Unbreakable: A Navy SEAL’s Way of Life (5 page)

Oddly, we had not seen another team for six hours. We all knew exactly where we were on the map—it was clear as a bell—we were in hell. “We can’t just sit here. Give me the map, let’s see if there is a road we can get to and flag down a car, and get the hell out of here,” my buddy suggested.

Sitting in utter misery wondering how we had allowed this to happen, I said, “Let’s just get on the bikes and find water. The deer must drink somewhere, even without a map.”

Instead of mounting up, we just pushed the bikes up the hill and rested when one of us needed it. We did this for the next twenty miles, off and on, going from shade to shade. Finally, we saw two teams sitting on the side of a fire road. We limped up to the group and asked if they were OK or needed anything, though we had nothing to give them, and no intention of giving up our precious water.

An interesting thing happened. The two teams had quit and called the race director on the emergency satellite phones provided. We had not thought to ask or call for rescue. They said if we waited with them, the
truck would be there within the next two hours.

Simultaneously, we four looked at each other and smiled. I looked at the two other team captains and said, “I’ll pay you $200 for all your food and water. We ran out, and would appreciate help.” With that, we extended our stores another four hours. This seemed like a victory as we pulled away from the “foolish quitters.” I didn’t realize for another hour that we still didn’t have enough food and water to complete the leg.

Consider the phenomenon of being closer to the finish line or the end. The finish calls to you. Maybe this is what people summiting Everest go through, and why so many die so close to the summit. All these thoughts went through my mind … we were going to die here. But I became angry—not at myself, not at my men—just angry. I told myself not completing that leg was NOT an option. We would simply find a way to make it through this hell.

Cresting a hilltop, we found the last place with trees before the descent into a bowl and a lake, where the transition area was set. I suggested a pause until the temperature cooled down. It was 3:00 p.m., the hottest point of the day. So we pulled off the trail into a shaded section of pines, pulled out our bags, stripped off our shoes, and lay there drifting in and out of consciousness. Around 7:00 p.m. we all came back from la-la land into hell, and the temperature was markedly cooler. Clouds had moved in. We packed up without speaking, mounted up, and headed out. Two hours later we ran out of food and water, and the sun went down.

Somehow—I have no idea how, I cannot recall looking at the map or even riding my bike—we turned a corner and saw the lights of the transition area right in front of us. When we checked in with the event staff, they were wide-eyed and clapping. Somehow we had been one of the four teams to make it. Thirty teams had quit, and twenty-four others were still out there somewhere. I felt for them …
not.
I didn’t feel anything at all.

The race director walked up to me and said, “Wow! How long have you all had flats?” We looked at him, wondering what he was saying. Then we looked at our bikes and saw not one single tire was inflated. The funny thing was, we had ridden into the TA.

We had nothing left inside us. When our crew saw us, they hugged each of us saying, “You look like hell. What can we do to help you? The showers are over in the bathroom, and we have tons of food, water, and
cold Gatorade.”

I cried for the first time. Yes, I cried. Not because I wanted a shower or food and water. I cried because of another thought: I was going to see my kids again. I had not let myself consciously say so, but what truly drove me to get to the end was my kids.

My shower hurt every cut; the cold water at dinner hurt the cuts in my mouth; the food gave me diarrhea. No sane doctor would have let us continue. But we slept until we were rested. After eight hours we awoke, stiff and swollen and ready for breakfast. This time the food stayed down, and we hydrated until we were full. As I finally looked at the maps, I laughed out loud and called everyone over.

“Guess what, gents? We have twenty-eight miles to hike today, and the first half is back the same way we stumbled down last night. At least we know where the water isn’t.”

Several other teams had arrived while we were sleeping. Two had already left, and the other early-arrival team was still sleeping. We packed extra food and water since we had the strength and size to carry more than the smaller endurance athletes who usually make up adventure racing.

Though we were enthused by our new-found position, I knew as a SEAL corpsman that we were in trouble physically. This next leg of the race would bring out all the pain imaginable. I would have to navigate perfectly so as not to waste time or effort retracing our steps. We would all have to help each other, both physically and mentally.

Pulling out of the TA and getting into the rhythm of walking, eating, and drinking, I noticed my point of view about the whole race had shifted. I was no longer looking at it, or even the legs themselves, as total distance. I was looking at the map in four-mile sections only. We could average four miles per hour, easily. Planning out food and water in four-mile sections, which translated to one-hour sections, was simple. With that shift in perspective, our mental and physical reality also shifted; we were absolutely elated when each hour passed without incident.

The physical facts were sickly apparent: swollen hands, throbbing feet, chafing in my armpits and between my legs. Knowing that all I had to do—all we had to do as a team—was walk for an hour made it somewhat bearable. The ease in doing this sick thing together took another form as
well. Each time one of us would fall back more than twenty-five meters, we would stop and tie a ten-foot tether to the “man in the barrel” to keep us all working together as one.

We accepted we needed each other. No one felt less for asking for help now, though we had scoffed at help for the first three days. I look back now and realize our earlier independence of each other contributed to the exhaustion and breakdown of our overall effort. This was a critical learning point I would never forget …
ever.

Teamwork is not what each team member brings to the group. Four gifted athletes are nothing compared to the power of controlling, focusing, and altering an individual’s Internal Dialogue. Mine had shifted from looking at the various realities of the course—distance and calories and what the other person’s physical abilities appeared to be—to simply telling myself and the others what we were doing, shaping our goal with language. This was a subtle shift, but what we were each saying to ourselves and to each other about our goal bridged the gap between our abilities and the level at which we could perform.

For example, while looking at the map, we would literally tell each other aloud, “We
are
here, we
are
going there. It
will
take about an hour. Our legs
are
strong, we have enough food and water, and when we get there we will rest for five minutes.” When each step hurt, or someone would stumble or wince in pain, someone else would say out loud, “Bro, in just another thirty minutes, we will feel better.”

We went on this way for six hours, without breakdown. The pain was silly stupid. My feet were bleeding in my shoes, but my mind was at ease, filled with words and thoughts of simple creation. I don’t know any other way to describe it. Internal words are the most important things you will ever have to master and develop. Take time to learn and use your Internal Dialogue to bridge the gap between where you currently are in the world, mentally and physically, to what is ultimately possible for each of you.

Smiling, with a great sense of accomplishment, we pulled once again into the TA, greeted the crew, then ate, drank, and slept without incident. After the morning wakeup and more food and water, we oriented the maps and loaded our gear for the last paddle section. When we finally pushed off from shore, we were in fifth place, and could see two of the other teams on the lake.

The wind was blowing down the lake, straight into another bay where there was a marker. We met the other two teams at the marker and noticed they were headed back into the wind. My team was eager to push off with them so we could keep pace and not lose sight. I smiled and said, “Hold on,” I said, “Let them go. I have a better plan that will put us ahead of all of them. Trust me.” I broke out the map and showed how the lake turned north and the wind was blowing south. They saw immediately that if we portaged the kayaks cross-country, we would only have to walk four miles instead of paddling twelve miles into a ten-mile-per-hour headwind.

Though portaging overland and up and down a rocky cliff took every ounce of effort, when we got to the other side, we were six miles ahead of the two teams. We could see another team a quarter mile ahead. We lay second. Before jumping into the boats, we dunked in the lake to cool off. Somehow, portaging two kayaks in 90-degree heat in shorty wetsuits makes you hot. Go figure.

Our legs were done, but our arms and backs were fresh. Within twenty minutes, we passed the team ahead … our friends the French. I couldn’t see under her wetsuit top, but I don’t think the French girl had shaved her pits yet.

We pulled into a modified TA to drop our boats and paddle gear and to pick up our mountain bikes and gear for a short fifteen-mile ride. We took our time, and let the other team stress out about being passed so they’d have to eat and drink fast and leave without a break. As they pulled out, we got on our bikes and easily made our way up the road and the next big TA. We did not try to overtake the Frenchies. The stress we put on them would push them without overt effort on our part.

I cannot recall the fifteen-mile ride in detail, but at the TA, our crew looked oddly excited. After we checked in, our crew hugged us and said we were second. Two of the top teams cut their feet up badly on the lake swim and were out of the race. We sat down at the dinner mat they had prepared and talked about what we needed, and didn’t need, to do.

Swim section rules specified each of us had to swim out to an island, mark our cards, and swim back, which seemed easy. The girls said the other teams had elected not to wear shoes, and the rocks on the island had torn their feet up. Nothing like letting others fail so you don’t! We put
on our full wetsuits and hard-soled boots, and swam the mile to the lake. The water was so cold, and we had no energy reserves, but cold water is nothing new to SEALs. Shivering is a rite of passage for us but somewhat novel at an air temperature of 90 degrees.

When we came from the lake and returned to the TA, the only teams around were us and the Frenchies. Maybe armpit hair helped? They had not completed the swim section, so we were happy to rest and eat. Our plan: rest, eat, and prepare our bikes for what looked like a sick twenty-eight-mile, single-track leg. Our deceptive plan was to let the Frenchies come in and see us sleeping. We had told our crew to watch them, even talk to the French crew and tell them we were sick and injured and were going to sleep for four hours. Once the Frenchies fell asleep, we would leave.

We still needed four hours of sleep to recover. Once out of the TA and on the mountain bikes, we pressed on for an hour and pulled off the trail just as it was getting dark. We pulled up into the trees about fifty yards off trail and got our sleeping systems out. Just as we were slipping into our bags, we heard the French team talking and could hear the urgency in their voices. As they passed, I said to my teammates, “I bet they break and quit, ‘cause they can’t find us. No way they can push at this point without sleep.” I drifted off to a four-hour sleep, smiling.

We awoke to darkness and chill. Exiting a warm sleeping system into a cold shiver is harder than facing the enemy in combat. We all shivered for the first twenty minutes of the ride. The night was a blur, but nothing dramatic happened. We were working well together, and the miles seemed relatively easy, but at the next TA, the reality of the upcoming section hit like a bullet to the skull. We would get one horse, and with four people, make our way to two separate markers and back. Reading this from the comfort of your chair may sound easy, but our feet were done. We all knew riding horses causes your feet to swell, and that was scary. No one wanted to ride.

The decision to simply load our gear up on the horse and walk next to him seemed like the only solution. Again, the best plans made in comfort don’t survive the reality of pain. We ran in front of the horse, and when I tried to help him up a rocky section, the beast stepped on my foot. Unbelievable! As I pulled off my shoe, we all looked and saw the damage.
One of my buddies said, “Wow, Thom, um, aren’t you supposed to have toenails on those three toes?” I sort of laughed. So the mount-up bugle sounded, and up I went. Let’s just say I don’t like horses.

Now the end was near: just three more legs to go. The first: an 18-mile hike; the second, a climb up to a rappel; then, finally, a ten-mile ride on hard pack roads to the finish line. We were in first place.

My feet hurt so much, I had to switch from trail shoes to boots to make my foot flex less and allow for the inevitable swelling. The route went from 6,000 to 8,000 feet, then back down, twice.

All I can recall is how my feet hurt with every step. I staved off the pain as long as I could, but heading up the last steep pitch to the final summit, I sat down and cried again. The boys came over to help, but the trail was so steep, they really couldn’t do anything. Going uphill at this steep angle meant forcing my toes into the mountain to get purchase, then stepping onto my toes to force my way up. I had tried walking up backward and sideways, but I fell more than I gained elevation.

I drifted in and out of some sort of altered consciousness. At some point, I recalled the start of the race when I was focused and could hear the sounds of the dirt grinding under my feet. Now all I heard was the sound of my bloody toes squishing in my boot and my ankles grinding with the massive pressure of the swelling. Those were not sounds I wanted to hear.