BUDS Class 291

Replies to This Discussion

Permalink Reply by NavyDads Co-Admin, Calvin on September 7, 2011 at 5:40pm

Tony, good to see you starting a new discussion. You need to read the OPSEC for this site and then remove your last name from your profile and also your sons first name. OPSEC rule are to be followed at all times when discussing Special Ops and SEALs. Please edit your discussion and remove all numbers regarding how many is in class and the numbers of DOR's. If you want to discuss things like this it should be done via PM or Email. If you need assistance in editing please let me know and I will help you. My Grandson is now a member of Team 4, if you have question about anything let me know and we can either PM or Email each other.

Again please read OPSEC.

Permalink Reply by Ken283 on September 7, 2011 at 7:41pm

Hi Tony, 

I was in your boat twice in 2010. 1st in march then in april/ may.  It was a longgggggggg process.  Just when you think its gonna get easier or the hard parts behind you. It gets worse.  Just let me know if you need anything.

Permalink Reply by NavyDads Admin (Paul) on September 7, 2011 at 7:44pm

"The only easy day was yesterday" holds for you parents as well as your future SEALs!!!

Permalink Reply by Mike on September 25, 2011 at 11:21am

Good luck to all members of 291 this week! My son seemed pretty upbeat, ...even with his share of hurts and injuries!

Permalink Reply by NavyDads Co-Admin, Calvin on September 25, 2011 at 11:44am

 

Well Guys, the process is in the early stage of starting. The guys are probably getting close to donning their Dress Uniforms and it won’t be long till they are secured. They will be in a room, tent or some other enclosure with no view of the outside. After changing into suitable clothing they’ll be free to relax, sleep, etc. while they wait inside the enclosure. When the sun sets tonight if you are driving down the Strand you’d notice the beach side of the street (where NSWC is located) is strangely dark. Only a few street lights are on and all windows will be blacked out if a light is on inside. It is an odd thing to see. When Breakout begins their door will be opened and several instructors will enter with machine guns firing (blanks of course), yelling instruction, yelling to hear their own voice and controlled confusion begins. As they leave their room they will be greeted with barrels that will be exploding to simulate battle and several instructors with water hoses making sure they are wet. The water they will be using will be cold but that’s not new to your guys. The machine gunfire, yelling and explosions will last for about 20 minutes to make sure everyone is wide awake. Once on the Grinder their fun begins. My GS Class had guys ringing the Bell and DORing within the first hour to hour and a half. This is normal. There will be Medics and Brown Shirts to ensure the guys are safe and injuries are taken care of quickly. Food won’t be plentiful but it won’t be total deprivation. No steaks, prime rib, tea or coffee but MREs will taste like the finest restaurant in town.

 

Now it is out of OUR hands, what happens will happen for a reason. Pray and keep good thoughts heading their way. That’s the only thing WE control this week. Their outcome will be decided by a much higher power than ours.

 

I ask each of you to stay strong and be positive if you hear from your guy before Friday. DOR is not the only reason you might receive a call. It could be illness or injury, but always remember everything happens for a reason. Sometimes we wonder “why?” but those answers will come with time and new accomplishments!

The time is near, soon the Starting Gun will be fired. The timing will be a surprise to those starting their journey. For those who live in or are visiting Coronado they will be surprised but they will know not to call 911 it’s just the Navy. While the guys are prepared and expecting this they will loose their breath and sense of direction from the noise. Everyone hold on tight we are in for a bumpy ride.
HooYah Class 291, be strong, be safe give them ****.

 

“HOO YAH 291!!!!!!!” 

 

Permalink Reply by 291Dad on September 25, 2011 at 2:36pm

Thanks for the comments Mike and Granpa. My son is still in and getting ready to get locked down for the week. He is extremely nervous. Fortunately he is healthy. No sickness, no injuries (just soreness). I am sure he is more nervous than I am but my mind is trying to argue that fact. Good luck to all 291.

 

HOO YAH 291!!!

Permalink Reply by JG on September 25, 2011 at 6:51pm

Gents,

 

During this week, as tough and or difficult as it will become for your young men, it will also be likewise for you and their mom's.  Keep them in your prayers and your thoughts, and remember - No news is good news - especially this week!

 

 

 

Permalink Reply by 291Dad on September 25, 2011 at 6:53pm

Thanks JG-

 

That is what I keep telling myself.

Permalink Reply by JG on September 25, 2011 at 7:15pm

For those of you who are curious as to what this week might be like for the men here is an excerpt from "The Warrior Elite" by Dick Couch.  If you haven't read it yet, its worth the time and effort. And, yes, I pirated it from Navy for Mom's! :)

 

A description of what our sailors are going through........

 

On most Sunday evenings, the special warefare center is bathed in soft yellow halogen glow.  Invariably there is some activity behind the BUD/S compound and around the student barracks as trainees prepare for the next day's training.  Not tonight, not this evening of November 14.  The area is completely dark and no one is about - no roving patrols, no student movement, and no one from the watch section checking the back gates.  There is a fluorescent bloom from the quarterdeck where two Indoc students sit confined to the receptions desk.  They have been told to remain at their post and to stay away from the glass doors that lead out to the grinder.  Next to the barracks, six small inflatable boats (IBSs) have been readied for rock portage.  Helmets with attached chemlites sit perched on the main tube at each paddler's position.  Between the chain-link compound fence and the tall beach berm, two large tents wait silently.  These will serve as makeshift barracks for the trainees for the next week, where they will be allowed their meager ration of sleep.  Inasmuch as Class 228 will have a home during Hell Week, it will be these two canvas shelters.

 

A file of men in dark clothes and bloused boots emerges from the administration complex on the south side of the grinder.  The sliver of moon has not yet risen, and only a few of the brighter stars have found their way through the light sea mist.  It is a clammy 60 degrees, about the same temperature as the ocean.  The men all wear ball caps, and 3 of them carry automatic weapons.  They move soundlessly across the grinder like a swat team moving into position. As the approach the 1st Phase classroom, light filtering around the shade on the classroom door reveals that the armed men have ammunition belts clipped around their torsos.  The leader gives a signal, and three of the men break away to make their way down the outside hallway to the side door of the classroom.  Other dark forms move into position around the grinder.  Inside, the 42 men of Class 228 await their fate.  They all know it's coming, but not exactly when and how.  

 

It happens quickly.  There is a crash as the side door of the classroom is kicked open, the rear door a second later.  First there are the whistles--shrill, police-type whistles.  Trainees hit the deck, cross their legs, and cover their ears with the palms of their hands.   The 6 instructors move in, 3 from each open door, and the shooting starts.

 

Mk-43s, the SEAL version of the M-60 machine gun, begin to bark.  Although the 7.62mm blank rounds don't have the brisance of live rounds, the noise still is deafening.  More whistles, more shouting, and more shooting ensue.  And for 60 seconds, nothing can be heard but the sound of gunfire and shouting.  The room is lit by muzzle flashes.  The machine gunners step over and around the prone trainees as they do their work, mindful of the stream of expended shell casings from their weapons.  The casings are hot and can cause angry welts if they land on exposed skin.  Soon the room is heavy with smoke and the stench of cordite.  "Everybody outside!" an instructor orders.  The 42 members of Clas 228 scramble from their previously warm, secure environment that has suddenly turned violent and break out onto the grinder.  More whistles blow and they fall to the blacktop, covering their ears, with heads down.  There they are met with fire hoses, more instructors, and more shooting.  Barrels, secure receptacles for the artillery simulators, have been placed around the grinder.  Soon there is the scream and boom of imitation artillery rounds to accompany the shooting.  Shouting instructors are everywhere, herding trainees to the center of the grinder.  The class bunches together on the blacktop as it is assaulted by the fire hoses.  Then the whistle drills begin. 

 

"Fweet!"

The mass of confused students melts to the surface of the grinder.  The trainees scoot about on the wet blacktop so their heads are in the direction of the instructor with the whistle.

"Fweet! Fweet!"  They begin to crawl toward the sound.

"Fweet!  Fweet!  Fweet!"  They scramble to their feet.

"Fweet!"  Back on the grinder -- legs crossed, hands over their ears.

 

For the next hour, they crawl about the grinder, treated to sporadic bursts of machine-gun fire and explosions.  Knees and elbows start to abrade on the wet blacktop.  The breakout evolution is designed to create chaos and confusion.  It sets the tone for this difficult and challenging ordeal.  The First Phase staff can only vary the standard fare of noise, shock, and chaos so much.  The last Hell Week class was ordered into the grinder before the shooting started.  This time the machine gunners assaulted the class inside the classroom. 

 

The class is ordered into the surf, then lined up for a head count.  Soon the men are in the soft sand for more whistle drills and more crawling.  Then it's back in the water for surf conditioning, better known as surf toruture.  First, the class spends 15 minutes immersed in a line, arms linked.  This is the maximum time allowable at this temperature.  For close to an hour, the trainees do a run-paddle-run exercise.  The boat crews are sent out throught the surf line where they dump the boat, paddle up the beach a few hundred yards,come back in, and then race down the beach with their boat to the starting line.  They then trade their boats for logs and begin log physical training in the cold surf.  Then it's off to the obstacle course with the boats.  The class becomes smaller; 42 men have now become 35.  They run the O-course in boat crews, hauling the bulky rubber craft over the obstacles.  Another man rings the bell, and the class becomes smaller.

 

Well after midnight, they paddle north to the Hotel del Coronado.  This is the  first real break for the Hell Week class.  They are still cold and wet, but once beyond the surf line, there are no instructors yelling at them.  The serenity of the night on the water seems surreal.  They're like shell-shocked infantry troops between artillery barrages.  As each boat reaches the Hotel del, it turns right, paddles shoreward, and creashes into the rocks.  For two hours, Class 228 attacks the rocks in front of the Hotel del Coronado in its boats.  And a few more trainees ring out.

At 0450 hours, the class brings its boats up to a head carry and begins the shuffle run across the base for breakfast.  Before the men eat at the chow hall, they do drills with the small inflatable boats, mostly overhead IBS pushups.  When they finally bring the boats down to the ground, the trainees do regular pushups with their feet up on the boats.  Once inside the chow hall, the class gets its first rest since breakout the evening before.  Well ahead of the rest of the sailors on base, they crowd through the chow line.  Two men guard the boats while the rest eat.  There are now 32 men.  Ten have left in little under nine hours. 

Back at the BUD/S compound, the class pauses briefly at the BUD/S medical clinic for a quick inspection by the medical staff, then heads for the beach.  These medical exams will become more comprehensive as the class gets further into Hell Week.  The first evolution Monday morning is a two-mile swim.  Sixteen pairs of swimmers line up.  The instructors work the line of swimmers checking life vests, even though they they will not need them; the wet-suit tops will keep them buoyant.  The class lumbers into the surf and trainees groan as they trade the sweat inside their wet suits for cold sea water.  Two more trainees decide that this is not for them.  They walk back ashore and quit.  Heads hung and escorted by an instructor, the two trainees walk back to the compound, where they ring the bell.  The Hell Week class, still out in the water, is so tired that the bell sounds more like Sunday church bells calling the faithful to worship.  After the swim, more beach games and more log physical training follow.

Hell Week is one familiar evolution after another --surf passage, rock portage, log physical training, the obstacle course, runs, swims, long IBS paddles, endless pushups.  The men are always cold, wet, and sandy.  And the water is cold, just under 60 degreees in the ocean, and colder in San Diego Bay.  Everywhere they go -- on runs, on the O-course, even to chow--they carry the boats on their heads.

Meals are a brief oasis in the middle of the suffering.  Before and after entering the mess hall, the instructors put them through physical training and boat drills.  Once inside the chow hall, they are given time to eat.  After the evening meal, the trainees are put in San Diego Bay for extended immersion drills--and more men quit.  WIth Hell Week just a little more than 24 hours old, the class has been cut in half, and 21 men remain in Class 228.

Monday night begins with a boat-crew olympics of sorts, referred to as Lyon's Lope.  Named for the late Scott Lyon, a Vietnam-era SEAL, Lyon's Lope is another anticipated, dreaded evolution of Hell Week.  The crews race a measured one-mile course with the boats on their heads.  Back in the water without boats, the crews form caterpillar-like daisy chains and stroke back and forth around the eastern ened of the base.  Sometimes the human chains use boat paddles;  sometimes they paddle with their hands.  The water temperatures out in the bay about 56 degrees.

After Lyon's Lope, the trainees begin an evolution called the base tour.  They will run around the base for the next two hours with only two water breaks--one to drink and one to get wet and sandy.  For many in 228, the base tour is the worst they will suffer during this long and punishing night.  More than a few will call this the worst night of Hell Week.  By dawn 20 men are left in Class 228.

Tuesday is one long day of beach games, a surf passage, a run-paddle-run routine, and a drill in which trainees drag their boats through the O-course.  As always, it pays to be a winner.  When the trainees show spirt, the instructors reward them.  When they finish the race last or start to feel sorry for themselves, the instructors come down on them.  The day shift has a special treat for losers.  In the back of Great White, the white pickup truck driven by the instructors, is an IBS full of ice and water.  Losers or trainees who show poor spirit are sent for a quick dip through the cold slurry.  Most of them have now been up for more than 56 hours.  They're in a mental fog, yet the must physically keep moving.  One man doesn't, and the class is cut to 19.

After evening chow, the three remaining boat crews do their elephant walk, boats bow-to-stern, back to the special warfare center and to medical for a hygiene check.  To one degree or another, most of them have swollen joints and multiple abrasions.  Many are starting to develop a bald spot on top of their heads from the boats.  Their knees are beginning to swell, and some of them are limping as they run and shuffle from one evolution to the next. Here-photo caption:  Medical corpsment take a close look at every man in the class during one of several scheduled examinations.  Many of the trainees have cuts, scrapes, and scratches that need cleaning and medication.  Crotch rot is the most common problem, which is caused by the constrant trips into the wet surt and sand dunes.  Most abraisions aren't real problems early in the week, but after hours upon hours of dirt and grime, even the smallest scratch can become infected if ignored.  More serious injuries always get immediate attention. 

Tuesday night's drill will begin with a boat caches and escape and evation (E&E).  After the two-and-a-half-mile paddle to North Island, the trainees cache the boats and are divided into pairs.  The are sent on a run north for a half mile to the main lifeguard tower on the North Island recreational beach.  From there they have to make their way back to the boats and trucks while avoiding the instructors who are out looking for them.  It's a grand game of hide & seek.  This is another traditional Hell Week evolution, and the evading pairs all have their own ideas on how to beat the instructors.  But it really doesn't matter which pairs are caught and which aren't.  Everyone ends up cold, wet and sandy.

After the E&E exercise and a short period of surf torture, the three boat crews begin paddling south from North Island for Siler Strand State Park some six miles down the coast.  The trainees have quickly learned that when they're paddling, they don't have to put up with harassment from the instructors  If it's a long paddle, they have a chance to dry out.  Except for the pain of not being a winner, the three-boat regatta has little incentive to make the paddle swiftly. Upon arriving at the state beach, four miles south of the special warfare center, the three boats cross over the Silver Strand Highway to the San Diego Bay side and the mud flats.  Trial by mud has been a part of Hell Week since the days of the first frogment who trained in the mangrove swamps near Ft. Pierce, FL.

There are boat crew races, wheelbarrow races, relay races, leapfrog races, firemnan's-carry races, races in which the men crawl on their stomachs, and races where they wriggle along on their backs.  They make mud angels facedown on their stomachs.  This is dirtywork but relatively harmless.  Winners get a few moments' respite from the mud.  Losers race again.  No matter how tired they are, the trainees always compete, trying for a break from the misery or a chance to rest for a moment.  At first, this seems like mindless harassment, but it is part of the sorting process, a method to identify those who have a will to win under any conditions.  Mud games last an hour and a half.  The class is then sent into deeper water to wash off enough of the mud so that it can get into the chow hall.  Following the wash-down, the trainees paddle north along the est shoreline of the bay to return to the base.

After breakfast, it's again back to the special warfare center for hygeine inspection  The Hell Week class has been checked morning and evening by the medical staff, but now the clinic medical officers are inspecting them very closely.  In spite of the antibiotics all trainees received before Hell Week began, their immune systems are struggling.  By Wednesday morning, most of them have been up for three full days with no sleep.  The two doctors and their physician's assistant are alert for a host of problems, not the least of which could include an outbreak of flesh-eating bacteria.  The medical inspection is a gauntlet of sorts, much of like what happens when a race car comes in for a pit stop.  First, the trainees strip to their shorts in the outside shower at the barracks and wash off the top layer of mud and dirt.  After they get spritzed with a disinfectant, they scrub themselves down with antiseptic scouring pads.  The cold trainees get a brief taste of hot water followed by a cold shock as they stand before hall fans to dry off.  They then pad over to the clinic, where they queue up to be inspected by one of the three medical officers. 
The medical officers are meticulous and quick  They inspect the trainees' hands, feet, and genitals, and carefully listen to their chest.  All the while, they ask questions.  Some trainees will admit to problems; others won't.  Often the doctors have to be detectives, as well as physicians.  A few of the trainees are allowed ibuprofen, but the medical staff does not dispense it freely. 

After they leave the exam room, the trainees pause to swab their crotch and groin areas with a vitamin A&D ointment.  Most pull on one of the available cloth penis socks that will help with the sand and chaffing.  They leave the clinic through the side door, where more medical personnel are waiting for them.  One at a time, the trainees step through an ice-water bucket in their bare feet and take a seat on a picnic table.  A corpsman sprays their feet with a disinfectant, another swabs them with a topical silicon gel, and they're done.  Good to go for another round of Hell Week.

Next to the picnic talbe is a line of milk crates, one per trainee.  Each has a change of dry clothes.  And, for a brief moment, they are warm and in dry clothes.  But just around the corner is an instructor from the day shift, ready and waiting with a water hose to wet them down.  Next is a trip across the beach and into the surf.  Then a roll on the beach and 228 is again cold, wet, and sandy. 

How much sleep trainees get, and when, varies from one Hell Week to another. Class 228 will be given a total of five hours of scheduled sleep during its Hell Week.  After noon chow, the instructors send the trainees to the one remaining tent for their first sleep period.  The class has shrunk enough that the 2nd tent is no longer needed.  Inside the remaining tent, the air is damp and heavy with stale sweat.  Some fall asleep immediately.  Others have fought to stay awake so deperately that their bodies will not turn off.  They simply lie on their cots staring mindlessly at the canvas ceiling.  A few sit and doze, others walk around afraid that if they give themselves over to sleep, they will lose the courage to get up and keep going.

"Fweeeeeet!"  A long whistle breaks the silence.  Their hour-and-a-half sleep period is over.  "Let's go!  Let's go!  Time to hit the surf!" 

Inside, a few trainees simply rise and stagger to the tent opening.  Others bolt upright, wide awake but totally confused.  It takes a few moments for them to break through their dazed condition and to figure out where they are.  Once reality sinks in, they drag themselves from their cots to shuffle after their classmates.  Still others need to be called back from the dead.  They rise like zombies, unsure of what's happening, but somehow knowing that they must be up and moving. More surf torture and beach games follow.

After the evening hygiene inspection at the pool, they have pool games and, for a change, warm water.  The instructors direct 228 in a game of king of the hill, or king of the boat.  The trainees fight for who can stay in the small inflatable boat or who gets tossed over the side.

After pool games, the class dresses and rigs the boats for land travel.  For the rest of Wednesday and well into Thursday morning, Class 228 carries the boats up and down the beach.  When the trainees can barely stand, they begin surf-passage drills.  At 0400 hours, the men begin their second sleep period.  This time they sleep on the beach for an hour and a half.  For those claimed by sleep, the awaking is agony.  For those who doze, it's just a return to the reality of Hell Week.

Back under the boats, they struggle across the base to the chow hall for breakfast and back to the special warfare center for morning hygiene check, a two-mile round trip.  The medical staff gives them another thorough inspection.  This is the last full-on medical class inspection until the class finishes Hell Week.  It's now Thursday, and the sun is up on the next-to-last day.  It will be a very long day.

The class returns to the main part of the naval amphibious base and parks its boats on Turner Field, the base soccer field.  The instructors divide the class into two teams and set them upon each other in a soccer match. It's a surprisingly hard-fought and intense game.  The trainees are groggy and half dead on their feet, but they're still competitors.  Some have played soccer before and some haven't.  Spirit counts as much as skill.  But it's an active game, and the warmth of the California sun gives Class 228 a chance to dry out.  After the noon chow, they walk the boats back to the beach near the O-course.

The next evolution is stretch physical training.The shift instructor puts the men through a quick regime of serious stretching exercises, then through some not-so-serious ones, such as eye openers and eyebrow stretches.  When the nearby instructors begin to laugh, the class realizes a joke has been made about its weariness.  It's Thursday afternoon of Hell Week, and the instructors are just trying to keep the trainees awake, on their feet and moving.   After a round of beach games, the class is sent to its tent home on the beach for the 3rd and final sleep period.  Even though their bodies are desperate for sleep, most of them fight it, not wanting to suffer the agony of waking up.  Some lie down only to rest, and sleep claims them immediately.  Others sit on the side of a cot and doze fitfully.  They know it's their last sleep period, and almost their last day of Hell Week.  Deliverance is less than 24 hours away.

One of the rituals is the letter home.  Toward the end of the week, when everyboday is off in the ozone, they are seated before tables and provided paper and pen.  "Write me a letter explaining why you want to become a SEAL" the instructor orders.  This is not an easy thing to explain after going three or four days without sleep, wallowing in the mud, doing log PT, enduring endless boat drills, and slogging through competitiive events like the rubber duck races on the ocean or sixteen-mile runs on the beach.  The students tend to stare at the paper for a while before attempting to write anything.  The results tend to be gibberish.  Later, after Hell Week is over, these essays are returned to their authors as an amusing reminder of the tremendous stress they were under and how it affected their performance of even this simple task. 

A few BUD/S trainees go through Hell Week, take what comes, and never consider quitting.

They know what they want and will pay the price.  Unless they get hurt, they'll make it or die trying.  But most trainees, at one time or another, become weary enough to question their stamina and their ability to endure this training.  This may cause them to ask themselves:  "Is this what I really want to do?  Is it really worth all the pain and cold and the lack of sleep to be a Navy SEAL?"  Some get past it; some don't.  But most who make it to Thursday afternoon will not quit.  They may get hurt or sick, but they will not quit.

The last sleep period is shattered by whistles, and Class 228 is back in the Pacific Ocean--cold and wet and back in Hell.  The two-mile round trip to chow is agony, and the trainees stagger under the boats trying to keep it together.  In the chow hall, they try to encourage each other, but many begin to slump into their food trays.

"C'mon, man, stay awake."

"Hang in there, we're almost home."

"Hey, it's almost Thursday night.  It is Thursday, right?"

"Thursday!  We get through tonight and it's done."

After a wash-down at the clinic and a quick hygiene check, they begin the around-the-world-paddle.  Everyone in the class is battered, but one of the officers is in the wort shape.  He cannot bend one of his legs because his knee is the size of a football, and he still has fluid in his lungs.  He begs the doctors to let him continue.  Since the remainder of Hell Week will, for the most part, be in the boats rather than under them, he joins his boat crew for the big paddle. 

By tradition, the around-the-world paddle is the last major evolution in Hell Week.  Many will remember this as the longest night of their lives.  But lurking deep in the fog of their semiconsciousness, they know it's the last night.  Knowing that there will be an end to their pain and suffering is almost too delicious to think about.

They enter the water at the naval special warfare center at 1930 hours and paddle the boats north along the west shore of Coronado.  It's a long journey around Coronado, made longer by the instructors who periodically call them ashore, feed them, and put them through surf torture.  The men paddle around the rock jetty that marks the entrance to San Diego Bay and east toward the lights of the city.  By 0300 they have cleared the north end of Coronado and the naval air station and are paddling south.  By 0400 three of the smallest crafts in the Navy pass one of the largest as they stroke by the USS John C. Stennis (CVN 74), a 1,092-foot, 98,000 ton aircraft carrier.  They make it to the boat ramp at the amphibious base shortly after 0500. There is still no sign of dawn as the exhausted trainees rig for land travel and take the boats to a head carry.  The chow hall is only a few hundred yards from the boat ramp at Turner Field.  For the men under the boats, it seems like several miles.

The men of Class 228 know it's Friday.  They talked about it on the around-the-world paddle.  Yet they're vulnerable to anything someone tells them, even if it's unreasonable.  When the instructors tell them it's Thursday morning, they have to think about it.  They're starting to have memory lapses.  While standing, they can drift off for a few seconds, and when they snap back awake, it takes them a moment to reconnect.  They file into the chow hall like the walking dead.

There is undisguised pity on the faces of the  food service workers as the trainees stumple past them on Friday morning.  "Eggs?  Pancakes?  Hash browns?" they ask.

Decisions like this are hard and require energy and concentration.  Most just nod and take what's given them.  They line up at the drink dispenser, for there is immediate warmth there.  Most take several cups of hot water.  When they reach the tables, they immediately wrap their hands around a cup for warmth.  Some pause to dump in packets of hot chocolate mix; others simply sip and blow at the hot water.

After morning chow, Class 228 is back on San Diego Bay.  The three weary crews head down the bay, each trying to maintain a stroke count.  Some fall asleep paddling and have to be roused by their crew mates.  But gradually, as the dawn swells to daylight, each is becoming more aware that this is Friday.  The last day.  It's a powerful concept for the 19 survivors of Class 228--Friday.  The men drift into a mental fog for a moment and then snap back out.  Friday is still there--the last day.  The instructors are waiting for them at Fiddler's Cove Marina.  More beach games, cold water, and boat races are to come.  Finally, they are moving down the sand road the leads westward from the cove across the Silver Strand.  Once they are across the highway, they park their boats by the entrance to a small chain-link compound.  So Sorry Day is about to begin.

So Sorry Day has its origins back in the early days at Fort Pierce, where the first demolition trainees were exposed to demolitions and simulated combat conditions.  They were forced to crawl under barbed wire and through mud while live explosions were set off around them.  The half-found blocks of TNT that were used to create the explosions for So Sorry Day at Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL (BUD/S) training have since been replaced by artillery simulators.  In deference to the local ecology and the sea bird population on the Silver Strand, TNT is no longer used.  Even so, as Class 228 crawls into the demo pits, its members are about to be treated to an evolution laced with noise, gunfire, and tradition.

Demo pits is a misnomer, as the "pits" is a single oval hole dug into the sand that is served by several culverts.  The pit measures perhaps 100 feet on the long axis.  During Hell Week, sea water is pumped into this hole to a depth of six or seven feet.  The man-sized culverts buried into the berm that surrounds the pit allow the trainees to crawl into and out of the pit.

Members of Class 228 begin their journey into the demo pits by crawling under a field of barbed wire just inside the gate.  Their vision is cut by thick smoke from smoke grenades, which also produce a strong stench of sulfur.  Artillery simulators on either side of the field of barbed wire start their whisle and boom.  Then the M-43s begin to bark.  So sorry Day is underway.  The trainees approach the end of Hell Week just as they began, with plenty of shooting and explosions.  The noise is not so bad as it was in the enclosed grinder of the BUD/S compound, but the smoke adds another element to the chaos.  With two blasts on the whitle, the men crawl on their bellies.  With one blast, they cover up.  More shooting and explosions follow.

For the better part of an hour, the SEAL hopefuls crawl under barbed wire, through smoke, and in and out of the pit by way of the concrete culverts.  A thick layer of scum has formed on the surface of the pit from the reaction of sea water and freshly dug sand.  THe students are past caring or questioning as they half swim, half slither through the pit, occasionally shouting encouragement to each other.  They are fairly sure that the end of Hell Week is not to far off. Yet they are very, very tired and not thinking clearly.  The only thing they do know is that they have to keep moving and do what is asked of them, whatever that may be.  Suddently they are called from the demo pits and sent to their boats.

"Let's hit the beach, men," and instructor shouts, "Time for you guessed it, surf passage!"

The instructors send the trainees, once again, into the cold surf.  The trainees are starting to lean on each other, and two trainees have to help the ensign with the swollen knees into the water.  They resemble stiffly animated rage dolls.  They are made to lie in the surt and begin a series of flutter kicks.  The instructors watch them carefully and professionally, with no sense of pity for their suffering.  They know it's a hard business, one that demands hard men.  The shift senior instructor calls the trainees in from the ocean, and the First Phase officer motions them to gather around him and announces:  "Okay, men.  The next evolution is, well....there is no next evolution.  Hell Week is over.  You are secured."

 

Hope this helps in its own little way!!

Permalink Reply by Russell on September 30, 2011 at 3:32pm

This may not be the right thread for this question, but does anyone have info re: if the guys have any weekend liberty during BUDs? SQT? Can they have cars "on base"? My son will be finishing boot camp soon, and I thought he should sell his car, as he may not be needing one for the next year or so.  Thanks.

Permalink Reply by GP on September 30, 2011 at 5:07pm

During BUD/s they often have weekends off. But its not guaranteed. Our son is currently in Coronado & wants his car. During prebuds in GL it was easy to get around by train. But not as easy in CA. We will be driving him his car in a few weeks.

Class 291 was secured from HW. Congrats to the men who completed this phase. And our thoughts are also of the men who are healing from their injuries.

If your son is just starting the quest to become a SEAL; hold tight, its a long bumpy ride.

Permalink Reply by JG on September 30, 2011 at 9:57pm

Hoo yah Class 2 9 1!!  

 

Yes they do have weekend liberty, but not guaranteed.  Coronado is small enough to walk to, but San Diego is another story..  If you can get his vehicle to him, it will help him out as the days get longer tougher.  Prior to Hell Week, its not as needed as it is thereafter ....

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