My parents remember having a conversation with me around this time. I was trying to prepare them for what might lie ahead. They didn’t know that much about SEALs; probably a good thing.
Someone had mentioned that my identity might be erased from official records. When I told them, I could see them grimace a little.
I asked if they were okay with it. Not that they would really have a choice, I suppose.
“It’s okay,” insisted my dad. My mom took it silently. They were both more than a little concerned, but they tried to hide it and never said anything to discourage me from going ahead.
Finally, after six months or so of waiting, working out, and waiting some more, my orders came through: Report to BUD/S.
Getting My Ass Kicked
I unfolded myself from the backseat of the cab and straightened my dress uniform. Hoisting my bag out of the taxi, I took a deep breath and started up the path to the quarterdeck, the building where I was supposed to report. I was twenty-four years old, about to live my dream.
And get my ass kicked in the process.
It was dark, but not particularly late—somewhere past five or six in the evening. I half-expected I’d be jumped as soon as I walked in the door. You hear all these rumors about BUD/S and how tough it is, but you never get the full story. Anticipation makes things worse.
I spotted a guy sitting behind a desk. I walked over and introduced myself. He checked me in and got me squared away with a room and the other administrative BS that needed to be handled.
All the time, I was thinking: “This isn’t too hard.”
And: “I’m going to get attacked any second.”
Naturally, I had trouble getting to sleep. I kept thinking the instructors were going to burst in and start whipping my ass. I was excited, and a little worried at the same time.