Day 1- 0000 Hours
“CRAWL, DIRTBAGS!”- an instructor tears into your tent, quickly followed by several others.
They're all carrying rifles or old M60s and are firing blanks with wild abandon. Some of
the instructors toss out grenade simulators and smoke grenades. The fake grenades still explode
with a hell of a bang, and the sudden cacophony of noise is enough to temporarily drive you deaf.
You've made it through weeks and weeks of the toughest training on earth, but what awaits
you now is five days of absolute hell. If you survive though you'll have the privilege of
joining the ranks of the single most elite fighting force the planet has ever seen.
You were smart and slept in your uniform and boots, so it's only a matter of
flipping out of your bunk and landing on the ground before starting to low crawl.
Instructors fire off blanks over your head as more flash bangs and smoke grenades go off.
It's utter pandemonium, meant to stun and disorient you, but you know war will be
worse. It's all a mental game, you simply have to shut out the screaming instructors, the firing of
hundreds of blanks all around you, and the bursts of the grenade simulators- just focus, and crawl.
You crawl a hundred meters on asphalt from your tent to the compound,
the place you've sweat in harsh PT for months now. On a raised platform
stands a senior instructor, awaiting for your class of 90 to fall into formation.
As your fellow classmates make the grueling crawl, you already see one standing up-
that can only mean one thing: he's quitting. He looks dazed and slightly confused,
he may have been a little too close to one of the false grenades when it went off. Oh well,
injury and accidents claim as many would-be SEALs as an inability to continue the brutal training.
San Diego is seated right in sunny Socal, but in fall the area is prone to rain storms and
temperatures can dip into the 30s at night. Today is no exception, and as the instructors order
you to double time it back to the tents rain starts to fall. Don't worry though, buttercup,
because the last thing the instructors want is for you to be left out all cold in the rain.
That's why they had the decency of tearing your sea bag apart and
removing all the carefully packed uniforms from the plastic waterproof packaging.
Next, you'll be taking it into the ocean for a quick, half-hour wash in neck-deep water.
You have less than a minute to repack your seabag and get your ass to the beach, then
it's an icy-cold plunge into the Pacific Ocean so you can fight the waves and tide in neck-deep
water. Everything inside your sea bag is going to get soaked in sea water, and that's the point.
There'll be no comforts these next five days, and even if the uniforms dry off on their own you'll
still have to contend with all the chafing sand and salt they're getting covered in.
Though not to worry, because you'll be real good friends with the ocean this week.
You're in the surf for just over a half hour with the instructors watching over you from a
twelve-foot berm. The entire time they're complaining about how cold it is, despite
the fact that they've got warm jackets on and rain ponchos. It's all part of the psyche game,
they're probing each and everyone of you for weaknesses. With teeth chattering so hard
you're legitimately afraid you might chip one or two of them, you briefly think about how all
you have to do to make the cold and pain end is just quit. Nobody would even blame you for it.
But you shove the thought out of your mind and blank your brain-
that's the key to survival here. Don't think about anything except the task set before you.
One of the instructors makes an offer. He knows that you and your class have prepped for Hell Week
by stashing little snacks around the training area. If one of you gets him a snack,
he'll let you out of the water. Initially nobody says anything. It's true. You've personally hidden
at least two candy bars in the sand in spots only you know of- surviving Hell Week isn't just
about carefully obeying orders and following the rules, it's about breaking them and cheating when
you can without getting caught. Because in combat there are no rules, there's only mission success.
You expect one of your other classmates to give in to the temptation of giving up their own stash
just to spare some time in the water, but it seems like everyone is wise enough to know
that the extra calories later is worth more than avoiding some discomfort now.
After another twenty minutes you're given the order to get out of the water and return your
sea bags to your tents. At least they'll be out of the rain, but you won't be,
because you're going for a little boat trip. You and your class are ordered to
report to the beach assembled in boat crews with your IBS, or inflatable boat, small.
You think you know what's coming, you've been rowing out into the surf despite waves
as tall as twelve feet for weeks now. But the instructor throws a curve ball at you-
tonight you'll be doing rock portage. This sends a shiver down your spine, and it's not the cold
because you're shivering all the time now as your body fights off hypothermia. This is pure fear.
You and your crew drag your boat out onto the surf and climb aboard, fighting the raging waves.
They still manage to flip over several of the small boats, and you think yours might be next so
you grab your paddle as hard as you can. There's a rule here in SEAL training: no loose paddles.
You can get tossed out of your boat as much as you want, it's bound to happen,
but you don't ever let go of your paddle. You're not just saving Uncle Sam money by not having
to replace it, but you're also preventing serious injury to yourself or others by holding on to it.
You've seen people get teeth knocked out and faces gashed open by loose paddles.
Incredibly, you manage to break past the ten foot waves and now paddle out into the Pacific Ocean
before paddling down to a point directly across from a mess of sharp, jagged rocks.
Other boats line up and then on a signal from the instructors on the shore, you and a second boat
begin your approach. The goal is simple: land your team on the rocks. The reality is far from
it. The waves are vicious and the boat takes a pounding. As you get to the rocks a wave picks
up half your boat and brings it crashing down. Someone smashes their face right onto a flat rock-
they're lucky to avoid one of the jagged ones, while another student who was struggling to get
out of the boat gets their foot caught between two rocks as the boat pushes them over. You can
hear the sickly snap of an ankle being broken in two even through the rain and roaring waves.
You're lucky and you only get some mild cuts and bruises as you scramble over the slick rocks. But
then you turn back, because there's no lifeguards here. Someone has to get your buddy with the
broken ankle out of the water before the waves break him to pieces on the rocks, and that someone
is you and your boat crew. Working together you manage to pull them to safety, there's already a
medic on scene and waiting. Another dropout, but you see the respect in your instructor's eyes.
Injury doesn't mean a pause in the training, and it's far from the only one this night.
As the final boat crews make the extremely dangerous landing, you're given a moment to rest-
literally a moment- before grabbing your boat, putting it over your head,
and jogging to a pier. Then it's back in the water for another hour of treading
water. Eventually the instructors order you to inflate your pants by tying off
the bottom of the legs so you can use them as a flotation device. That's a small mercy.
You get a hot breakfast at six am, and you're allowed to eat it indoors at the chow facility.
You eat everything on your plate, and fill yourself with some hot coffee while
you have the chance. It's an incredible luxury, and the Navy isn't feeding you
well out of the kindness of its heart- it's literally to keep you alive. You're burning
so many calories shivering and exercising that without four meals a day you'll die.
Then it's back into the water for more swimming and paddling. By the time night approaches,
you've completed your first full day of Hell Week, and there's four more coming.
Day 2
You wake with a start to the sound of a shouting instructor. You were dreaming of
sleeping comfortably in your cot, but when you come to you're right back on the beach.
Your team was the fastest on the latest lap swim, and as a reward you got a whole ten minutes of
rest. That's it- you've now been up for twenty four hours and you've slept less than twenty
minutes that entire time, snatching up a minute of shuteye here or there wherever you could get it.
The instructors have a surprise for you today. They've decided to give you a break from the
ocean and instead order you to grab your IBS and get marching south along the beach.
The Mexico border isn't very far from here, and you're wondering where in the
world you're headed to when you spot the outlet of the Tijuana River. You've been
marching for eight miles through sand with a 300 pound boat on your head before you see it.
Wlecome to Camp Swampy, also known as the Mud Flats, or the Sloughs.
This is where the Tijuana River runs along the Mexican border and empties into the Pacific.
The river brings with it plenty of churned up mud, and even worse things as some of the sewage
from the city of Tijuana ends up in that water. This is the perfect playground for SEALs-to-be,
and the instructors are waiting for you with a huge grin on their faces.
Getting here was a race against the other remaining teams- there's nine now. Everything
you do is a race, and the prize for coming in first is the sweet few minutes of relief you get
waiting for the final teams to make it. Your team got here second, and you get an
incredibly luxurious five minutes by a roaring fire to warm up and do what your
body is screaming for- sleep. Inevitably the sound of a whistle wakes you right back up.
Uncle Sam cares deeply about your self-esteem, which is why he's prepared a mud treatment just
for you. At the sound of a second whistle, it's elbows and asses into the mud, and you're ordered
to cover yourself in it completely, even shoving it down each other's pants and into your shirts.
Hey, don't look so glum, a Beverly Hills spa would charge hundreds of dollars for a
treatment like this, and the US Navy is giving it to you for free out of the kindness of its heart.
Nevermind that the mud is seeped in random sewage, probably at least partially toxic,
and smells like the devil's (bleep SFX)hole, stick your face in it and get it into every
nook and cranny. All the instructors want to see from you is white eyeballs and teeth.
Then, it's time for games. Mud races mostly, with random breaks to ensure everyone refreshes their
exfoliating mud treatment by covering every square inch of their bodies in freezing mud
all over again. When it comes time to eat you do your best to eat as little mud as possible,
but it's inevitable. Several more students quit, one of them looks physically ill.
The instructors wrap them up in warm blankets, give them hot coffee and fresh jelly donuts.
Then they make them sit in front of you and eat their donuts and drink their hot coffee.
It's yet another mental torture, but you shove it out of your thoughts.
Day 3
Days blend into each other in Hell Week, specially when your brain is actively hallucinating because
it's so sleep deprived. You're still in the mud flats, and spend hours playing hide and
seek games with the instructors and against other teams, darting from bush to bush and rock to rock.
You run into several illegal border crossers, only to send them off screaming.
You don't blame them, you look like a monster, covered head to toe in wet and caked mud.
People's bodies are starting to give out on them, and a class full of twenty year olds
is now moving around like they're in their 90s. The instructors give you one break,
allowing you to collapse onto bleachers built there specifically for SEAL trainees. Fifty
feet away, just far enough that none of its heat reaches you, is a blazing bonfire. An
instructor makes you all a deal- if you can tell him a funny story that makes him laugh,
you can go stand by the fire. A trainee gives it a shot, gets rejected. As punishment he has
to go dunk himself in the mud again. You think you got something about the time your stepdad
walked in on you while you were watching some adult entertainment online. It's a hit, and the
instructor roars with laughter as he allows you to stand up and doubletime it over to the fire.
The heat is a godsend, and you revel in the first warmth you've felt in days.
You could stand here forever it seems, and you want nothing more than to roll up on the ground
and go right to sleep. The heat is so intense that it causes steam to billow off your uniform,
and then one of the instructors begins shouting, “Student on fire!
Fire! Everyone in the water!”. It's a big joke to the instructors, but you respond automatically,
gritting your teeth as you hit the freezing water. It's back into the wet mud for you
as your entire class is ordered to stand neck deep in the water for another hour.
Then the instructors tell you all to stick your head down under the water and keep it
there for a full five seconds. If anyone got up early, everyone would have to do it again. You
take a gulp of air and go down, counting one one thousand, two one thousand, three one thousand,
four one thousand, five one thousand, six one thousand- you give it an extra second, you don't'
want to be the reason everyone has to repeat the torturous exercise. But it's all just a mind game,
and the instructors call out random students forcing everyone back under the water. You do
this again for who knows how many hours before its back on the beach and back on the bleachers.
Another round of funny stories, another opportunity to stand next to the fire. Inevitably,
another shout of “Student on fire! Everyone in the water!”, and it happens all over again.
Day 4
It's two in the morning and you're allowed your first official sleep of Hell Week. You and your
team are crammed underneath and overturned IBS, nuts to buns, desperately trying to leech each
other's body heat. The guys in the middle are the luckiest, since they get the most body warmth,
but the Navy doesn't play favorites and wants everyone to have a chance in the middle.
That's why one member of each boat crew has to get up and run around the perimeter of the camp,
shouting out “It's hell week at Camp Swampy and all is well!”. It takes approximately a minute
for the run to finish, after which he ducks under the boat and the next person in the front of the
human stack gets to go. The process repeats itself over and over again until morning. But
if there's a lapse in the running and shouting, the instructors immediately descend upon you,
ordering every single boat crew to get their asses back in the water.
You manage to snatch a few minutes of sleep across the entire four hours from 2 am to sunrise, and
then its back up and into the mud. A few more mud races and then finally, a chance to clean
yourself off with a long swim into the breaking surf. You're almost grateful to be out of the mud,
even if the eight to ten foot waves do their best to drown you or pound you into underwater
rocks. There's a few more dropouts by the time the swimming is over, some from sheer physical
exhaustion and others from even more injuries. The mud made yet another student too sick to
continue on, and you hate to think about what crap you've covered yourself in for over a day.
There's three less boat crews by the time you get your IBS and put it over your head for the eight
miles back to the compound. Bowel movements are becoming a serious concern at this point,
and you've all been fighting them. There's no bathroom breaks in SEAL Hell Week,
so you and your buddies do your best to rush into the water to relieve yourselves. However,
often accidents happen and number twos just come- while marching, in the boat, on the beach, while
you're sitting right next to them, arms locked together and singing songs during surf torture.
What would have absolutely disgusted you a week ago now is nothing more than a minor annoyance-
even when the contents of someone's stomach end up on you.
The human body can only function for so long without sleep, and when you refuse
to let it get the rest it needs, the brain will snatch sleep when it can. You've fallen
over at least five times while paddling your boat, going straight into the freezing cold
ocean only to wake up with a start and drag yourself back up into the boat. It happens to
everyone. Hallucinations are becoming much more frequent too. Most people hallucinate about food,
or warm fires. Others have full-blown mumbled conversations with themselves. A guy on your
boat crew insists he sees a cartoon character rowing in your boat with you.
Everyone's brains are so starved for sleep that they are projecting dreams straight onto reality.
After evening chow, it's time for a special treat- the Navy wants to reward all your hard work with
some rest and relaxation, so everyone strips completely naked and jumps into the outdoor pool
for a game of water polo. It's the most vicious game of water polo you'll ever play in your life,
because the stakes are high- the winning team gets a brief rest while the losing team
has to stand under the outdoor showers for five minutes with the cold water running.
This is on top of the freezing cold wind that's picked up.
The motivation is high to win, and the race to five points is brutal with injuries on all sides.
Your team wins the first game, but ends up losing the second one so it's off to the showers for you.
There's no word to describe the cold you feel under the showers
as a blustery wind blows into you. Your teeth are chattering so hard by
now that you're sure you need dental work done after this week is over.
Day 5
You have no idea what time it is, but you've entered into Day five,
your final day of Hell Week. At some point past midnight, not too long after your freezing stay
in the showers, you all pile back into the pool after being ordered to bring only a
single IBS with you. This is confusing, as there's still over thirty of you left,
and you wonder what fresh hell the instructors have come up with.
This game is simple: everyone needs to get on the IBS and remain atop it. Failure means doing it all
over again. Those who get loaded on first have it worse, sure they get to rest briefly as the
rest of the class climbs on- and you've learned to revel in seconds of rest- but as more and
more people get onto the small boat, the more and more pressure that gets put on them. Eventually,
the IBS begins to take on water and while it won't sink, it will go down a few inches into
the water. This causes the people stuck at the bottom of the human pile to fight to keep their
heads above water and breathe, which inevitably ends up with them kicking people off the IBS.
In response, the instructors order you to do it all over again. And so it goes
for at least two hours as you struggle to cram an entire class onto one boat
and hold it steady for at least a few seconds.
To congratulate you on a job well done, the instructors reward you with a low crawl on
the asphalt back down to the beach and into the surf. The asphalt is torture to low crawl over,
specially since you're back in your uniform which is crusted in sand and salt.
The sand and salt tear at your skin as you drag yourself over the pavement
a hundred meters before you hit the sand. The sand is easier, but it's much colder.
Still, you prefer the sand over shredding your skin to ribbons on the hard pavement.
Once at the surf, the thirty or so of you remaining lock arms and sit
right where the waves break on the beach. They smash into you with tremendous force,
and combined with the ever-blowing coastal wind work to leech every ounce of heat from your
bodies. You're on day five though, and you refuse to quit. Together you sing to keep spirits up,
everything from old baptist hymns to modern pop songs. The instructors meanwhile torture you
psychologically by presenting you with steaming cups of hot coffee and warm jelly donuts. All
you gotta do is quit and a delicious donut, hot cup of joe, and warm blanket is waiting for you.
But none of you do- at least not at first.
Because the instructors have saved the worst trick for last. Looking at your pathetic selves
up and down, one of the instructors spits into the surf and declares you the worst motivated class
he has ever personally seen. You're so poorly motivated that he's decided to enact a rare,
but special provision which allows an instructor to extend Hell Week by as much as two days!
Your sorry asses have failed to impress him, and he's decided what you need is another two days of
motivational training. Then, he orders you all out of the surf and back to your boats. The thought of
putting that IBS back over your head is torture- the rubber boat rubs against your scalp with every
single step and bump, rubbing it raw and even tearing hair out. If you're in the back and put
it on one of your shoulders, it literally wears the skin off your flesh. Then the salt and sand
gets into it. It's absolute torture, but you sigh and begin double timing it straight to your boat.
You didn't come this far just to give up now, even though the news that you'll
be doing another two days of this hits you like a sledgehammer, wrecking your morale.
But when you get to your boat, one of your crew is missing. He's standing on the beach,
tears streaming down his face. You know what this means, and you don't blame him. He can't
bear the thought of another two days of this, and while some will call him weak for quitting now,
the truth is he's proven he's a lot tougher than most people to make it this far.
One less man means more load for you to carry as the three hundred pound IBS slams into the
top of your head over and over again. You're at the front, and too tired to lift it with your
arms alone, so you let it rest on your skull. It's a good way to get a mild concussion,
but at this point you're well past your physical limits and simply don't care.
It's a race to the next evolution as usual, and against the odds and despite your missing
crew member, you manage to get there first this time. You collapse on the ground ready to soak
up the few minutes of precious rest, but to your dismay the other teams were nearly as fast as you.
You struggle back onto your feet, but your knees give out from under you.
One of your classmates grabs you and helps you up- that's probably the biggest part of hell week,
teamwork. Without it none of you would make it.
An instructor comes strutting up, and you can't imagine what fresh hell he's got in store for you.
To your amazement however he says the sweetest words you've ever heard.
“Class, you are secured from Hell Week!”.
There is no cheer, everyone is too tired. And there is no celebration. Instead,
you pick your IBS back up and lug it back to the compound to stow it away.
After this, you'll clean up a bit, get a medical inspection, and then be allowed
to go home for the weekend. You've still got weeks and weeks left of brutal training ahead,
but you've completed the single most challenging event of becoming a Navy SEAL
and joining the ranks of the deadliest fighting force humanity has ever produced.
Now go check out Navy SEALs vs Green Berets, or click this other video instead!