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“Push-ups,”
we responded.
“Down.”
“One.”
“Down.”
“Two.”
We counted out every one of the twenty push-ups in the set then returned to the rest position,
arms outstretched. The class leader called out, “Instructor Ree-no.”
“Hooyah, Instructor Ree-no,”
we roared.
He ignored us. Then said quietly, “Push ’em out.” As he did twice more, at which point he left us
with muscles on fire in the straight-arm, outstretched rest position. He actually left us there for
almost five minutes, and everyone’s arms were throbbing. Eighty push-ups and now this new
kind of agony, which ended only when he said, very slowly, very quietly, “Recover.”
We all yelled,
“Feet!”
in response, and somehow we stood up without falling over. Then David
Ismay called out the wrong number of men present. Not his fault. Someone had simply vanished.
Reno was onto young Dave in a flash. I don’t quite remember what he said, but his phrase
contained the loud pronunciation of the word
wrong.
And he ordered Lieutenant Ismay and our leading petty officer student, “Drop, and push
’em out.” I remember that first day like it happened this week. We sat and watched Dave
complete his push-ups. And when they’d done it, damn near exhausted, they called out,
“
Hooyah,
Instructor Reno!”
“Push ’em out,” said Reno softly. And, somehow, they set off on twenty more repetitions of this
killer discipline. Finally they finished, doubtless wondering, like the rest of us, what the hell they
had let themselves in for. But I bet they never called out the wrong number of men present ever
again.
I now understand that SEAL ethos — every officer, commissioned or noncommissioned,
must know the whereabouts of every single one of his men. No mistakes. At that early stage in
our training, our class leader, David Ismay, did not know. Reno, who’d only been with us for
about fifteen minutes, did.
Again, he surveyed his kingdom and then spoke flatly. “Most of you aren’t going to be
here in a couple of months,” said Instructor Reno. And, as if blaming each and every one of us
individually for the wrong head count, he added, “If you guys don’t start pulling together as a
team, none of you will be here.”
He then told us we were again about to take the basic BUD/S screening test. I graphically
recall him reminding us we’d all passed it once in order to make it this far. “If you can’t pass it
again this morning,” he added, “you’ll be back in the fleet as soon as we can ship you out.”
At this stage, no one was feeling...well...wanted. In fact, we were beginning to feel abandoned in
this world-renowned military coliseum — a coliseum where someone was about to bring on the
lions. Before us was the five-point screening test:
1. A 500-yard swim, breaststroke or sidestroke, in 12 minutes, 30 seconds
2. A minimum of 42 push-ups in 2 minutes
3. A minimum of 50 sit-ups in 2 minutes
4. A minimum of 6 dead-hang pull-ups
5. A 1.5-mile run in 11 minutes, 30 seconds, done while wearing boots and long pants
Only one guy failed to complete. In fact, most of us did markedly better than we had the first
time. I recall I managed close to eighty push-ups and a hundred sit-ups. I guess the apparition of
Billy Shelton was standing hard by my shoulder, trying to frighten the life out of me and ready to
throw me out of the navy if I blew it.
More important, Instructor Reno was watching us with eyes like a fighter jet’s radar. He
told me several months later he knew I was putting out for him. Made up his mind about me right
then and there. Told me he’d never changed it either. Good decision. I give it everything. On
time. Every time. Might not always be good enough, but it’s always my very best shot.
Looking back, I’m not sure that early test showed very much. There were a lot of heavily
muscled, bodybuilding types who looked pretty ferocious. I remember they were among the very
first to go, because they just couldn’t hack it. Their legs and upper bodies were just too heavy.
The SEALs do place a premium on brute strength, but there’s an even bigger premium on speed.
That’s speed through the water, speed over the ground, and speed of thought. There’s no prizes
for a gleaming set of well-oiled muscles in Coronado. Bulk just makes you slow, especially in
soft sand, and that’s what we had to tackle every day of our lives, mile after mile.
On this first morning of Class 226, we immediately learned another value peculiar to BUD/S.
We don’t stroll, walk, or even jog. We run. We actually run like hell. Everywhere. All day.
Remember that great Tom Hanks line in
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