Marcus luttrell

“Bowline man secure!”
We repeated his call just so everyone knew where they were. But the boat was now jammed 
bow-on against the rocks. It had no rhythm with the waves and was vulnerable to every swell 
that broke over the stern. In this static position, it cannot ride with the waves. 
Our crew leader’s cries of 
“Water!”
were little help. The surf was crashing straight at us and 
then through the boat and up and over the rocks. We had on our life jackets, but the smallest man 
among us had to hop over the bow, carry out all of the paddles, and get them safely onto dry 
ground. 
Then we all had to disembark, one by one, clambering onto the rocks, with the poor old bowline 
man hanging on for his life, jammed between the rocks with the boat still lashed to his torso. By 
now we were all on the rope, trying to grab the handles, but the bowline man had to move first, 
heading upward into a new position, with us now taking the weight. 
He set off. 
Bowline man moving!
I hauled ass down in the engine room, pulling with all my 
strength. A wave slammed into the boat and nearly took us all into the water, but we hung tough. 
Bowline man secure!
And then we gave it everything, knowing our crewmate could not come 
catapulting backward right into us. Somehow we heaved that baby onward and upward, dragged 
it clean out of the Pacific, cheated the Grim Reaper, and manhandled it right up there onto the 
rocks, high and dry. 

---

“Too slow,” said our instructor. And then he went into a litany of details as to what we’d done 
wrong. Too long in the opening stages, bowline man not quick enough up the rocks, too long on 
the initial pulls, too long being battered by the waves. 
He ordered us onto the sand with the boat, gave us a set of twenty push-ups, then ordered us 
straight back the way we’d come — up and over the rocks, boat into the water, bowline man 
making us secure while we damn near drowned...get in, get going, shut up and paddle. Simple 
really. 
That first month ended much like it had begun, with a soaking wet, cold, tired, and depleted 
class. At the conclusion of the four weeks, the instructors made some harsh decisions, assessing 
the weakest among us, guys who had failed the tests, perhaps one test, maybe two. They looked 
hard at very determined young men who would rather die than quit but simply could not swim 
well enough, run fast enough, lift heavy enough, guys who lacked endurance, underwater 
confidence, skills in a boat. 
These were the hardest to dismiss from the program, because these were guys who had given 
their all and would go on doing so. They just lacked some form of God-given talent to carry out 
the work of a U.S. Navy SEAL. Years later I knew several instructors quite well, and they all 
said the same about that fourth week first phase assessment, the week before Hell Week — “We 
all agonized over it. No one wants to be in the business of breaking a kid’s heart.” 
But neither could they allow the weak and the hopeless to go forward into the most demanding 
six days of training in any fighting force in the world. That’s not the free world, by the way, 
that’s the whole world. Only Great Britain’s legendary SAS has anything even comparable. 
The results of the four-week assessment meant there were just fifty-four of us left; fifty-four of 
the ninety-eight who had started first phase. And Class 226 would start early, as all Hell Week 
classes do, Sunday at noon. 
Late that last Friday, we assembled in the classroom to be formally addressed once more by 
Captain Maguire, who was accompanied by several instructors and class officers. 
“Everyone ready for Hell Week?” he asked us cheerfully.