We had had no sleep at all since Saturday night. The majority of the quitters had exited, and we were down to 36 students from 72. I personally felt strong, so I went up the obstacle first to help get the boat over. My arm was stabilizing the boat as the rest of the boat crew climbed up. One of my buddies lost his grip and fell into the boat. The sudden jarring of the boat caused my shoulder to separate and the pain was rather interesting. I gritted my teeth as my swim buddies looked at me. We all knew what had happened, but if an instructor noticed it, I would be out again. We all stayed quiet and continued on.
I knew if I made it to Wednesday night at midnight, I would be rolled forward and not back to first day. At least that was how I was processing the shoulder being out of its socket and the purple color of my hand. I kept it hidden until after dinner on Tuesday night. The after-dinner festivities of Hell Week are without a doubt the most painful. Lifting the boat up over our heads and keeping it up there is hard even if you are strong. I was not strong at this point.
Mahrer, in his ever-calm demeanor, noticed the color in my hand and the fact my arm was no longer up over my head pushing up on the boat. “Shea, get your hand up on that boat and help your team,” he actually whispered. “You have five seconds, or you are kicked out of training for refusal to train.”
The sudden feeling of falling apart once again gripped me. “Chief, I can do this with one arm. I can hold my weight,” I said.
“5, 4, 3, 2, 1,” he counted. “Okay, step out, you are done.”
The rest of the night was again a blur, and I went to the hospital. The doctors used traction and some muscle relaxants to pop my shoulder back into place, admittedly more painful than the separation. And I sat in the bed again, not knowing my fate. I had tried so hard. I had done all that I possibly could do. The longer I sat, the lower I felt. My thoughts were centered around “is this all worth it?” Had I just set myself up to fail at something impossible so that the failing would be believable?
I always think it’s funny how we question ourselves when things go south. How we look at our struggles and try to find a way out of them instead of a way through them. There are always 1,000 ways to exit every problem: a thousand ways to quit.
The way forward was gray and unclear and profoundly disturbing. No one ever gets a third try, ever. I didn’t even want to try it again. My shoulder would not recover in three weeks, which was when the next class would be starting. I sat there.
After two days, Mahrer showed up at the hospital in uniform this time. He didn’t have a bell, which was the first point I noticed. He didn’t have any paperwork, which was striking. Mahrer came in directly without knocking. “How is the shoulder?” he asked, and I could tell he didn’t really care.
“They put it back in” is all I could muster to say.
“Shea, you get two weeks’ vacation. When you return you go directly to the rehab clinic! You will miss class 197 and go directly to class 198. Do you have any questions?” He dropped the grenade in my lap knowing I would not have any.
“When you leave the hospital, check in to first phase. They have your leave paperwork. Go somewhere and get your mind right and come back,” he said in his matter-of-fact nature. Then he said something again that rings as true today as it did then. “Don’t go home to your parents or girlfriend or old friends. They will talk you out of coming back.” With that, he turned and walked away.
My job in the Navy up to this point was as a corpsman. With the little training I had received, I knew the recovery for a dislocated shoulder was supposed to be more than six weeks. As a matter of fact, you weren’t supposed to even start working out hard for six weeks. The cards were stacked against me. As I looked down at my stupid arm and reached over and touched my shoulder, which immediately produced a sharp pain, I again felt the feeling of falling. This time I was falling and could not see the bottom. That sensation is brutal to feel, even though, lately, that was the feeling I seemed to be having the most. Failing and falling, getting back up, being enthused, and repeating the cycle seemed to be my life. However, this episode of falling didn’t produce the enthusiasm. I dreaded having to start over again. My body and my mind were toast. I had no respect for myself anymore. I sat there falling and spinning.
I even recall thinking, “Man I am tough, but I wonder if this is what caused people to commit suicide.” Not knowing what my future would be. Clearly seeing no way to recover my shoulder. The feeling made me angry and actually angry with other people.
Six weeks later I passed the entrance test with 105 pushups and 18 pull-ups. Off to the races, once again! Off to the last chance I would have to become a SEAL. Hell Week came without incident. Surf torture was a nonevent. The boat crew obstacle course appeared and disappeared in my mind. The freezing cold of the mud flats became the new sensation of how cold and miserable one could become. Two students left with flesh eating bacteria during that trial. Everything seemed normal, except I couldn’t stop coughing. By Wednesday night I was coughing up blood with each cough. As we processed through the medical screen, I was again pulled out. Pulled out to face Mahrer once again.
My walk to the first phase office in the dark was different. I cried because I realized sometimes not quitting wasn’t enough. I cried because I had let Mahrer down once again. Rounding the corner, I saw the bell in front of the office. If I rang it this would all end, and the strain would be over. I could go home and not face this pain and feeling of falling. I could just hit bottom and be done with it. With each step it seemed like the best choice. The closer I got to the bell, the stronger the pull to ring became. Still, when I stood there in front of it, seeing all those helmets, all those people who had tried and quit, I couldn’t do it.
